Untamed by Pamela Clare Read Free Book Online

chest.
    Fàilte dhuit, a Mhuire, a tha làn de ghràsa…
    Hail Mary, full of grace…
    But even as his mind sought for the sacred words, pain swamped him and sent him hurtling into forgetfulness.
    A malie looked down at the unconscious prisoner and tried her best to hate him.
    He and his men had killed Papa and hundreds more—nine this past night alone. A dozen soldiers lay battered and bleeding just beyond this room because of them. They’d slain dozens of Abenaki men, leaving women, children, and elders to starve. They’d turned the forest around Lac Saint-Sacrement into a trail of death, evading every trap laid for them.
    Until now.
    “The secrets this MacKinnon holds might be the key to winning this damnable war,” Bourlamaque had told her, looking more grave than she’d ever seen him. “This is your chance to avenge your father’s death, Amalie, to serve France as he did.”
    Is that what she wanted—to exact vengeance?
    If only she didn’t know what lay ahead for Major MacKinnon. Saving his life so that he might be kept prisoner and questioned was one thing. Saving his life so that he could suffer the prolonged agonies of fire was quite another. She would not wish that on anyone.
    It is not your choice, Amalie. It will not be your doing.
    The thought helped to assuage her conscience, but it did not ease the ache in her belly.
    She sat on a stool beside him and studied him, this warrior who had terrified so many.
    He did not look like chi bai, but a man—a desperately wounded man. Yet, he was no ordinary man. He was perhaps the biggest, most striking man she’d ever seen, not only tall, but broad of shoulder and quite handsome—in a rugged, wild sort of way. His hair was long, dark as a raven’s wing, and tangled from his thrashing, a plait at each temple. His skin was brown from the sun but smooth and unblemished. Long black lashes rested against high cheekbones, deep hollows making his cheeks seem even higher. His lips were unusually full, his jaw square and dark with several days’ growth of beard.
    They’d bound his ankles and wrists in iron shackles and chained them to the four legs of the little bed to hold him fast, still fearing his strength despite his wounds. And no wonder. His arms were easily three times the thickness of hers and muscular, his hands big enough to encircle a man’s throat. She had no doubt that he was capable of killing with those hands, that he had killed with those hands.
    She’d heard he’d been adopted by the Mahican, and she saw they’d made their mark upon him. Indigo-colored drawings had been etched into his skin from shoulder to wrist—geometric shapes, spirals, and a single bear claw on each shoulder. Leather cords beaded with wampum and strange amulets had been tied around his arms just above the bulge of his muscles, seeming to accentuate his raw strength. A leather cord with dark, wooden beads encircled his neck, disappearing beneath his blankets. Expecting to find some heathen symbol, she drew it forth—and gasped.
    A little wooden cross.
    It was not pagan adornment he wore, but a simple rosary of wood.
    She’d forgotten he was Catholic.
    The ache in her stomach grew.
    She reached out, hesitated, then felt his forehead. His skin was hot with the beginnings of a fever. He stirred at her touch, groaned, his dark brows bent with pain, his suffering drawing forth compassion she did not wish to feel for him.
    Brushing aside the unwelcome feeling, she reached for the little blue bottle of laudanum, uncorked it, and poured out a spoonful. Then, careful not to spill a drop of the precious potion, she eased the spoon between his lips and let the tincture trickle into his mouth. Instinctively, he swallowed. Then his eyes opened.
    Amalie stiffened, unnerved that he should wake so suddenly.
    He is shackled, silly girl! He cannot harm you!
    His gaze met hers, then a look of confusion spread on his face. For a moment he simply stared at her through glassy blue eyes—not