by Pamela Clare
She stood on tiptoe, kissed her guardian’s bristly cheek, then turned toward Morgan. He stood only a few paces away, his blue eyes reflecting the same tumult of emotions she was feeling. She took one step in his direction, and another, then lifted her skirts and ran to him, his strong arms enfolding her, holding her close.
“Och, Amalie, lass!”
She pressed her cheek against his chest, felt his heart beating strong and steady beneath his breast. “Oh, Morgan! I was so afraid! I thought they’d hang you or shoot you and I’d never see you again!”
And then the tears came in earnest as she wept out the horror of the past week, safe in the sanctuary of his embrace, his nearness a miracle.
He kissed her hair, murmuring reassurances, his arms holding her tighter. “Shhh, a leannan, I’m here, and I’ll no’ let us be parted again.”
Then he tucked a finger beneath her chin, ducked down, and kissed her. It was a scorching kiss, desperate and brutal—a kiss of death defeated, a kiss of life reclaimed. Her heart soaring, she welcomed the sweet invasion of his tongue, arching against him, her fingers delving into the silk of his hair, even as his fisted in hers.
Someone coughed.
Monsieur de Bourlamaque.
Amalie had forgotten all about the others.
Morgan could have kissed her forever—but not here, not caught between two armies on the brink of battle. He drew back from her, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and chuckled. “You look like you’re weepin’ ink, lass. Your tears are washin’ away my scary paint.”
She looked at the patch of bare skin on his chest, sniffed, then laughed, the sound bonnier to his ears than the most beautiful music.
Then Joseph spoke. “The hour grows late. It is time for us to leave this place.”
“Aye, we must.” Morgan met Bourlamaque’s gaze. “I speak for the Rangers and for the Mahican when I say that none of us shall fire upon you or steal your wine again. We owe you a life debt. Let there be peace between us at least.” He stepped away from Amalie, reached out his hand. Bourlamaque seemed to hesitate. Then he stepped forward and took Morgan’s hand, his grasp firm. “Nor will my soldiers pursue you.”
Then Simon came forward and spoke in Abenaki, Atoan keeping pace beside him. “You are husband to my cousin, and she loves you. Twice you spared my life. I will not make war on you or your brothers again, Mac-Kin-non.” “Nor will I.” Atoan drew out his hatchet and turned the handle toward Morgan, symbolically offering him peace. “Enough blood has been spilled between our peoples, and I would not see your woman torn by further grief. Let us fight no more.”
Morgan nodded, took the hatchet, then drew the hunting knife from his belt and turned the handle toward Atoan.
“Wli-gen. Ni-do-bak.” It is good. Let us befriends.
Bourlamaque said something to Durand and Fouchet, then turned to face Morgan once more. “Amalie’s belongings are in the trunk in that wagon. Take what you will. My scouts tell me that British soldiers are still searching for you in the hills south of here. You must make haste. Go with God, Major MacKinnon. And take care of her.”
“I will. God be wi’ you, old man.”
“Adieu, Amalie. I doubt we shall see each other again on this earth. May God and his Saints watch over you and your Ranger. I shall keep you both in my prayers.” Morgan watched as Amalie ran to Bourlamaque and embraced her guardian one last time, her voice quavering. “Adieu, monsieur.”
Durand and Fouchet each gave Morgan a nod—and then the French were gone, melting into the forest with their Abenaki allies.
Amalie’s belongings were quickly removed from the trunk, and everything except for her rosary, which she insisted on carrying, was divided among the men to stow in their packs. They journeyed quickly upriver to where they’d hidden canoes among the reeds, then crossed the river once more, heading southward,Joseph’s men scouting ahead, Morgan unable to let Amalie out of arm’s reach.
“Twill be long ere I can bear to let you out of my sight, a leannan” he told her, as he lifted her from the canoe. “Or I you. I was so afraid you would be hanged!” The dark circles beneath her eyes and her grip on his fingers told him just how afraid she’d been. “How did you escape?” “Och, well, I climbed a moonbeam and floated away on the breeze.”
She smiled, the sight warming him to his soul. “I know you well enough to know that you are a man, Morgan MacKinnon, not chi bai”
He lowered his voice, savoring the feel of her small hand in his. “Aye, I’m a man, and I thank heaven for it every time I lay eyes upon you.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “So how did you escape?”
‘”Twas Wentworth.”
“What?” She gaped at him in disbelief. “But Wentworth thought you guilty!”
“Or so he feigned.” Then Morgan told her how Wentworth had arranged his escape and revealed to Iain and Connor when and where she was to be traded for the two soldiers, hinting in his own way that Morgan should wait to retake Amalie until after the exchange was made. He told her how he and Joseph had paced the army day after day, how they’d had their men in position long before Amherst or Bourlamaque had scouted the area around the falls, and how the wait had nearly driven him daft.
“So you were watching over me.”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Aye, lass, every hour of every day.”
Soon they found themselves making their way up the slope of Rattlesnake Mountain, the ground rocky at their feet. Although Amalie was stronger than the last time they’d come this way, the climb was not an easy one. As they’d done on the journey to Fort Elizabeth, they moved more slowly. Joseph and his men scouting ahead, giving Amalie and Morgan a wide berth. But no sooner had the crest of the mountain come into view then Morgan heard the blast of cannon in the distance. Amalie gasped, gave a startled jump. “I thought there was to be no battle! I thought Bourlamaque planned to abandon the fort.”
“Those were his orders.” Morgan quickened their pace.
“Come. Let us see.”
On the rocky summit, he lay on his belly and inched forward to the edge, motioning for Amalie to do the same. The valley lay before them, the shimmering waters of Lake Champlain stretching to the north, Lake George below them. And there, on a small peninsula, stood Fort Carillon, about to be swept away in a tide of red, the British Army approaching from the south.
There came the roar of cannon, and smoke rose from the ramparts of Carillon.
Amalie gasped again. “The fort looks so small! Why do they not flee?”
“That wylie bastard!” Morgan chuckled. “They are fleein’. See?”
He pointed north of the fort, where he could just make out a band of blue stretching along a forest road. It was the French Army. “Do you see them?”
She nodded. “But who is firing the guns?”
“It seems Bourlamaque has left a rear guard to hold the British at bay. He kens I told Amherst that the fort would be abandoned, and he kens Amherst didnae believe me, so he’s firin’ the guns to fool Amherst into thinkin’ he’s still there. See how Amherst rolls out his artillery? While he wastes his time preparin’ for battle, Bourlamaque’s army makes good its escape. By the time Amherst is ready to fire, the fort will be empty.”
It was a brilliant plan.
But Amalie was not smiling, her face pale as the last French soldiers abandoned the guns, mounted their horses and rode out, finally deserting the fort. Then her eyes filled with tears.
“Adieu, Papa.”
Morgan heard the anguish in her voice, and felt a surge of regret at his thoughtlessness. He’d not realized what this would mean to her. “’Tis sorry I am that you should suffer, a leannan. The British willna disrespect the dead, and I’ve no doubt Connor will seek your father’s grave to pay his respects.” She nodded, sniffed, seeming to take comfort in his words. But now the pricking of his conscience was impossible to ignore. “Bourlamaque is right, lass. I am a wanted man, welcome neither among the French nor the British. I promised you a home, bu
t now I cannae so much as give you a roof to cover your head.”
Amalie looked into Morgan’s eyes and saw the depth of his remorse. “This is not your doing, Morgan. I do not blame you. Please do not blame yourself.”
But she could see her words did not soothe him.
She sat up, traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips. “The night before you were to be . . . hanged . . . I prayed for God to work some miracle and set you free. I would have given anything to spare you, anything at all. Now that my prayers have been answered, why should I worry about something so small as a roof?”
He took her hand, pressed her fingers to his lips, kissed them. “But I promised you a home, lass. You have given up so much, lost so much.”
She sought for words to make him understand, tears blurring her vision, her throat suddenly tight. “If matters not where I rest my head at night. You are my home, Morgan MacKinnon.”
He watched her for a moment as if amazed, and some of his regret and doubt seemed to fade. “Life at my side willna be easy, but we can shelter for a time with the Mahicans. I swear to you, lass, you’ll ne’er go hungry, nor will you want for warmth or a man’s protection.”
She smiled, a feeling of pure happiness swelling inside her just to be near him like this. “Then I shall want for nothing.” Joseph appeared out of the forest, his men behind him. He said something to Morgan in his mother tongue and pointed to the valley below.
Morgan looked startled, then took Amalie’s hand and stood. And there in the valley, not far from the roots of the mountain, stood Connor and the Rangers. They were easy to recognize, the only company in the British Army not wearing red uniforms. The moment they saw Morgan, they raised their rifles over their heads and let loose a blood-curdling cry—the Mahican war cry.
And Amalie knew.
This was the Rangers’ way of bidding Morgan farewell. Tears of bittersweet joy streamed down her cheeks as she watched Morgan receive this tribute from his men, his head high, his brow furrowed with emotion, his jaw tight. Then Morgan raised his rifle above his head and returned the cry, Joseph and the others joining with him, until the entire forest echoed with the terrible, wonderful sound.
And then the world fell silent.
Far below them, the Rangers turned and marched on, duty calling to them.
“Farewell, Connor,” she heard Morgan whisper, his arm sliding about her waist. “Farewell, lads.”
“Will we see them again?”
“God willing, lass. God willing.” Then he turned to her and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “We have far to go ere nightfall. We must be certain that no one has followed us. Can you make it, a leannari?”
Amalie smiled. “As long as you are with me, Morgan, I can do anything.”
EPILOGUE
Six months later
Morgan put the heavy iron lid on the pot, settled it among the coals, then sat back on his heels, sharing a conspiratorial grin with Joseph. “And now we wait.”
He gazed at Amalie as she watched the pot, excitement and anticipation on her sweet face. When he’d heard that she’d never tasted or even seen popcorn, he’d known he’d have to ask Joseph to bring some when next he came to visit. His Muhheconneok brother had not disappointed him, bringing not only popcorn, but also cider, pumpkins, potatoes, corn, apples, dried plums, cornmeal, butter, and cheese from the MacKinnon farm. With the plump turkey Morgan would bring down, ‘twould make a grand Christmas feast. And Amalie deserved a happy Christmas.
As true and good a wife as any man could hope for, she’d endured these months of exile without complaint, her smile never failing, her love never faltering. Not when they’d journeyed long leagues through the forest to take shelter with Joseph’s kin in Stockbridge. Not when the sudden arrival of Amherst’s scouts had forced them to flee westward in the dark of night. Not when she, already quickening with his child, had been made to sleep upon pine boughs in a lean-to while Morgan put up this cabin.
For four months now they’d lived within its thick and sturdy walls, and happy months they’d been. With no fields or livestock to tend, their days and nights turned around the simple rhythms of living—harvesting food and firewood from the forest, bathing in the spring, making love whenever and wherever they chose, as if they were the only two people in the world. Though he’d not believed it possible, Morgan loved Amalie more today than he had when he’d taken her from Bourlamaque, the joy he’d found with her beyond anything he’d ever known or even imagined. Yet even amid such happiness, there were shadows. Amalie still had unquiet dreams, stalked in her sleep by Rillieux. And although he’d taught her to shoot, she hated being left alone in the cabin when he went hunting. But most of all she feared what would happen when her time came. She spoke nothing of it, but Morgan knew it just the same. He could see it in her eyes sometimes as she stroked her belly, could see it in the way she sometimes laid awake late at night.
‘Twas only natural for her to be afraid. Childbirth was as hard on a woman as battle was on a man—or so Morgan reasoned. Many women suffered for long hours only to lose the bairn ere it took a single breath, and more than a few lost their own lives. Hadn’t Amalie’s own mother died in childbed? Morgan wished he could take Amalie home. He knew she missed Annie greatly, knew that now more than ever Amalie needed a woman’s company. Annie had already borne one child and was now well along with her second. She would have been able to assuage Amalie’s fears both before and during the birthing—and she might have been able to soothe Morgan’s worries, as well. Knowing that Amalie must suffer such pain on account of him was hard enough for Morgan. But the thought that she might perish . ..
Nay, neither she nor the child would die. Morgan loved her with every breath in his body. He would not let that happen.
Pop.
The first corn popped. And then the next.
Amalie laughed, gazing up at him in wide-eyed wonder, a bright smile on her face, her happiness making Morgan forget his worries—for now.
The popping became a frantic tattoo, and soon a warm, delicious scent filled the room. Morgan removed the pot from the coals, then lifted the lid.
“O, mon Dieu!” Amalie stared wide-eyed, her amazement making both Morgan and Joseph smile.
Then a familiar voice called to them. “Hello in the house!”
‘Twas Connor!
Joseph cursed under his breath, opened the door, and froze. Beyond the door in the snow stood Connor. Behind him, were a score of redcoats on horseback. And leading them was Wentworth.
Morgan stared past Joseph out the front door, rifle in his hand, trying to make sense of what he saw. Connor had led a dozen redcoats to their door, Wentworth and Lieutenant Cooke among them. But his brother would not betray him. And hadn’t Wentworth aided his escape?
Connor and Wentworth and the redcoats dismounted, the soldiers seeing to their horses as Connor strode toward him, a grin on his unshaven face, a bearskin coat wrapped tightly around him. “Surprised to see me, brothers?”
He slapped Joseph on the shoulder, then engulfed Morgan in a crushing hug, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You ken I’d ne’er have led them here if they meant to harm you.” With those strange words, he strode past Morgan to greet Amalie.
“Major MacKinnon.” Wentworth measured him through cold gray eyes, stamping the snow from his boots. “If my men and I might warm ourselves at your hearth, I’ve brought news from Albany.”
Stomach knotted with fear for Morgan, Amalie filled Lieutenant Cooke’s cup with hot coffee, then shifted her gaze back to Morgan, who was reading a letter Wentworth had handed to him, his dark brows bent in a frown. Morgan lifted his gaze and looked up at Wentworth, stunned disbelief on his dear face. “Pardoned? But . . . how?”
What did that mean—pardoned?
Her pulse raced.
“Having heard of your military exploits, Governor DeLancey took a personal interest in your conviction and subsequent escape. He conducted his own investigation and concluded that the jury had be
en less than impartial in your case. He threw out the verdict and issued a pardon. Of course, his decision was heavily influenced by the missives we found at Fort Ticonderoga in Bourlamaque’s study—letters from the Marquis de Montcalm berating him for allowing you to deceive him and escape. Odd that Bourlamaque left them behind, don’t you think, Major?”
Threw out the verdict? Issued a pardon? Was Morgan no longer a fugitive?
Amalie’s pulse raced faster.
A look of comprehension came over Morgan’s face. “This is your doin’.”
“Mine?” Wentworth raised an eyebrow. “General Amherst would be most distressed if that were the case.” A knowing look passed between the two men.
“And what did Amherst say when he heard the news?” Morgan asked.
“He was so angry that he kicked your arse out of the army!” Connor grinned. “You’re free, brother.”
“What?”
Out of the army? Amalie could scarce breathe.
“Captain MacKinnon is correct. General Amherst was enraged. He felt that, since your loyalties were uncertain at best, you presented too great a risk. You have been discharged.” The tone of Wentworth’s voice and the hard look in his eyes left Amalie with no doubt that this was not the outcome he’d expected.
Joseph gave a loud “whoop” and laughed out loud. Amalie met Morgan’s gaze, feeling light-headed. “Wh-what does this mean? Morgan, what is he saying?”
Morgan pushed through the crowded cabin, lifted her into his arms, and planted a kiss on her lips. When he set her on her feet again, there was a broad smile on his face. “It means, a leannan, that we’re goin’ home.”
Three monlhs later
The keening cry became a sob, then faded to a whimper and fell silent.
Morgan found himself holding his breath. He’d never felt so bloody helpless—or so afraid—in his life. He exhaled, met Iain’s gaze, his belly too knotted for rum. “How much longer will she have to bide this?”
Already, twenty long hours had gone by.
“The first one is always the hardest.” Iain’s voice held a reassuring tone. “Annie labored for the better part of a day with Iain, but ‘twas much quicker with Mara.” Morgan drew a deep breath. “Aye, that seems to be the way of it.”