Indian blood in contempt.”
“Some do, aye, and they’re bloody fools for it. But as I think you ken, lass, I am no’ an Englishman.”
“No, you are not.” Her delicate brow bent in a frown, and she seemed to hesitate. “I do not understand why a Catholic Scot would fight against French Catholics on behalf of the German Protestant who has slain so many of his kin. Have not the French long been friends and allies to the Scottish? Even now France shelters the true heir to Scotland’s throne. Why do you kill for them?”
How many nights had Morgan lain awake trying to answer that question for himself? “ ’Tis a long tale, lass, a tale you wouldna believe if I—”
From the room beyond came shouts and the moans of a man in pain, and the door was thrown open wide.
One of the surgeon’s lads appeared. “Mademoiselle, venez vite! Un soldat s’est tiré dans le pied et on a besoin de votre aide!” Mademoiselle come quickly! A soldier has shot himself in the foot, and we need your help!
And in a swish of skirts, she hurried away, leaving Morgan with a mouthful of unspoken words.
A malie felt her stomach turn, tried to keep the disgust and shock she felt from showing on her face. “So it is true?”
Bourlamaque gazed at her from across his writing table and smiled indulgently. “ Oui, ma petite, it is one of many terrible truths of this war. The British pay for scalps, and so upon occasion must we. We prefer to take live prisoners and trade them for the safe return of our own officers and partisans, but our allies have their own customs and traditions.”
“Can we not prevail upon them to change, even as they accept our faith?”
He shook his head. “We need them, Amalie. We cannot now in the midst of war curb their hostility. Innocents are slain on both sides. It is the regrettable consequence of war.”
“The consequence of war?” The words seemed so heartless, so terribly cold. “Forgive me, monsieur, but MacKinnon’s Rangers do not take scalps. They do not slay women and children. Surely, our soldiers and allies can learn to do—”
“We will do what we must to prevail, Amalie.” Bourlamaque gave a sigh, his patience with her clearly stretched. “Remember, we did not start this war. We merely fight to finish it. Did the prisoner have anything else to say?”
“ Oui, monsieur . He guessed that my mother was Abenaki and said not all amongst the British loathe Indians or those with Indian blood. He reminded me that he is not English, and when I asked him why he fought for them, he said it was a long tale.”
“Very well. If there is nothing else, you may go.”
No man has the right to treat you thus. You should report him to Bourlamaque.
Knowing Bourlamaque was already vexed with her, Amalie hesitated. “I feel I must tell you, monsieur, that Lieutenant Rillieux…forced a kiss upon me yesterday in—”
“He confessed the misdeed to me this morning and seemed quite contrite.” Bourlamaque stood, walked round the writing table, and took her hand, urging her to her feet, a sign that her time with him had come to an end. “You must understand that your refusal to consider his offer of marriage has left him frustrated. He is a man, Amalie, and men have certain needs. If only you would…Ah, but I can see from your face that you feel nothing for him. A pity. But stealing a kiss is not so great a transgression. In fact, many young women enjoy a stolen kiss now and again. Now, go and dress for dinner.”
Enjoy? How could any woman enjoy that? Amalie certainly had not. If that’s what it was like to kiss a man, then Sister Marie Louise had spoken truly when she’d warned Amalie that life with a husband was misery.
“Bien, monsieur.” Feeling as though she’d just been admonished, Amalie curtsied, then made her way upstairs to her room, where she sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection in the looking glass.
How could she look the same when her whole world had just
“Some do, aye, and they’re bloody fools for it. But as I think you ken, lass, I am no’ an Englishman.”
“No, you are not.” Her delicate brow bent in a frown, and she seemed to hesitate. “I do not understand why a Catholic Scot would fight against French Catholics on behalf of the German Protestant who has slain so many of his kin. Have not the French long been friends and allies to the Scottish? Even now France shelters the true heir to Scotland’s throne. Why do you kill for them?”
How many nights had Morgan lain awake trying to answer that question for himself? “ ’Tis a long tale, lass, a tale you wouldna believe if I—”
From the room beyond came shouts and the moans of a man in pain, and the door was thrown open wide.
One of the surgeon’s lads appeared. “Mademoiselle, venez vite! Un soldat s’est tiré dans le pied et on a besoin de votre aide!” Mademoiselle come quickly! A soldier has shot himself in the foot, and we need your help!
And in a swish of skirts, she hurried away, leaving Morgan with a mouthful of unspoken words.
A malie felt her stomach turn, tried to keep the disgust and shock she felt from showing on her face. “So it is true?”
Bourlamaque gazed at her from across his writing table and smiled indulgently. “ Oui, ma petite, it is one of many terrible truths of this war. The British pay for scalps, and so upon occasion must we. We prefer to take live prisoners and trade them for the safe return of our own officers and partisans, but our allies have their own customs and traditions.”
“Can we not prevail upon them to change, even as they accept our faith?”
He shook his head. “We need them, Amalie. We cannot now in the midst of war curb their hostility. Innocents are slain on both sides. It is the regrettable consequence of war.”
“The consequence of war?” The words seemed so heartless, so terribly cold. “Forgive me, monsieur, but MacKinnon’s Rangers do not take scalps. They do not slay women and children. Surely, our soldiers and allies can learn to do—”
“We will do what we must to prevail, Amalie.” Bourlamaque gave a sigh, his patience with her clearly stretched. “Remember, we did not start this war. We merely fight to finish it. Did the prisoner have anything else to say?”
“ Oui, monsieur . He guessed that my mother was Abenaki and said not all amongst the British loathe Indians or those with Indian blood. He reminded me that he is not English, and when I asked him why he fought for them, he said it was a long tale.”
“Very well. If there is nothing else, you may go.”
No man has the right to treat you thus. You should report him to Bourlamaque.
Knowing Bourlamaque was already vexed with her, Amalie hesitated. “I feel I must tell you, monsieur, that Lieutenant Rillieux…forced a kiss upon me yesterday in—”
“He confessed the misdeed to me this morning and seemed quite contrite.” Bourlamaque stood, walked round the writing table, and took her hand, urging her to her feet, a sign that her time with him had come to an end. “You must understand that your refusal to consider his offer of marriage has left him frustrated. He is a man, Amalie, and men have certain needs. If only you would…Ah, but I can see from your face that you feel nothing for him. A pity. But stealing a kiss is not so great a transgression. In fact, many young women enjoy a stolen kiss now and again. Now, go and dress for dinner.”
Enjoy? How could any woman enjoy that? Amalie certainly had not. If that’s what it was like to kiss a man, then Sister Marie Louise had spoken truly when she’d warned Amalie that life with a husband was misery.
“Bien, monsieur.” Feeling as though she’d just been admonished, Amalie curtsied, then made her way upstairs to her room, where she sat at her dressing table and stared at her reflection in the looking glass.
How could she look the same when her whole world had just
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