for her father’s death and to the protectiveness and decency he’d demonstrated when Lieutenant Rillieux had stolen that kiss from her.
No man has the right to treat you thus.
How could the man who’d destroyed her grandmother’s village, leaving women and children to starve in the depths of winter, be the same man she saw before her?
“Are the stories they tell about you true, monsieur?” The words were out before she could stop them.
“Stories?” A dark eyebrow arched in question, amusement on his face.
She felt heat rush into her face. She looked down at her hands, fumbled with the dressing she was trying to make. “My cousins believe you and your brothers are not truly men, but spirits.”
“Chi bai.” He spoke the Abenaki word with ease. Where had he learned the language? “Aye, so I’ve heard. What do you think?”
And yet again he surprised her. Her father was the only man who’d ever asked her to share her thoughts or opinions. “If you were truly chi bai, you would not be here. You would turn into smoke and disappear on the breeze.”
His chuckle warmed her. “That I would.”
She spread salve over the red, pinched ridge of sewn flesh on his right breast where Monsieur Lambert had cut him to remove the musket ball. “They also say they’ve seen you and your brothers fly.”
He laughed at this. “What they saw were snowshoe prints that led to the edge of a cliff and us at the foot of it. What they didna ken is that we’d come to the edge, then put our snowshoes on backward, doubled back and found a hidden way to the bottom.”
The trick he described was so clever and yet so simple that Amalie couldn’t help but smile. “You deceived them.”
“Aye, and lived to fight another day.” Then a strange look crossed his face. “ ’Tis the first time I’ve seen you smile.”
Feeling strangely embarrassée, Amalie bent to her work once more, setting the salve aside, then pressing the dressing over the wound and reaching for a long strip of linen to bind it in place.
“Dinnae be fashed, lass.” His voice was deep and soft, both soothing and disturbing. “I didna mean to discomfit you.”
Careful not to look into his eyes, she slid her hand beneath him to pass the roll of linen through, but he was so broad in the shoulders that she had to lean across him to retrieve it. Just as she bent over him, he arched his back to let her hand pass beneath him, inadvertently pressing his chest against her bodice. And for a moment—one astonishing moment—she could feel the beating of his heart.
Awareness burnt like heat through the cloth of her gown to her skin, making her breath catch. Astounded by the unfamiliar sensation, she looked up, her gaze colliding with his, their faces only inches apart. And staring into his eyes, she knew he’d felt it, too.
“You’ve eyes the color of the forest.”
His words and the sound of his voice called her back to herself. Feeling chagrined and more than a little confused, she passed the roll of linen beneath him three times in quick succession, then sat back, drawing breath into her lungs, her body warm as if it were summer, not spring. She tied off the bandage with fumbling fingers, her mind seeking a way to fill the awkward silence.
“I—I have also heard that you and your brothers once protected French women from ravishment by British soldiers and saved the life of a priest. Is this true?”
“Aye, lass. MacKinnon’s Rangers dinnae take scalps, nor do we suffer any to harm servants of the Church or to make war upon women and children.”
All of her confusion and embarrassment came together in a pique of temper. “Then why did you and your men leave the women and children of Oganak to starve and freeze to death?”
His brow bent in a frown, but the look in his eyes was more akin to sadness than anger. “Do you ken what we found at Oganak, Miss Chauvenet? More than six hundred scalps—some of women, aye, and wee children, too.”
Amalie
No man has the right to treat you thus.
How could the man who’d destroyed her grandmother’s village, leaving women and children to starve in the depths of winter, be the same man she saw before her?
“Are the stories they tell about you true, monsieur?” The words were out before she could stop them.
“Stories?” A dark eyebrow arched in question, amusement on his face.
She felt heat rush into her face. She looked down at her hands, fumbled with the dressing she was trying to make. “My cousins believe you and your brothers are not truly men, but spirits.”
“Chi bai.” He spoke the Abenaki word with ease. Where had he learned the language? “Aye, so I’ve heard. What do you think?”
And yet again he surprised her. Her father was the only man who’d ever asked her to share her thoughts or opinions. “If you were truly chi bai, you would not be here. You would turn into smoke and disappear on the breeze.”
His chuckle warmed her. “That I would.”
She spread salve over the red, pinched ridge of sewn flesh on his right breast where Monsieur Lambert had cut him to remove the musket ball. “They also say they’ve seen you and your brothers fly.”
He laughed at this. “What they saw were snowshoe prints that led to the edge of a cliff and us at the foot of it. What they didna ken is that we’d come to the edge, then put our snowshoes on backward, doubled back and found a hidden way to the bottom.”
The trick he described was so clever and yet so simple that Amalie couldn’t help but smile. “You deceived them.”
“Aye, and lived to fight another day.” Then a strange look crossed his face. “ ’Tis the first time I’ve seen you smile.”
Feeling strangely embarrassée, Amalie bent to her work once more, setting the salve aside, then pressing the dressing over the wound and reaching for a long strip of linen to bind it in place.
“Dinnae be fashed, lass.” His voice was deep and soft, both soothing and disturbing. “I didna mean to discomfit you.”
Careful not to look into his eyes, she slid her hand beneath him to pass the roll of linen through, but he was so broad in the shoulders that she had to lean across him to retrieve it. Just as she bent over him, he arched his back to let her hand pass beneath him, inadvertently pressing his chest against her bodice. And for a moment—one astonishing moment—she could feel the beating of his heart.
Awareness burnt like heat through the cloth of her gown to her skin, making her breath catch. Astounded by the unfamiliar sensation, she looked up, her gaze colliding with his, their faces only inches apart. And staring into his eyes, she knew he’d felt it, too.
“You’ve eyes the color of the forest.”
His words and the sound of his voice called her back to herself. Feeling chagrined and more than a little confused, she passed the roll of linen beneath him three times in quick succession, then sat back, drawing breath into her lungs, her body warm as if it were summer, not spring. She tied off the bandage with fumbling fingers, her mind seeking a way to fill the awkward silence.
“I—I have also heard that you and your brothers once protected French women from ravishment by British soldiers and saved the life of a priest. Is this true?”
“Aye, lass. MacKinnon’s Rangers dinnae take scalps, nor do we suffer any to harm servants of the Church or to make war upon women and children.”
All of her confusion and embarrassment came together in a pique of temper. “Then why did you and your men leave the women and children of Oganak to starve and freeze to death?”
His brow bent in a frown, but the look in his eyes was more akin to sadness than anger. “Do you ken what we found at Oganak, Miss Chauvenet? More than six hundred scalps—some of women, aye, and wee children, too.”
Amalie
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