had ribs of muscle—and a trail of dark curls that disappeared beneath the linens.
As if drawn by a will of its own, her hand left the cloth behind to press against those ridges, her fingers playing over his sweat-slick skin as she slid her hand slowly from his belly up to his chest, something tickling inside her at the feel of him. Her hand came to rest above his heartbeat, its rhythm steady against her palm.
“Your touch could bring the dead to life, lass.”
Amalie gasped, jerked her hand back, and saw to her horror that the Ranger was watching her. Heat rushed into her face, made her cheeks burn, English words forsaking her tongue. “M-mon Dieu! Pardonnez-moi, monsieur!”
“Easy, lass. I didna mean to frighten you.” He watched her through dark blue eyes, his gaze soft, a hint of amusement on his face, his speech accented by a soft lilt.
“Forgive me if I offend, monsieur.”
Morgan’s mouth was as dry as sawdust. His chest ached. His right leg throbbed. But at the moment he didn’t care. He watched the play of emotions on the French lass’s face—fear, shame, wariness—and found himself wanting to lessen her unease. “ ’Tis only nature’s way for a maid to be curious about men. Besides, I wouldna be a Scotsman if I shrank from the touch of a bonnie lass…a beautiful woman.”
Did she understand him?
The deepening flush in her cheeks told him she did.
And she was beautiful. Her eyes seemed to hold all the colors of the forest—greens and browns mixed together. He’d never seen any like them. They seemed to slant upward at the corners, or perhaps that was just the effect of her cheekbones, so high and delicate they were. Her nose was small and fine, her lips full and well shaped. Her skin was flawless, almost luminous. Her hair was the color of sable, dark and gleaming. It hung to the floor when she sat, tresses so long and lovely they made his hands ache to touch them.
She was French—that much he knew—but he’d bet his ration of rum she was also Indian. Her cheekbones, the slight slant of her eyes, the hue of her skin—like cream with just a hint of coffee—bespoke a mixed ancestry. And then there were the herbs she’d placed in the water. No simple French lass was likely to know about such things.
Was she Huron? Abenaki? Mi’kmaq?
What did it matter?
She’s like to be the last lass that e’er you set eyes on, MacKinnon.
As Morgan had always loved the lasses, ’twas was a strange thought.
Roused by the blessed relief of a cool cloth against his skin and the fresh scents of sage and juniper, he’d come slowly back to awareness, thinking for a moment that he was a lad again, that he’d fallen sick and was in Joseph’s mother’s lodge in Stockbridge. Then he’d opened his eyes to find himself being perused by the same lovely French angel who’d visited him in his fevered dreams, and it had pleased him to know she was real.
He’d watched through half-closed eyes while she’d bathed his body, her gaze traveling over him with innocent curiosity. Then she’d laid her small, soft hand upon him, her timid touch burning a path over his skin, threatening to rouse him in an altogether different manner.
“The mère supérieure says I am far too curious.” Her accent was soft and sweet.
“Who?”
“The mother superior.” She hoped those were the right words. “From the convent where I was raised.”
Aye, and that explained her bashfulness.
“Och, well, if you were raised in a convent amidst womenfolk, ’tis even more reason for you to be curious about men, aye? No wrong has been done, lass. Dinnae trouble yourself. What is your name?”
She looked as if she did not want to answer. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “Amalie Chauvenet.”
“ ’Tis a bonnie name. I’m thinkin’ you already ken who I am.”
She nodded gravely. “Morgan MacKinnon, the leader of MacKinnon’s Rangers.”
There was a hint of—was it anger?—in her voice when she
As if drawn by a will of its own, her hand left the cloth behind to press against those ridges, her fingers playing over his sweat-slick skin as she slid her hand slowly from his belly up to his chest, something tickling inside her at the feel of him. Her hand came to rest above his heartbeat, its rhythm steady against her palm.
“Your touch could bring the dead to life, lass.”
Amalie gasped, jerked her hand back, and saw to her horror that the Ranger was watching her. Heat rushed into her face, made her cheeks burn, English words forsaking her tongue. “M-mon Dieu! Pardonnez-moi, monsieur!”
“Easy, lass. I didna mean to frighten you.” He watched her through dark blue eyes, his gaze soft, a hint of amusement on his face, his speech accented by a soft lilt.
“Forgive me if I offend, monsieur.”
Morgan’s mouth was as dry as sawdust. His chest ached. His right leg throbbed. But at the moment he didn’t care. He watched the play of emotions on the French lass’s face—fear, shame, wariness—and found himself wanting to lessen her unease. “ ’Tis only nature’s way for a maid to be curious about men. Besides, I wouldna be a Scotsman if I shrank from the touch of a bonnie lass…a beautiful woman.”
Did she understand him?
The deepening flush in her cheeks told him she did.
And she was beautiful. Her eyes seemed to hold all the colors of the forest—greens and browns mixed together. He’d never seen any like them. They seemed to slant upward at the corners, or perhaps that was just the effect of her cheekbones, so high and delicate they were. Her nose was small and fine, her lips full and well shaped. Her skin was flawless, almost luminous. Her hair was the color of sable, dark and gleaming. It hung to the floor when she sat, tresses so long and lovely they made his hands ache to touch them.
She was French—that much he knew—but he’d bet his ration of rum she was also Indian. Her cheekbones, the slight slant of her eyes, the hue of her skin—like cream with just a hint of coffee—bespoke a mixed ancestry. And then there were the herbs she’d placed in the water. No simple French lass was likely to know about such things.
Was she Huron? Abenaki? Mi’kmaq?
What did it matter?
She’s like to be the last lass that e’er you set eyes on, MacKinnon.
As Morgan had always loved the lasses, ’twas was a strange thought.
Roused by the blessed relief of a cool cloth against his skin and the fresh scents of sage and juniper, he’d come slowly back to awareness, thinking for a moment that he was a lad again, that he’d fallen sick and was in Joseph’s mother’s lodge in Stockbridge. Then he’d opened his eyes to find himself being perused by the same lovely French angel who’d visited him in his fevered dreams, and it had pleased him to know she was real.
He’d watched through half-closed eyes while she’d bathed his body, her gaze traveling over him with innocent curiosity. Then she’d laid her small, soft hand upon him, her timid touch burning a path over his skin, threatening to rouse him in an altogether different manner.
“The mère supérieure says I am far too curious.” Her accent was soft and sweet.
“Who?”
“The mother superior.” She hoped those were the right words. “From the convent where I was raised.”
Aye, and that explained her bashfulness.
“Och, well, if you were raised in a convent amidst womenfolk, ’tis even more reason for you to be curious about men, aye? No wrong has been done, lass. Dinnae trouble yourself. What is your name?”
She looked as if she did not want to answer. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper. “Amalie Chauvenet.”
“ ’Tis a bonnie name. I’m thinkin’ you already ken who I am.”
She nodded gravely. “Morgan MacKinnon, the leader of MacKinnon’s Rangers.”
There was a hint of—was it anger?—in her voice when she
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