by Pamela Clare
I’m here, a leannan. I’ve no’forsaken you.
For three long days he’d shadowed the army, following its progress, keeping watch on Amalie through his spying glass. Everything inside him wanted to cease this endless waiting, charge down the hillside, and carry her away. But he did not wish to take British lives or risk losing Amalie or any of his men in needless fighting.
Soon, lass. We shall be together soon.
Beside Morgan, Joseph spoke in his own tongue. “Connor said they will not let him near her. He said Cooke seems to be watching over her.”
“Cooke is a good man.” Morgan rolled onto his back, collapsing the spying glass. “It sounds strange to say, but I believe Wentworth might have a heart after all.”
Morgan still found it hard to believe that he was here and alive because of Wentworth. He’d have sworn the neach dlolain had wanted him to hang. He’d been utterly stamagastert to see Iain and Connor dressed as redcoats, but he’d been even more taken aback to learn where they’d gotten the uniforms. Joseph grinned, his teeth bright white in contrast to the dark paint on his face. “Somewhere inside Wentworth’s body is a man fighting to come out.”
“So it seems, brother.”
Then Killy and Forbes appeared beside them, both out of breath from their hike up the hill, two of almost forty Rangers who’d left the British army in protest and joined with Joseph and his men, waiting in the forest beyond Fort Elizabeth to aid Morgan and his brothers in whatever way they could. Iain had wanted to join them, but they’d all known that Amherst would set a watch upon Iain, so Iain had taken Annie and the baby and gone home, unable to do more for Morgan than he’d already done.
Killy spoke first, his scarred face red from exertion. ‘”Tis as you said it would be. The Frenchies are fleein’ northward.” “And what of Bourlamaque?”
Forbes nodded. “Aye, he’s still there. We spotted him on the ramparts. The moment he sets his arse outside his own gates, we’ll be ready for him.”
Morgan clapped a hand on Forbes’s shoulder. “Did you find the falls?”
“Aye, and Captain Joseph’s men are in position.” Morgan looked down at the encampment below, his gaze seeking Amalie. “Then there’s naugh’ to do but wait.” Amalie dipped the cloth into the cool water, squeezed it out, then lifted her hair aside and pressed it to her nape. It was not the sort of bath to which she was accustomed, but after three long, hot days with no bath at all, it felt like heaven. She dipped the cloth again, squeezed it, and washed her face, the water helping to ease the heat of her sunburned skin. But although she wished to be truly clean again, she dared not remove her gown. Not only was she the only woman in an encampment of soldiers, but she also knew that Iain had meant what he’d said.
You must be ready for whate’er comes, aye?
She washed her face, throat, and hands, then snuffed out her candle and lay back on her bedroll, still fully dressed. If Morgan came for her tonight, she would be ready. Darkness fell around her, the night borne down by a heavy silence, the soldiers anxious in their sleep. They remembered last summer’s carnage and wondered if they, too, were fated to die before Fort Carillon’s abatis. They did not know what she knew—that none of them would die tomorrow, for there would be no battle.
And so, surrounded by the troubled stillness, she waited. Amalie did not remember falling asleep. She did not know she was sleeping until Lieutenant Cooke’s voice woke her. “Major-General Amherst and Brigadier General Wentworth await you at breakfast, mademoiselle. I’ve come to escort you.”
She sat up, glanced about in confusion, and realized that it was past dawn. Morgan had not come. “Merci, Lieutenant. I’ll be but a moment.”
Amalie quickly repaired her braid, her relief that nothing had happened during the night at odds with her rising fear that Morgan would not be able to reach her in time. And then what would she do? She could not bear to think of facing a lifetime without him, the very idea making her feel sick, bringing tears to her eyes.
She blinked them away, then ducked out of her tent to find Lieutenant Cooke waiting for her. “I am ready.” Breakfast turned out to be a hurried cup of tea and a stale biscuit. Amalie did not care, for she had no appetite. She’d barely finished when Amherst glanced at his pocket watch. “Let us be off.”
They were taking her to Monsieur de Bourlamaque. Pulse tripping, she stood, grasped Wentworth’s hand. “I beseech you, monsieur, be merciful and permit me to say farewell to my husband’s brother, Captain MacKinnon. Just a few moments are all I ask. Please!”
If she could but distance herself from the soldiers who guarded her, if she could find Connor and the Rangers, then perhaps. . .
Wentworth gazed coldly down at her. “I’m afraid I can’t permit that, Miss Chauvenet.”
Heedless of the tears that welled in her eyes, he led her to the meadow where the officers’ horses had been picketed through the night, accompanied by Amherst and several soldiers. Then he lifted her onto one of the horses and climbed into the saddle behind her.
“Don’t look so glum, Miss Chauvenet.” He wrapped his arm about her waist, his voice like velvet in her ear. “You’re about to be reunited with your loving guardian—surely a happy occasion.”
It would be anything but happy, for Monsieur de Bourlamaque would take her deeper into French territory, making it almost impossible for Morgan to find her. Not only that, but once she confessed that she’d discovered Morgan spying and had not told him—and confess she must—he would surely despise her.
But Amalie said nothing of her fears. Instead, she glared back at Wentworth, rage thrumming through her veins that he should make light of her sorrow. “Indeed, it shall be happy, for I shall at last be rid of you.”
Wentworth merely smiled.
They rode along the lakeshore, then took a path leading northwest through the forest, sunlight piercing through leaves to dapple the trail before them, the forest seeming to hold its breath. And then she saw it—movement amongst the trees. Amalie’s pulse skipped, her breath seeming to catch in her lungs. But it was only a doe startled from the undergrowth by the horses. Her heart sank.
Wentworth leaned near and whispered, his lips almost touching her temple. “Do you think he’d be foolish enough to try to take you here? Our men have kept this trail under watch since yesterday afternoon. It is quite free of any presence but our own.”
Then through the trees, she could hear the rushing waters of Riviere La Chute. Soon the forest fell back to reveal a wide waterfall. And on the other side, surrounded by a full military escort bearing the fleur de lis, stood Lieutenant Durand and Lieutenant Fouchet, with Monsieur de Bourlamaque between them.
An unexpected pang of joy, sharp and bittersweet, swelled inside her at the sight of her guardian’s familiar face. But if he felt any happiness at the sight of her, it did not show. He stood still and solemn as Wentworth lifted her into a bateau and the entire British party crossed the river.
“It seems your husband was not as keen on reacquiring you as you might have believed.” Amherst looked down his long nose at her, a mocking smile on his lips. “He saved himself and forgot all about you.”
“Then he has eluded us both,” she said, gratified by the angry flush that came into Amherst’s cheeks.
Yet even as Amalie told herself to ignore Amherst’s hateful words, cold doubt clutched at her belly, and her gaze sought the shadows of the forest once again.
THIRTY-TWO
Morgan watched as the British crossed the river in bateaux sent over by Bourlamaque, Amalie seated between Amherst and Wentworth, Amherst’s marksmen keeping watch from the far bank. Wentworth helped Amalie ashore, his arm lingering about her waist too long for Morgan’s liking. That’s my wife, you mac-diolain! Time slowed to a crawl as the British formed a line, and, leaving Amalie under guard at the riverbank, marched forward to the rat-a-tat-tat of drums to exchange formal greetings with Bourlamaque and his party. Amherst’s aide-de-camp was the first to step forward. He doffed his hat and m
ade an outlandish bow. Not to be outdone, Lieutenant Durand returned the extravagant gesture, adding several hand flourishes.
Och, for God’s sake!
Did they think they were at court?
Then Amherst and Bourlamaque began to speak. Morgan could not hear what was being said, nor did he give a tinker’s damn, his blood as primed for action as the pistol in his hands. But seconds stretched into long minutes, until it seemed the two men could have nothing more under the sun to say to one another.
Bloody hell!
Then, at last, Bourlamaque turned to the men behind him and gestured. Two British officers appeared, impossibly pale and thin, their faces showing both joy and disbelief, as if incredulous that they were now free. Amherst’s men saluted them, then led them to a bateau.
Now it was Amherst’s turn. He looked over his shoulder at Amalie, motioning her forward. Lifting her skirts, she hurried toward Bourlamaque, who opened his arms and embraced her like a daughter, relief plain on his face.
Something twisted in Morgan’s gut.
She’s your wife now. She belongs wi’ you, laddie.
Aye, she did—and yet to stay with him, she would lose so much.
He pushed the thought from his mind, watching as the British took their leave of the French, crossed the river, and disappeared back into the forest.
Amalie stood in silence beside Monsieur de Bourlamaque, watching as the British vanished among the trees, her hope disappearing with them, despair threatening to swallow her whole. The tears she’d been fighting since she’d awoken at last got the better of her, spilling down her cheeks.
Morgan!
It was Monsieur de Bourlamaque who spoke first, turning her to face him, his gaze seeming to take in the wrinkles on her gown, her sunburned skin, and her tears all at once. “Praise God and the Saints you are alive and whole! When I learned what that whoreson had done, I feared the worst. Did he harm you, Amalie?”
“Rillieux struck me and tried to—“
“Not Rillieux! That bastard MacKinnon! Did he hurt you or dishonor you?”
Astonished that he should ask such a thing, Amalie gaped up at him. “Non, monsieur! “Why would Morgan harm me? He is my husband!”
Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s expression grew hard. “He betrayed me,Amalie! He confessed to me in a letter—written in French! He betrayed me, and he misled you to the altar, taking what he would never have gotten had I known the truth!”
Amalie swallowed and met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “He did not mislead me, monsieur. I . . . I knew. Before I married him, I knew that he had stolen secrets. I caught him spying late one night and—“ Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s grip on her arms tightened, a look of hurt disbelief in his eyes. “And you did not tell me?” “I-I couldn’t! Forgive me, monsieur, but I could not reveal him, knowing that it would mean his death!” She drew a shaky breath, searching for words to explain. “ I . . . I love him!” Bourlamaque’s gaze grew cold. He turned her and led her toward a waiting wagon. “Such girlish nonsense! I am sending you back to Trois Rivieres to await the end of the war and your annulment. I only pray you’re not carrying his child.” Amalie’s despair turned to anger. “And I pray that I am! I would have been happy to live out my life with him, but this war will not let us be. You took me away from him, and the British want to hang him!”
Bourlamaque stopped still and gaped at her. “ What?” Amalie told him how Amherst and Wentworth believed Morgan was a traitor and how they’d tried him in a court martial, found him guilty, and would already have hanged him three days past had he not escaped. “You did not know?”
“No.” Bourlamaque drew a deep breath, a look of weariness upon his face. Then he lowered his voice. “Say nothing of your role in this to anyone, lest you find yourself in the same predicament! I will do my best to find you a suitable husband—“
“The lass already has a husband.”
Amalie whirled toward the sound of that familiar voice.
“’Morgan?”
But where was he? She glanced about, but did not see him. Then a shape detached itself from the forest, and what had seemed like dappled shadow took on the form of a man and stepped into the sunlight.
Morgan stood not ten paces away, dressed in dark leather breeches, his bare chest, arms, and face painted with alternating bands of white and black, the dark paint making his eyes seem startlingly blue. His dark hair hung down his back, a warrior braid at each temple, his chest rising and falling with each slow, steady breath. But, though he was clad as a warrior, he bore no weapon.
Lieutenant Durand and Lieutenant Fouchet raised their pistols.
“No!” In a rush of fear, Amalie started toward him.
But Monsieur de Bourlamaque held her fast.
Morgan saw the hope in Amalie’s eyes, and the doubt he’d carried with him these past days vanished. No matter that he was a condemned man, her love still lay upon him. He met Bourlamaque’s gaze, saw the fury that blazed there. “Release her, and tell your men to lower their weapons.” “We do not answer to you, traitor!” Lieutenant Durand spat at him.
Bourlamaque laughed, a bitter sound. “I do not know how you found us, Ranger, but my scouts have you surrounded. They will—“
“These scouts?” Morgan gestured for his men to step forward. From around the clearing, Rangers and Mahicans stepped out of the shadows in twos and threes, each holding a French soldier or Abenaki warrior at the end of his musket. Bourlamaque glanced about, surprise turning to loathing. The he met Morgan’s gaze once more. “Try to take her from me by force, and you’ll die where you stand!” Morgan looked into his eyes, saw the man he’d come to admire, and felt a moment of regret. “I dinnae wish this to come to bloodshed, but kill me, and you’ll die ere I hit the ground.”
“Stop, please!” Amalie cried. “I could not bear it if either of you were hurt!”
Silence stretched taut between them.
It was Bourlamaque who spoke first. “I spared your life! I treated you with honor! I trusted you, and you betrayed me!” “I had no choice! I couldna fight for an army that sought to kill my brothers and my men!”
“You broke your word!” Bourlamaque’s voice was dark with condemnation.
“Aye, I did.” It was the truth, and there was naught Morgan could do to change it. “But long afore I laid eyes upon you, my word was already given.”
This only served to enrage Bourlamaque further. “Tell me why I should not order them to shoot you where you stand!” Morgan took a step toward him, and then another, mindful of Durand and Fouchet. “Because you dinnae truly wish to see me die. Because ‘tis only this godforsaken war that stands between us. Because you dinnae wish Amalie to watch you kill the man she loves.”
Morgan dared not look at Amalie, his mind on Bourlamaque and the two officers who still pointed pistols at his chest. He saw in Bourlamaque’s eyes the battle that raged within him, watched the old man’s anger rise, dark and venomous—and then break.
Suddenly, Bourlamaque seemed weary, the fight leaving him. He motioned for Durand and Fouchet to lower their weapons. “I would have treated you with honor, kept you at my right hand.”
Morgan felt the sharp edges of regret press into his chest. “And I’d have been proud to stand beside you, had I been free to make such a choice.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke, their gazes locked in understanding.
Then Bourlamaque looked down at Amalie and spoke in French. “You must choose, ma petite, and from your decision there can be no turning back. Come with me now, and I shall do all I can to free you from this marriage and settle you with a man who can keep you safe and happy, perhaps in France. Or go with MacKinnon and live whatever life he can give you. He is an outlaw, Amalie, condemned by both France and Britain. No matter who wins this war, there will be a price on his head. Ever you shall wander, but I do not believe you will find peace. And when children come, they shall suffer even as you suffer.”
“I protect what’s mine, Bourlamaque.” Bu
t even as Morgan spoke, the truth of Bourlamaque’s words assailed him. He was a selfish bastard to take the woman he loved from a life of safety into such peril. And if she were with child . . .
She’s your wife. She belongs at your side.
Aye, but what life could he give her? What life could he give a child? If he loved her, wouldn’t it be better to let her go? A fist seemed to close around his heart, his tongue shaping words his mind did not wish to speak. “He’s right, Amalie. I am a condemned man. I will be hunted wi’ no place I can call home. You’re my wife, a leannan, and I want you beside me, but I wouldna see you suffer for love of me.” Amalie saw the anguish in Morgan’s eyes and knew what it had cost him to speak those words—this proud Scotsman, this warrior. Love for him swelled in her heart, putting tears in her eyes. She wanted to run to him, but first it was rime for farewells.
She turned to Monsieur de Bourlamaque, met his worried gaze. “You have done so much for me, monsieur. You have cared for me and protected me, treating me as a favored niece. I am forever grateful to you.”
Bourlamaque cupped her cheek and smiled at her, the tenderness on his face enough to break Amalie’s heart. “Come with me, and let me give you the life you deserve, far from the frontier. Let me—“ Amalie pressed her fingers to his lips, a bittersweet ache in her breast. “You are most generous, but my place is with Morgan. He is my husband. I go with him.”
A look of sadness came over Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s face, but he nodded. Then he smiled. “Your father married for love and cherished your mother to his dying day. You are your father’s daughter in the end, non?”
Nothing Monsieur de Bourlamaque could have said in that moment would have touched Amalie more. She threw her arms around him and held him tight, tears choking back her words. “Merci beaucoup, monsieur! Je ne vous oublierai jamais.” I will never forget you!
He crushed her against him in a great hug, held her, then set her free. “Go to him, Amalie.”