spoke.
“How long has it been?”
She glanced at the window, at the ceiling, at her hands, which lay folded in her skirts—but she did not look at him. “Fifteen days since you were wounded.”
Fifteen days!
No wonder he felt so bloody weak!
Connor, Joseph, and the men would have long since made their way back to Fort Edward. Surely, even Iain would have gotten word by now. Would his brothers believe him dead? Would they mourn him?
He pushed the questions from his mind.
“Might I have some water, Miss Chauvenet?”
She reached for the water pitcher, a surprised look on her face. “You no longer seek your own death?”
He shook his head. “I have lost that battle.”
Her lovely face grew troubled. She poured water into a tin cup, then lifted his head and held the cup to his lips. Silken strands of hair slipped over her shoulder to fall against his chest, the scent of her like lavender. “Drink.”
He asked her to refill the cup four times before his thirst was quenched, wondering as he drank at the distress he saw on her face. Had the sisters raised her to be so primsie that she still felt guilt for touching him? Perhaps she was afraid of him and did not wish to be here. “I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.”
The troubled look on her face became genuine anguish.
And he understood.
“You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.”
She stood so quickly that her stool toppled over. Then she stared down at him with eyes that held the first sheen of tears. “I do not care what becomes of you, monsieur! Why should I? You and your Rangers killed my father!”
Then she turned and fled in a swish of skirts.
And as he watched her hurry to get away from him, Morgan knew that his sins had caught up with him at last.
T ears pricking her eyes, Amalie ran from the back room out the front door of the hospital, ignoring the surprised look on Monsieur Lambert’s face, scarce hearing the questions he called after her.
“Mademoiselle? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” What is it? What’s wrong?
How dare he behave like this! How dare her enemy act as if he understood her! He was not a gentleman! How dare he behave as one!
She hurried across the grass, not sure where she was going until she found herself in the fort’s cemetery. She threaded her way through the rows of small crosses until she came to the one that marked her father’s grave. She knelt before it and let the tears come.
She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. She wasn’t even certain why she was upset and crying. Perhaps she was simply weary after so many long days of caring for the Ranger. Or perhaps caring for him reminded her of the terrible battle that had taken her father’s life and the lives of so many others—the blast of the cannon, the cries of the wounded and dying, the stench of blood and gunpowder in the air.
If aught should befall me, Père François will take you to Montcalm or Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.
Nothing will happen to you, Papa!
She ran her fingers over the carven letters of her father’s name, the ache in her heart sharpened by memories. “I did as Monsieur de Bourlamaque asked, Papa. I helped keep the Ranger alive. Soon they will interrogate him.”
You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.
How had he seen through her so clearly?
He’d spoken but a few words to her, and already she knew he was not the coarse and heartless man she’d expected him to be. She’d thought he’d up wake cursing Montcalm or pleading for release. Instead, he’d caught her touching him in a way no chaste young woman should, and he’d offered her understanding and reassurance, asking only for her name and water to drink, his manners faultless even when hers had failed.
I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.
Politesse and understanding were not qualities one expected from a ruthless barbarian, a
“How long has it been?”
She glanced at the window, at the ceiling, at her hands, which lay folded in her skirts—but she did not look at him. “Fifteen days since you were wounded.”
Fifteen days!
No wonder he felt so bloody weak!
Connor, Joseph, and the men would have long since made their way back to Fort Edward. Surely, even Iain would have gotten word by now. Would his brothers believe him dead? Would they mourn him?
He pushed the questions from his mind.
“Might I have some water, Miss Chauvenet?”
She reached for the water pitcher, a surprised look on her face. “You no longer seek your own death?”
He shook his head. “I have lost that battle.”
Her lovely face grew troubled. She poured water into a tin cup, then lifted his head and held the cup to his lips. Silken strands of hair slipped over her shoulder to fall against his chest, the scent of her like lavender. “Drink.”
He asked her to refill the cup four times before his thirst was quenched, wondering as he drank at the distress he saw on her face. Had the sisters raised her to be so primsie that she still felt guilt for touching him? Perhaps she was afraid of him and did not wish to be here. “I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.”
The troubled look on her face became genuine anguish.
And he understood.
“You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.”
She stood so quickly that her stool toppled over. Then she stared down at him with eyes that held the first sheen of tears. “I do not care what becomes of you, monsieur! Why should I? You and your Rangers killed my father!”
Then she turned and fled in a swish of skirts.
And as he watched her hurry to get away from him, Morgan knew that his sins had caught up with him at last.
T ears pricking her eyes, Amalie ran from the back room out the front door of the hospital, ignoring the surprised look on Monsieur Lambert’s face, scarce hearing the questions he called after her.
“Mademoiselle? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a? Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?” What is it? What’s wrong?
How dare he behave like this! How dare her enemy act as if he understood her! He was not a gentleman! How dare he behave as one!
She hurried across the grass, not sure where she was going until she found herself in the fort’s cemetery. She threaded her way through the rows of small crosses until she came to the one that marked her father’s grave. She knelt before it and let the tears come.
She didn’t know what to think, what to feel. She wasn’t even certain why she was upset and crying. Perhaps she was simply weary after so many long days of caring for the Ranger. Or perhaps caring for him reminded her of the terrible battle that had taken her father’s life and the lives of so many others—the blast of the cannon, the cries of the wounded and dying, the stench of blood and gunpowder in the air.
If aught should befall me, Père François will take you to Montcalm or Bourlamaque. They will keep you safe.
Nothing will happen to you, Papa!
She ran her fingers over the carven letters of her father’s name, the ache in her heart sharpened by memories. “I did as Monsieur de Bourlamaque asked, Papa. I helped keep the Ranger alive. Soon they will interrogate him.”
You ken what awaits me, and it troubles you to be speakin’ wi’ a dead man.
How had he seen through her so clearly?
He’d spoken but a few words to her, and already she knew he was not the coarse and heartless man she’d expected him to be. She’d thought he’d up wake cursing Montcalm or pleading for release. Instead, he’d caught her touching him in a way no chaste young woman should, and he’d offered her understanding and reassurance, asking only for her name and water to drink, his manners faultless even when hers had failed.
I thank you for your care of me, Miss Chauvenet.
Politesse and understanding were not qualities one expected from a ruthless barbarian, a
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