by Pamela Clare
It was the truth, though certainly not the whole truth, as he also hoped to use Miss Chauvenet to win freedom for two very important British officers.
Lady Anne’s eyes went wide and she seemed to hesitate.
“She’s wi’ Iain.”
“Forgive me, my lady, but I do not believe you.” William stepped forward, nudged the toe of his boot inside the door. . Then he turned to his men. “Be quick. Leave nothing unturned.” She blocked the doorway. “Iain is no’ far from here. You must wait—!”
“I’ve not the time for that, I’m afraid.” William forced the door open, careful not to hurt her, then drew her aside as his men filed past, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. She tried to pull free of his grasp, anger on her lovely face, apparently unwilling to be held thus by him. “Would you deny my son his mother?”
From the back room, the baby wailed.
“Of course not, my lady.” William released her, watched her walk away, feeling oddly chastised. While soldiers stomped up and down the stairs, he glanced about the small but tidy room. There was a rocking chair in one corner, a hand-carved table and chairs at its center, breakfast growing cold upon the table—three tin plates, three forks, three cups. Aye, Miss Chauvenet was here.
Lieutenant Cooke stepped through the doorway. “We’ve searched the entire house, my lord. They found a woman’s gowns and another bedstead upstairs. They also found a hidden chamber beneath the barn floor, but it was empty. If she’s here, she’s very well concealed.”
William nodded, wondering whether perhaps the mademoiselle had fled out the back in pursuit of MacKinnon. “Search the house again and set a watch on the forest to alert us in case MacKinnon returns prematurely.”
“Aye, my lord.”
As Cooke disappeared to carry out his orders, William walked toward the back of the house, where he heard Lady Anne crooning to her child in Gaelic. He found her sitting on the edge of a large bed, the baby feeding hungrily at her breast, its little fists pressing against her creamy flesh, the sight both stirring and discomfiting. And then it dawned on him as he watched that this was the bed she shared with MacKinnon—an unpleasant realization. He glanced away. Two soldiers entered the room and began to search, opening the wardrobe, checking inside Lady Anne’s trunks, looking beneath the bed.
She looked up at him, shifting uncomfortably, as if being seen by him and his soldiers with her gown opened distressed her. “Can I no’ be left in peace?”
He was about to order the soldiers to wait outside the door when he saw them—scratches on the wooden floor. The bed had been moved and not quite set back in place. And he knew.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take your son to another room, my lady.” He turned to his men. “Beneath the bed you’ll find a hidden chamber like that in the barn. Unless I miss my guess, that’s where we’ll find Miss Chauvenet.” Lady Anne’s head snapped back as if he’d struck her, those beautiful eyes filled with pleading. “Nay, my lord! Please, you must no’ do this!”
Two soldiers strode toward the bed.
“Pardon us, my lady.”
She drew her son from her breast, closed her gown with shaking fingers, then stood, holding her baby tight. “Iain willna permit this! When he returns to find—“ “When he returns, my lady, we shall be long gone.” “You!” Realization spread across her face—and with it rage. “You set the fire!”
“It seemed to me the better course to take Miss Chauvenet while Master MacKinnon was occupied elsewhere than to provoke an exchange of musket fire in which some of my men would be killed and he would surely perish.”
But then his soldiers began to move the bed, and her attention turned to them. Before William could stop her, she’d moved to stand upon the newly exposed space of floor, presumably on top of the trap door that led to the hidden chamber.
“I willna let you take her!” Fear and defiance on her face, she stood with her baby clutched in one arm, a penknife in her other hand. “She is Morgan’s wife, no’ one of your pawns! She belongs here wi’ us!”
One of William’s men laughed. The other stared dumbfounded. Neither moved toward her, clearly uncertain what to do in this situation.
William stepped forward and caught Lady Anne’s wrist with one hand, drawing her against him, holding her motionless, looking into her eyes. “Do not be foolish, my lady. You know you cannot fight us and win—one woman against thirty soldiers. Do you wish to see Major MacKinnon dangling from a noose? Now let go of the knife” For a moment she resisted. Then, tears filling her eyes, she did as he’d demanded, the fight leaving her body, the little blade falling to the floor.
He pulled her aside and his men moved in, quickly discovering a hidden lead of rope and opening the hatch. They leaned down, looked inside, and smiled, clearly enchanted by the prey they’d cornered. As one, they lay on their bellies and reached down, eager to help her.
“There’s no need to be afraid, miss. We’re not going to hurt you.”
“Give us your hands. We’ll help you up.”
And then she came into view.
The first thing he noticed were her eyes—large and framed with dark lashes, they were the strangest color he’d ever seen, both green and brown. Her face was impossibly delicate, her cheekbones high, her lips lush and full. Her hair hung in dark tendrils well past her hips, its dark hue and the coffee tint of her skin revealing a mixed heritage. Though clearly afraid, she did not cower, but first sought Lady Anne’s gaze, then watched him warily, like a cornered fawn.
For a moment, William found himself strangely at a loss for words, his thoughts taking a decidedly carnal turn. And he understood why Major MacKinnon had sought to hide her from him. He released Lady Anne and stepped forward to claim his prize. “Mademoiselle Chauvenet, I am Brigadier General William Wentworth of”—The blow took him utterly by surprise, her palm striking his face hard enough to turn his head, the pain sharp. She glared up at him, her eyes filled with feminine fury. “That is for the sorrow you have caused my husband and his family!”
“Ah.” William’s cheek tingled. “I see introductions are unnecessary. What you might not know, mademoiselle, is that Major MacKinnon sits in chains awaiting court martial for desertion and treason. Tis my hope that you have some testimony to offer that might save his life. Let us ride, for we’ve a long journey.”
They reached the fort by late afternoon the next day, Amalie stiff and aching from so many hours in the saddle. An imposing sight, Fort Elizabeth was much larger than Fort Carillon. It stood on the banks of a mighty river, encircled by two sets of high walls. Her only comfort as they rode through the gates was the sight of Connor, Dougie, and Killy, who spied her from their island and raised their hands in greeting, their faces grave. Exhausted and more than a little afraid, she returned their greeting, as Wentworth guided his horse through the outer gates.
Amalie could scarcely believe any of this was real. One moment she’d been setting breakfast on the table with Annie; the next Wentworth had arrived with thirty men to take her away. He’d refused to wait for her to gather clothes or other belongings, clearly hoping to ride away with her before Iain returned.
“Dinnae fear, Amalie.” Annie had hugged her fiercely, whispering in her ear. “Iain willna abide this! We’ll no’ be far behind you!”
Wentworth had traveled fast, refusing to let Amalie sit a horse alone, keeping her before him in his saddle. “Your safety is of greater importance to me than you know. I’ll not risk your falling or being separated from us in an attack,” he’d told her.
She’d tried not to lean back against him, furious with him for the way he’d tricked Iain and frightened Annie, and unwilling to suffer his touch any more than was necessary. But the journey had been long, and more than once she’d fallen asleep, only to wake and find herself lying against his chest Although she’d asked about Morgan, desperate to know that he was unharmed, Wentworth had said little, merely repeating what he’d already told her.
“Welc
ome back, my lord.” A young redcoat met the horse outside of a building that much resembled Bourlamaque’s quarters.
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Wentworth dismounted, not a hair in his white wig out of place, his uniform impeccable despite the long ride. Then he turned to help Amalie.
Ignoring his offer, she grasped the pommel and slid to the ground, fighting a moan as her aching legs took her weight. “There’s no need to behave so rashly, Miss Chauvenet. It will accomplish nothing if you fall or turn an ankle.” Ignoring his words, she smoothed her skirts. “When may I see my husband?”
“See whom? Major MacKinnon?” Wentworth’s gray eyes were unreadable. “Not for some time, I’m certain. You would not wish to destroy the value of your testimony by speaking with him before the court martial, would you?”
Amalie hadn’t thought of that. She followed him through the front door into a lavishly appointed residence every bit as sophisticated as Bourlamaque’s, up a stairway to a little room in the corner, the sight of the bed making her realize how weary she truly was.
“I shall have water sent up for a bath along with some refreshments. Someone will come for you within an hour so that we might begin.”
“Begin what?”
He smiled. “Why, your interrogation, of course. Major-General Amherst is most eager to speak with you.” Then he closed the door, shutting her in. And as the key turned in the lock, she understood. She was now his prisoner.
TWENTY-NINE
“I bet ye thought I was bringin’ ye a nice juicy bit of venison.”
The redcoat gave a chuckle, handing stale biscuits and water through the iron bars to Morgan. “Or a bottle of rum.” Ignoring his gaoler’s attempt to provoke him, Morgan checked the biscuits for weevils, then bit into one, his stomach growling, his fetters clanking as he walked back to the corner and sat in the straw. For four days, he’d had scant more to eat than stale bread and water. But hunger and thirst were the least of what vexed him.
‘Twas the isolation—the not knowing;—that gnawed at him. Each morning Morgan had demanded to speak with Wentworth, and each morning he’d been told Wentworth would not see him. When he’d asked to speak with Connor, he’d been told that both the Rangers and the Muhheconneok had been forbidden to enter the fort for fear they would try to help Morgan escape. If only he knew that Amalie was safe . ..
Och, for Satan, he hated feeling helpless! Amalie was in danger, and he could do naught about it. Wentworth had left no doubt that he planned to find Amalie if he could and trade her back to the French. Chained like an animal in a cage, Morgan could not stop him.
The biscuit turned to clay in Morgan’s mouth. He swallowed, aware that the redcoat guard was still watching him, a gloating grin on his face. “You’ve somethin’ to say to me, laddie?” “I’ve seen her—yer French chippy.”
The words struck Morgan like a fist to the gut. He came slowly to his feet, dragging his chains with him, his rage flaring like tinder. “What is it you’re sayin’, old man? And have a care—she’s my wije!”
The bastard chuckled. “My cousin was with ‘is lordship when they went to fetch ‘er. They played a right clever trick on your brother, they did. Set fire to an ‘aystack, drew ‘im away from the ‘ouse, then went in and took ‘er. Pretty little thing. I’ll wager she makes good bed sport, eh?” Morgan found himself pressed against the bars, his fists clenched around cold, unforgiving iron, his heart a hammer in his chest. “Watch your vile tongue if you wish to be keepin’ it! When? When did this happen?”
Wide-eyed, the guard took a hurried step backward, the grin gone from his uggsome face. “They arrived back at the fort yesterday.”
Yesterday? Och, Christ!
“You tell Wentworth that if any harm comes to her, he’ll answer to Clan MacKinnon and the Mahican of Stockbridge. She is under our protection!”
“And what can you do to ‘is lordship from behind those bars?” The whoreson licked his lips, laughed, and walked away.
“Wentworth, you bastard!” Morgan shouted, his hands clenched so hard around the bars that iron bit into his fingers. But the door had already closed, and there was no one to hear.
“Je vous salue, Marie, pleine de grace . . .” Hail Mary, fall of grace . . .
Amalie ignored her hunger, ignored her thirst, ignored the aching in her knees and lower back, her fingers finding their way over the wooden beads of Morgan’s rosary, her mind struggling to hold on to the words of her prayer, despite the noise in the hallway beyond her door.
“Miss Chauvenet, you must be reasonable!” Lieutenant Cooke called to her. “You cannot help Major MacKinnon by refusing to eat!”
But she would not be reasonable. She would not sit down to dine with the men who had taken her from her new home, the men who kept her husband in chains, the men who intended to send her away against her will and break the bonds of her marriage. They had questioned her for endless hours yesterday, asking her the same things again and again, until she’d been so weary she’d scarce been able to keep her eyes open. Although they’d treated her as if she were a guest, inquiring after her welfare, offering her food and wine, she’d known their kindness and concern to be false, a way of trying to win her trust. Still, believing Morgan might be released once they’d heard what she , had to say, she’d done all they’d asked of her, telling them how she’d found Morgan in Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s study reading Bourlamaque’s private correspondence and how he’d admitted to spying.
Yet, even after they’d heard this, Amherst had refused to release Morgan, insisting he face trial. It was as if her words had meant nothing. And her fear had grown.
During supper, she’d asked again to see him, but they’d refused, denying even her requests to send him the food from her plate.
“We have agreed with your guardian that you shall not see Major MacKinnon again,” Amherst had told her. “The Chevalier is most anxious for your return.”
“Monsieur de Bourlamaque?” And in that horrifying moment she’d realized that they intended to send her back to Fort Carillon. “He is no longer my guardian! It was he who gave me in marriage to Major MacKinnon! He cannot claim—“ “British law does not recognize Catholic unions, Miss Chauvenet,” Wentworth had told her. “If the Chevalier wishes us to return you to him, then we shall—in exchange for British officers, of course.”
“You are despicable!” Unable to bear their company one moment longer, she’d stood, thrown her napkin onto the table, and fled toward the door.
“You’ve not been given leave to go!” Amherst’s voice boomed after her.
She’d whirled on her heels. “I did not ask for your leave!”
Then she’d fled upstairs to her chamber.
Since then, she’d refused to leave her room, refused to eat, refused to speak with them. Though she was locked in, she’d . blocked the door with a chair so that they could not open the door either. And she’d done the only thing she could do—pray.
The knocking came again.
“I say, Miss Chauvenet, surely you cannot think to bar the door arid stay locked inside the room forever! If you do not , open it, we shall be forced to break it down!” She did not plan on staying in this gilded cage forever, for tomorrow Morgan would face his court martial, and she would be called upon to speak. Only then would she open the door.
And then Lieutenant Cooke spoke again, but not to Amalie. “I’m afraid I have orders not to allow anyone—“ A woman’s voice answered. “I ken this is no’ your doin’, Lieutenant Cooke. Please be merciful and permit me to speak wi’ Mistress MacKinnon.”
Annie!
Amalie stood and ran to the door, but she did not move the chair. “Annie!”
“I’m here, Amalie.” Annie’s voice came from the other side, strong and clear, the welcome sound of it putting a lump in Amalie’s throat. “Are you well? Has anyone laid hands upon you or mistreated you?”
“No! I am well, but I fear for Morgan!”
“As do we all,” Annie answered. “D
innae despair. We’ve no’ forsaken you! They willna let Iain into the fort, nor Connor, nor any of the Rangers either. Joseph has withdrawn to Stockbridge with his men in protest. But we’ve no’ forgotten you!”
“Nor I you!” Amalie fought the tears that threatened her. “They’re sending me back to Fort Carillon, but it is against my will!”
She heard the heavy stomp of boots and the sound of men’s voices, and she realized that Annie had somehow passed the guards and defied Amherst and Wentworth to speak with her. Now soldiers were coming.
“I must go now. Is there augh’ you need?”
“Tell Morgan I love him!”
“If I can, I will!”
And then Annie was gone, leaving Amalie to her tears and her prayers. But now there was a ray of hope—Morgan’s family had not forgotten her. She was not alone. Wentworth walked out his front door and off into the shadows, barely aware of the two sentries who snapped to attention at his sudden appearance. Though it was well past midnight, he knew his man would still be waiting. In all the years William had employed him, he’d never let William down.
The evening had been spent making final preparations for the army’s march north to Ticonderoga, William waiting until Amherst had started upon his nighty cognac to bring up the subject of Major MacKinnon. He’d warned Amherst of the consequences should MacKinnon be hanged unjustly—the loss of the Mahican as allies, an uprising amongst the Rangers, resentment along the frontier, where the brothers were revered as heroes. But Amherst hadn’t listened. William realized he ought to have seen it sooner. Amherst’s determination to see Major MacKinnon hung had nothing to do with the major’s guilt or innocence and everything to do with William. As His Majesty’s grandson, William represented the adversary of Amherst’s powerful patron—William Pitt. That alone was likely sufficient cause for Amherst to view William as a rival and do whatever he could to limit William’s advancement. But Amherst was of common birth, and his overweening pride would ill tolerate a nobleman—least of all a man of royal blood—achieving renown in this war.