Major MacKinnon.”
The captain frowned, as if perplexed. “You would do that for him?”
“Major MacKinnon is a highly trained officer. His life and the secrets he holds are of great worth to the Crown.” There was more to it than that, but William refused to admit it, even to himself. “I would be foolish not to make every effort to recover him.”
“The men and I leave in the morn to pay our respects to Iain. Captain Joseph and his men come wi’ us.”
“Are you asking me to grant you leave?” William opened his bottle of ink, dipped his quill, and tapped it on the brim.
“Nay, Your Holiness. I dinnae give a damn whether you say ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’ ”
“Nevertheless, I grant it.” The last thing William wanted near the fort was a hundred drunken Highlanders playing endless, wailing dirges on those godforsaken pipes. He looked up to meet the captain’s gaze. “Report back within ten days. You’re in command now, and I shall hold you responsible—unless you’d rather I call your eldest brother back into service.”
The captain’s eyes flew wide for a moment, then a look of utter loathing settled on his face. “Over my dead body.”
“Very well, then.” William put quill to paper and began to write. “You should know that of the three of you, I found Morgan to be the most sensible.”
“He’d be bloody fashed to hear that.”
“You are dismissed, Captain.” William scrawled words on the page until the door shut. But the moment the captain was gone, he set the quill in the bottle, rose, and crossed the room to pour himself a cognac. “We have suffered a great loss, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, my lord. It is terrible.”
William tossed back the cognac—something he would ordinarily never do—and wondered why he should feel so bereft.
Chapter 4
A malie bathed the Ranger’s face with a cold, wet cloth she’d dipped in water sprinkled with wild sage and juniper. It was a cure she’d learned from her grandmother’s people. The wild sage would purify him, and the juniper would cleanse away the remnants of his sickness. His fever had broken early this morning. There was no doubt now: he would live.
His skin was no longer pale but flushed, his dark hair slick with sweat, little rivulets trickling down his temples, his neck, his chest, drenching the linens beneath him. He slept peacefully, his long lashes dark against his cheeks, his jaw shadowed by many days’ growth of beard, his chest rising and falling with each deep, steady breath.
But his peaceful rest would not last long.
The laudanum would soon wear off, and whatever pain he still had would return. Monsieur Lambert, hoping to save their dwindling stores of the precious medicine, had given the Ranger his last spoonful a few hours past, vowing to force water down his throat should he refuse to drink again. But that was not the worst of it.
When she’d come down to breakfast, she’d overheard Lieutenant Rillieux and Monsieur de Bourlamaque discussing what to do with the Ranger next. As soon as he was able to stand, they would move him to the guardhouse—and his suffering would begin anew. And this time…
Amalie did not wish to think on it.
She dipped the cloth back in the scented water, squeezed it out, and nudged the linens down to his hips. She bathed first his arms, which were still stretched above his head, each wrist shackled to a bedpost. Then she wet the cloth again and bathed his shoulders, working her way over his chest and down his belly.
Although she knew it must be sinful, she couldn’t keep her gaze from following her hands, his man’s body so different from hers, the sight of him both disturbing and intriguing. His skin was soft, but the muscles beneath it were hard, the feel of him like iron sheathed in velvet. Although his nipples drew tight from the chill of the water as hers did when she was cold, his were dark like wine, flat and ringed by crisp, dark hair. Where her belly was soft and rounded, his
The captain frowned, as if perplexed. “You would do that for him?”
“Major MacKinnon is a highly trained officer. His life and the secrets he holds are of great worth to the Crown.” There was more to it than that, but William refused to admit it, even to himself. “I would be foolish not to make every effort to recover him.”
“The men and I leave in the morn to pay our respects to Iain. Captain Joseph and his men come wi’ us.”
“Are you asking me to grant you leave?” William opened his bottle of ink, dipped his quill, and tapped it on the brim.
“Nay, Your Holiness. I dinnae give a damn whether you say ‘aye’ or ‘nay.’ ”
“Nevertheless, I grant it.” The last thing William wanted near the fort was a hundred drunken Highlanders playing endless, wailing dirges on those godforsaken pipes. He looked up to meet the captain’s gaze. “Report back within ten days. You’re in command now, and I shall hold you responsible—unless you’d rather I call your eldest brother back into service.”
The captain’s eyes flew wide for a moment, then a look of utter loathing settled on his face. “Over my dead body.”
“Very well, then.” William put quill to paper and began to write. “You should know that of the three of you, I found Morgan to be the most sensible.”
“He’d be bloody fashed to hear that.”
“You are dismissed, Captain.” William scrawled words on the page until the door shut. But the moment the captain was gone, he set the quill in the bottle, rose, and crossed the room to pour himself a cognac. “We have suffered a great loss, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, my lord. It is terrible.”
William tossed back the cognac—something he would ordinarily never do—and wondered why he should feel so bereft.
Chapter 4
A malie bathed the Ranger’s face with a cold, wet cloth she’d dipped in water sprinkled with wild sage and juniper. It was a cure she’d learned from her grandmother’s people. The wild sage would purify him, and the juniper would cleanse away the remnants of his sickness. His fever had broken early this morning. There was no doubt now: he would live.
His skin was no longer pale but flushed, his dark hair slick with sweat, little rivulets trickling down his temples, his neck, his chest, drenching the linens beneath him. He slept peacefully, his long lashes dark against his cheeks, his jaw shadowed by many days’ growth of beard, his chest rising and falling with each deep, steady breath.
But his peaceful rest would not last long.
The laudanum would soon wear off, and whatever pain he still had would return. Monsieur Lambert, hoping to save their dwindling stores of the precious medicine, had given the Ranger his last spoonful a few hours past, vowing to force water down his throat should he refuse to drink again. But that was not the worst of it.
When she’d come down to breakfast, she’d overheard Lieutenant Rillieux and Monsieur de Bourlamaque discussing what to do with the Ranger next. As soon as he was able to stand, they would move him to the guardhouse—and his suffering would begin anew. And this time…
Amalie did not wish to think on it.
She dipped the cloth back in the scented water, squeezed it out, and nudged the linens down to his hips. She bathed first his arms, which were still stretched above his head, each wrist shackled to a bedpost. Then she wet the cloth again and bathed his shoulders, working her way over his chest and down his belly.
Although she knew it must be sinful, she couldn’t keep her gaze from following her hands, his man’s body so different from hers, the sight of him both disturbing and intriguing. His skin was soft, but the muscles beneath it were hard, the feel of him like iron sheathed in velvet. Although his nipples drew tight from the chill of the water as hers did when she was cold, his were dark like wine, flat and ringed by crisp, dark hair. Where her belly was soft and rounded, his
Similar Books
