4
" Miss Chauvenet." Morgan willed himself to speak his tongue near to tied.
He was unable to take his gaze from her. She looked as fresh as springtime, her dark hair hanging in a braid beyond her hips, her eyes wide with surprise. Then her gaze moved over him, and he knew a moment of utter mortification.
She's thinkin' you look like a peacock, laddie.
With lace cuffs, silk stockings and drawers, and shoes with shiny brass buckles, he did look like a bloody peacock or, worse, like somoene that whoreson Wentworth would invite to his supper table.
-Morgan "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
5
" He’d given her all the love he could give tonight without taking her maidenhead, undressing her, carrying her to his bed, kissing away her tears, caressing her, bringing her to her peak with his hands again and again, until she lay, weak and utterly spent, in his arms. Then he’d held her through the watches of the night, wishing dawn would never come.
“Tha moran ghradh agam ort, dh’Amaliedh,” he whispered. My love lies upon you, Amalie.
He lifted the rosary from around his neck and placed the wooden beads in her palm. Then he took the tartan sash from his French uniform and draped it across the pillow beside her, branding her with Clan MacKinnon’s colors. Would she know what that meant? "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
6
" Morgan glanced over his shoulder to where Dougie walked behind him. “Dougie, you’re lookin’ a bit worn. Are you needin’ to stop and, um, rest a bit?”
Dougie looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Rest? Are you daft?”
Morgan glared at him and gave a jerk of his head toward Amalie, who struggled on determinedly before him.
Dougie winked. “Och, aye, I am a bit weary.”
In no time, word had gotten up and down the line that Amalie needed to rest but was being too stubborn to admit it. And suddenly Morgan was besieged with whispered pleas to stop, his men whining of sore feet, headaches, and aching backs.
Then Connor appeared at his side, looking fashed.
“What in God’s name has come over the men? They’re complainin’ like old wom— "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
9
" Did his brothers and the men now believe him dead? Would they blame themselves?
Aye, they would. Iain would curse himself for giving up his command and seeking a new life with Annie. Connor would hate himself, believing that he’d left Morgan to die when he ought to have saved him. Joseph would wonder why he hadn’t foreseen Morgan’s death in a dream. Even the men would blame themselves, Dougie most of all, for ‘twas he whose life Morgan had stayed behind to save.
Och, the bletherin’ idiots!
What they ought to do is get good and bloody drunk! They should play the pipes, curse the English in his name, and send him off to hell with a bit of mayhem, giving Wentworth a bad night’s sleep. That would be a fitting farewell. "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
10
" So the groom sips brandy long after his bride has gone to bed.” Rillieux stepped forward through the throng impeccably dressed, every button on his uniform polished to a shine, a grin on his face. “If she were my wife, I’d long since have joined her.”
There were shouts of agreement, laughter.
Morgan met Rillieux’s gaze, smiled. “A man should ne’er rush a woman when it comes to passion.”
Rillieux’s smile broadened. “Or perhaps you fear you cannot rise to the occasion.”
Laughter turned to guffaws as the humor became more ribald.
Morgan chuckled. “You Frenchmen fight wi’ wee sabers, aye? We Highland Scots carry broadswords. They ne’er fail us.”
More guffaws and a shout or two of protest.
Some of the amusement faded from Rillieux’s face, his eyes betraying the hatred he’d been trying to mask. “We French are renowned the world over as lovers, while you Scots”--he spat the word—“are known for your dourness.”
There was no laughter now, only silence.
“Is that so?” Morgan tossed back the rest of his brandy, set the crystal snifter aside. “Then remember this—in a fort full of Frenchmen, the lass chose a Scot. "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
11
" Then Dougie elbowed his way to the fireside. “You risked your own fool neck to save mine, Morgan. If no’ for you, I’d be dead or rottin’ on a prison barge. I owe you my life, and I’ll ne’er forget it. When I heard you might be alive, I . . .”
The big man’s voice quavered, and his words died away.
Morgan felt an answering tightness in his chest. “’Tis glad I am to see you wi’ two strong legs, Dougie.”
“Sing it for him, Dougie!”
“Aye, sing it!”
“Sing him ‘The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’!”
Morgan looked at Connor, then up at Dougie again. “’The Ballad of Morgan MacKinnon’? You wrote a song about me?”
Dougie looked chagrined. “Aye.”
“A passin’ fair tune it is.” Connor grinned. “He sang it and played his fiddle at your wake.”
Then Dougie started to sing, his words telling of the night strike on the pier at Ticonderoga and how Morgan had braved a hail of lead balls to carry a wounded friend to safety before dying a hero’s death.
“ ‘Tis far tae Ticonderoga, ‘tis far through forest and fen, but ‘tis there you’ll find Morgan MacKinnon, bidin’ untae the end.’ ”
His voice cracking with emotion, Dougie sang the last notes, then cleared his throat. “It sounds better wi’ my fiddle.”
Morgan found it hard to speak. “I am honored more than I can say. Thank you, Dougie. But I recall it a bit differently. I told you that you stank, and you called me daft and told me I ran like a lass.”
Dougie kicked at the dirt, regret on his face. “I didna mean it.”
Morgan grinned. “I did. "
― Pamela Clare , Untamed (MacKinnon's Rangers, #2)
