Free Untamed by Pamela Clare

brutal enemy.
    And that was the heart of it.
    She’d watched over him, helped keep him alive to face a terrible death. He understood this, and yet he’d behaved not like an enemy, but like a gentleman. He’d sensed her guilt, and he’d forgiven her. For some reason, that made her feel worse, not better.
    “Kwai, nadôgweskwa. Toni kd’ollowzin.” Greetings, cousin. How are you?
    Amalie recognized the voice. Hastily, she wiped the tears from her face with her apron, then stood and turned to face him. “Kwai, Tomakwa, nagôgwisis. Kwai, Simo. N’wowlowzi, ta giya?” Greetings, Tomas, my cousin. Greetings, Simon. I am well, and you?
    The sons of her mother’s sister walked toward her, Tomas in front, Simon behind him. Both were dressed in buckskin leggings and breechcloths, their long dark hair hanging free, their chests bare. Tomas wore a British officer’s gorget as a trophy around his neck and a belt of wampum around his waist. Simon wore only a smile for adornment.
    “So you remember the words I taught you. I am pleased.” Tomas came to stand before her. He tucked a finger beneath her chin, examined her face, and frowned, his gaze dropping for a moment to her father’s grave. “You have been weeping.”
    Knowing Tomas would not understand feelings she couldn’t possibly explain, she let him assume her tears came solely from grief. “I miss him.”
    Beside Tomas, Simon watched her, his dark eyes warm with sympathy. “Je suis désolé.” I’m sorry.
    She reached out, gave Simon’s hand a squeeze. “You have come to trade?”
    Tomas glanced toward the hospital. “We have come to claim that which Montcalm promised us—the Inglismôn, the MacKinnon. Does he still live?”
    Suddenly Amalie felt light-headed. “Oui.”
    But the Ranger was no Englishman. He was a Catholic Scot.
    Not that her cousins would understand the difference.
    “ Kamodzi . Very good. We’ll feed him to the flames and avenge both the village and your father.” Then Tomas looked back at her and rested a big hand on her shoulder. “You should come with us, Amalie. Return to your mother’s people. You can be the one to light the fires and thus end your grief.”
    At her cousin’s words, an unwanted image of the Ranger, bound to a stake and burning, came into her mind. And Amalie felt her stomach turn.
    W hen the door opened, Morgan hoped to see Miss Chauvenet. He would apologize, tell her how sorry he was that her father had been killed by a Ranger’s rifle, and ask her forgiveness. His did not expect his words to matter to her, but they were all he could give her.
    It was not she who entered but his captors. One of the officers he recognized from his fevered dreams—the bewigged lieutenant who had denied him last rites. The other he did not. But the grandeur of the second man’s uniform left no doubt in Morgan’s mind that this was none other than Brigadier le Chevalier François-Charles de Bourlamaque, Montcalm’s man.
    The brigadier was younger than he’d imagined—not long past forty. Like his lieutenant, he wore a fashionable powdered wig. He studied Morgan, a thoughtful frown on his face, then gave a little bow. “Major MacKinnon.”
    Morgan swallowed, his throat already parched. “Brigadier de Bourlamaque. Forgi’e me if I dinnae stand to greet you. I seem to be tied up.”
    “You have no idea how relieved I am that you survived, Major.”
    “Och, I’ve some notion of what I mean to you. After all, my brothers and I have had a high price on our heads these past years.”
    Bourlamaque did not smile. “For a time, it seemed certain you would perish and deprive me of the chance to make your acquaintance.”
    “Sure and it must be a grand day for you, then.”
    The lieutenant kicked Morgan’s right leg, the pain making the breath rush from Morgan’s lungs. “Do not be insolent!”
    Bourlamaque cast his lieutenant a dark look, then met Morgan’s gaze once more. “Indeed, it is a day for celebration. Today I have