by Pamela Clare
If Amherst could win a guilty verdict against one of William’s most lauded and trusted men, he could darken London’s perception of William, and perhaps prevent William from being placed equal to him—or raised above him. William would not allow his reputation to be undermined by political scheming, nor would he repay Major MacKinnon’s loyalty, however reluctantly given, with an ignominious death. And if he’d once threatened the MacKinnon brothers with hanging in order to manipulate them for his own political gain?
William had never claimed not to be a hypocrite, just a superior strategist.
As for Miss Chauvenet, he could not pass by the chance to win freedom for two loyal British officers, and yet he could not deny that he hated to see her go. Maybe it was her innocence that aroused this unlikely sentiment. Or perhaps it was her utter devotion to Major MacKinnon. Or perhaps it was simply her beauty.
If Lady Anne were like the sunshine, then Miss Chauvenet was the dusk—exotic, sensual, alluring. More than once, William had allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to bed her, her young body beneath him, her long dark hair spread across his bed. Her spirit only made her more desirable. He could not think of the last woman who’d dared to strike him.
But, alas, she was Bourlamaque’s ward—or Major MacKinnon’s wife. Either way, ‘twas not worth the risks involved to attempt to seduce her.
William strode toward the officers’ latrines, watching as a form detached itself from the shadows, strode to the last latrine just ahead of him, and went inside. ‘Twas frustrating to meet like this, but with Amherst ever underfoot, he had little choice.
“What have you learnt?” William whispered, pretending to wait his turn.
“Tis as you suspected, my lord. The officers are all men who owe their rank to Amherst and are known for their loyalty. I found little to aid your purpose. One has some moderate debts. Three have mistresses. One has a daughter who’s hiding her condition at a country house outside Boston. One has a Jacobite grandfather.”
“The very flower of British virtue, it would seem.” This was not what William had hoped to hear. Men without scandalous secrets were difficult to manipulate. Though debts, pregnant daughters, and unsavory ancestors might cause these men embarrassment, such things weren’t enough to bring them to their knees and change a verdict.
“So it would seem, my lord.”
“Very well.” William glanced about to be certain they were still alone. “I’ve a letter for Governor DeLancey to be delivered by you into his hands. Make all haste for Albany, and if you find him not in residence, seek him out by any means. Do not rest until he has received this missive. Bring his response to me immediately!”
“Aye, my lord. I leave at once.”
The latrine door opened, and his man stepped out, taking the letter—and a bag of coins—as he passed. And then he was gone.
“Then you admit to training the enemy in musketry, to giving up the location of the caches, campsites, and trails, to sharing what you knew of Major-General Amherst’s plans for this summer’s campaign against Ticonderoga?” Morgan fought to control his temper, furious to hear his words twisted thus. So it had been for the past hour, every answer he’d given bent and distorted to make him seem guilty. Connor’s words had been twisted, too, his description of rescuing Morgan turned against Morgan simply because Morgan had been wearing a French uniform and hadn’t left Fort Carillon of his own free will.
The grim look on Iain’s face and the worry on Annie’s told him what he already understood: the bastards wanted him to hang.
Och, he’d have been better off to stay with Bourlamaque! And yet he’d never have been able to live with himself for betraying his brothers and his men if he had.
“Aye, sir, I did, but it wasna what you—“
“Is it true that you went to Catholic rites whilst at Ticonderoga and took Communion at the hands of a French’ priest?” demanded the officer, a badly wigged colonel named Hamilton.
“Aye, sir, for I am Catholic. ‘Tis no secret.” “Is it also true that the Chevalier de Bourlamaque supervised the Catholic wedding of his ward, Amalie Chauvenet, to you while you were his prisoner?”
“Aye, sir.”
“So Bourlamaque gave his beloved ward to you—a dreaded enemy—to be your wife. Can you explain to the court why any man would marry a young woman under his protection to the enemy? Did Bourlamaque dislike his ward and wish to be rid of her?”
The men on the jury chuckled.
Morgan answered with the truth. “I deceived him into trustin’ me, and he was bound by his promise to Amalie’s father to let her wed a man of her own choosin’. She chose me.” “Still, he must have believed without a shadow of doubt that he could trust you.”
“Och, I’m certain he had doubts, but he hoped the marriage would further bind me to him, for he ken I cared deeply for Amalie.”
“And you took this young woman to wife after the Catholic manner, even knowing that you would soon abandon her?” Morgan could see where this was going and knew he was damned. “Aye, sir. And that is why I did not consummate—“ “The truth, Major MacKinnon, is that you never intended to escape!” Hamilton cut across him, his voice raised to a shout. “You planned to live out your life among the French and only returned to Fort Elizabeth because you were in the awkward position of having been kidnapped by the Abenaki and then rescued by your own men!”
“That is a lie!”
“Thank you, Major. That is all.” Hamilton motioned for guards to escort Morgan back to his chair. “Bring in the next witness.”
Dragging his shackles, Morgan sat in the chair that served as a witness box—then surged to his feet again when he saw her. Dressed in a green gown he recognized as Annie’s, Amalie entered the room, her gaze seeking him out, the dark circles beneath her eyes and the strain on her sweet face telling him that these past days had been hard ones.
She smiled first at him, then at Iain and Annie, who sat behind him, her smile not enough to hide her fear. Then she took her seat, her hands clenched nervously in her lap, the wooden beads of his rosary visible between her fingers. Och, how he wished he could spare her this! Hamilton was ruthless, giving no quarter, his objective to give Amherst the guilty verdict he wanted. He would not hesitate to mock and abuse her.
“Please tell the court your name,” Hamilton said. Her gaze locked with Morgan’s, she answered. “Amalie Chauvenet MacKinnon.”
“Miss Chauvenet,” Hamilton said, ignoring her married name, “please tell us how you came to know Major Morgan MacKinnon and how you came to be with him here, so far from Ticonderoga—what you call Fort Carillon.” And so, her chin high, her accent sweet, she told the story from the beginning.
“Why did it occur to you to offer Major MacKinnon sanctuary?”
Hamilton asked.
There was no good way to answer this question, Morgan realized, not when the officers acting as jury were ready to seize upon anything at all to justify a verdict of guilty. “The Scots have long been allies of the French because we are all Catholic,” she said simply, seeming unaware that she was walking into a swamp.
“In fact, Major MacKinnon’s grandfather was renowned among the traitorous Jacobites for helping Charles Stuart escape to France, wasn’t he?”
She hesitated. “So Monsieur de Bourlamaque told me.” “You witnessed Major MacKinnon load his musket and fire it before the assembled French Army?” Hamilton asked. “No man can teach another to strike marks by simply watchin’ another do it!” Iain shouted, breaking the rule of silence. “Did you learn to sit a horse by watchin’ your daddy ride?”
“Silence!” Amherst bellowed, his shout startling Amalie.
“Interrupt again, and I shall have you removed!”
“Answer the question, Miss Chauvenet.”
“O-oui, monsieur. I saw him fire at marks.”
“Did Major MacKinnon ever wear a French uniform?”
Hamilton demanded.
“Not at first. Monsieur de Bour
lamaque clad him as befitted the son of a Scottish laird, because he feared a uniform would enrage the soldiers.”
“But, eventually, he did don a French officer’s uniform, correct?”
“Yes, monsieur.” Amalie’s eyes implored Morgan to forgive her.
He smiled at her, and some of the fear in her eyes lessened.
“Please go on, Miss Chauvenet.”
Amalie drew strength from the warmth in Morgan’s eyes, from the presence of Iain and Annie behind him, and took a steadying breath, her stomach so full of butterflies that she’d long since quit feeling hungry. “I-I began to feel affection for Monsieur MacKinnon. He told me we could not be together until the war was over. I did not know at the time that he meant to escape.”
She told the officers how she’d gone to speak with Morgan one night but had found his room empty. Then she’d noticed a glow coming from the door to Bourlamaque’s study. “I found Monsieur MacKinnon there, sitting at Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s writing table, reading Monsieur de Bourlamaque’s private letters. For a moment, I didn’t understand how he could be reading the letters when he did not speak French. And then I understood. He had deceived us. He was spying.”
She remembered the shock she’d felt, the disbelief, the hurt, the anger. But then she looked into Morgan’s eyes and knew that she’d long since forgiven him.
“How do you know for certain that Major MacKinnon was spying?” The bewigged man imitated her voice, her accent.
She felt her temper pique. “What else would he be doing, monsieur?”
“Did you tell your guardian what you’d seen?” She shook her head. “I turned to run, and might have told him, but Monsieur MacKinnon stopped me. He put his hand over my mouth and forced me into his room, where we argued. We must have woken Monsieur de Bourlamaque, for he .. . discovered us together. He demanded that Monsieur MacKinnon marry me.”
“Help me to understand, Miss Chauvenet. Your guardian found you arguing with Major MacKinnon, and then forced you to marry him?”
The men that made up Morgan’s jury chuckled. Amalie felt heat rush into her cheeks, knowing that everyone in the room saw past her words. But it had started as an argument. “While we argued, Major MacKinnon . . . He kissed me, monsieur.”
‘Twas not the full truth, but she could not bring herself to say more.
“So Bourlamaque discovered Major MacKinnon kissing you, and still you did not tell Bourlamaque what you’d witnessed. Instead, you married a man whom you believed had betrayed you, your guardian, and your king.”
Amalie looked down at her hands. “Yes.”
“Please explain to the court how you could have done such a thing.”
She lifted her gaze to Morgan’s, wanting him to hear the words again. “I love him. I could not bear to see him suffer.” “So you were willing to lie to your guardian in order to protect the major.”
Amalie started to object, but the man cut across her, his voice raised.
“It was you, Miss Chauvenet, who first suggested Major MacKinnon commit treason by joining the French, you who led him astray! In a moment of weakness, he allowed himself to be lured by you. And now that he is facing the consequences of that decision, you are willing to lie to protect him!” “Non!” She heard herself object, found herself on her feet, but a terrible heaviness bore down upon her, the blood rushing from her head. The room seemed to spin, a swirl of gray, the floor rushing up at her.
“That’s enough, Hamilton!”
She heard Morgan shout, felt strong arms catch her.
“I’ve got you, a leannan.”
And then there was nothing.
Morgan sat in the hot, stuffy room, awaiting the verdict, his gut churning with helpless rage. ‘Twas Hamilton’s fault that Amalie had swooned. The whoreson had all but accused her of putting Morgan’s neck in the noose! Her face had gone pale as death, her eyes round with fear, and Morgan knew that if he hanged, she would blame herself.
If she’d been conscious, he would have told her that none of this was her doing, but Amherst hadn’t given her time to revive. No sooner had Morgan caught her, breaking her fall, then he’d been dragged back to his chair.
“Rise from your chair again and I shall have you flogged!”
Amherst had shouted.
Thank Mary and all the blessed Saints that Iain and Annie had been there. Annie had knelt beside Amalie, Iain behind her. “There’s no fever, but we must get her to Dr. Blake.” Ignoring Amherst’s objections, Iain had lifted Amalie into his arms and, brooking no challenge, had carried her toward the door, meeting Morgan’s gaze as he passed and speaking to him in Gaelic. “I’m sorry I let myself be so easily tricked and failed to keep her safe from them, but I willna let them take her again. I swear it!”
And Morgan had realized he might never see Amalie again.
The words spilled out of him. “Inns do dh ‘Amalie nach ise as coireach! Inns’ dhi gu hheil gaol agam oirre! Inns’ dhi gun do chuir mi seachad mo laithean a bu thoilichte comhla rithe, ‘s nach eil aithreachas orm mu ghin dhiubh!” Tell Amalie this is no’ her doin’! Tell her my love lies upon her! Tell her that the happiest days of my life have been spent wi’ her, and I regret no’ a one of them!
No sooner had Iain stepped through the door, then Amherst, shouting again, had called the court to order and declared the trial ended. The officers who made up the jury had retired to decide Morgan’s fate. But there was no doubt in his mind what they would decide. Now there was naught he could do but wait to hear the words spoken.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Major MacKinnon, this court finds you guilty of the reprehensible crimes of desertion and treason. Tomorrow at dawn, you shall be taken from the gaol to the parade grounds, where you shall be hanged by the neck until dead. May God have mercy upon your soul!”
THIRTY
Amalie awoke feeling strangely confused, Iain and Annie looking down at her. “Ou suis-je? Que s’est-il passe?” Where am I? What happened?
She didn’t realize she’d spoken French until Annie answered in French.
“ Vous etes a I’hopital. Vous evanouie.” You’re in the hospital. You fainted.
Still confused, Amalie looked around and saw that she was in a hospital very much like the one at Fort Carillon. Annie pressed a cool cloth to Amalie’s forehead, her voice soothing. “Lord William said you’ve no’ eaten or slept for two days. Dr. Blake, the surgeon, thinks you’re overwrought and famished and need to rest.”
And then Amalie remembered, her heart hitting her breastbone with a single, sickening thud. She sat upright. “Morgan! The trial . . . Is it . . . ?”
“Aye, ‘tis over.” Annie set the cloth back in a bowl of water, her face lined with worry. “They found him guilty.”
“Non!” The breath left Amalie’s lungs in a cry. “But he is innocent!”
“Aye, but that doesna matter to them, lass.” Iain’s voice was edged with rage, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “He’s to be hanged at dawn.”
The words left her feeling dizzy, sick, fear coiling through her belly. She met Iain’s gaze. “This is my fault! I tried to save his life, but—“ Iain pressed a finger to her lips and leaned down, his gaze searching the room as if to make certain no one was watching. “I swear to you, lass, that Connor and I willna allow them to kill Morgan while we yet live, nor will we suffer them to take you from us against your will! But you must be ready for whate’er comes, aye?”
Amalie nodded, fighting her tears, knowing she could bear anything if it spared Morgan the hangman’s noose. “I love him.”
Iain took her hand, gave it a squeeze. “Aye, I ken you do—as he loves you. He gave me a message for you. When I was carryin’ you out the door, he called out to me in Gaelic so they couldna understand him. He said, ‘Tell Amalie this is no’ her fault. Tell her that I love her. Tell her that the happiest days of my life have been spent wi’ her, and I regret no’ a one of them.’”
Fresh tears spilled down Amalie’s c
heeks, a bittersweet ache swelling behind her breast. “If only I could see him! If only I could speak with him!”
Iain shook his head. “Wentworth says Morgan’s to have no visitors save himself, Amherst, or the chaplain.” “He won’t even let Morgan say farewell to his own brothers?” The thought of Morgan alone in his cell facing death sickened her. “How cruel! The man has no heart!” Annie looked troubled. “I had hoped for better from him.”
And it struck Amalie that any attempt to free Morgan might well place Iain in mortal peril as well. She and Annie might both be widows ere the sun rose again. She swallowed her tears and met Iain’s gaze. “I will do whatever you ask of me.”
Iain smiled. “That’s our Amalie.”
Annie set a small basket of fruit, bread, and cheese on her lap. “First, you must eat.”
“The Stockbridge departed two days past, and those Rangers whose terms of service were long ago completed are leaving as well, reducing our strength by more than one hundred and fifty men.” William delivered this news with a measure of satisfaction, pouring himself a rare second cognac. “The Rangers now number fewer than four score.”
From Ranger Island came the wail of pipes playing forbidden tunes—a farewell to Major MacKinnon from his men and a warning to Amherst and, William supposed, to himself. If Morgan MacKinnon died on the gallows, they’d have a revolt on their hands.
Amherst looked up from his charts toward the darkened window, his long face betraying his rage and disgust. “How can they walk away on the eve of our campaign? Is their loyalty given only to the MacKinnon brothers and not to Britain?”
William swirled the amber liquid, raised the snifter to his nose, and inhaled the heady aroma, answering at his leisure. “I did warn you. Many believe Major MacKinnon’s trial was a biased affair with the verdict determined before it started. They believe his hanging will be nothing less than murder.” Amherst glared at William, clearly dismayed to have the truth spoken so plainly. “Fire a few six-pounders over their heads. That ought to quiet them.”