Untamed by Pamela Clare

come, mademoiselle. It is better he be prepared, non ?”
    He spoke in English, his gaze shifting to the Ranger, who glared up at him, sweat beaded on his brow, a dark bruise spreading on his right cheek.
    The Ranger’s voice was a growl. “Do your worst, you neach dìolain !”
    Outraged, Amalie answered Lieutenant Rillieux in French. “You go too far! Did you not understand Monsieur Lambert’s orders that the prisoner was not to be abused?”
    Lieutenant Rillieux took a step toward her, his smile gone. “You forget your place, mademoiselle. I do not answer to Monsieur Lambert, nor do I answer to you.”
    But Amalie refused to let him intimidate her, no matter that the look on his face frightened her. “In the hospital, Lieutenant, Monsieur Lambert’s word is to be obeyed. It is cruel and cowardly to strike an injured—”
    “You are in a fort in the midst of war, little Amalie, not in your convent.” Lieutenant Rillieux sneered. “Here, military concerns prevail, not the frail sentiments of women.”
    Fisting a hand in her hair, he ducked down and pressed his lips hard against hers, the contact painful and frightening—and mercifully brief.
    Amalie was so shocked that it did not occur to her to push away until after he’d released her and walked out the door. She drew a trembling hand to her mouth and tried to wipe his taste away.
    M organ watched the poor lass wipe the violence of that bastard’s kiss off her lips and wished to God he had the strength to break iron. There’d be one less Frenchman walking the earth if he could. “Did he harm you, miss?”
    She whirled about with a gasp, her fingers still pressed against her lips, her eyes wide. For a moment she simply stared at him, and Morgan found himself wondering if he’d slipped and spoken French to her.
    Have a care, MacKinnon.
    He’d understood every word of their conversation, of course, and it had only served to inflame his rage. The lass was an innocent, raised in a convent, and she’d been trying to protect him—only to suffer ridicule and ill use. Morgan would have liked to have kicked the bastard’s teeth down his throat for touching her, then tossed him on his arse for insulting women. Morgan knew a great many women, and few of them were frail-minded. Had the planning of this war been in the hands of his Muhheconneok grannies, it would likely have been won by now. But he could not let on that he’d understood lest he lose the only advantage he had—listening in on their conversations.
    At last Miss Chauvenet shook her head. “He merely startled me.”
    Morgan’s blood still boiled. “No man has the right to treat you thus. You should report him to Bourlamaque.”
    Spots of pink appeared in her cheeks, and he realized she was ashamed that he had witnessed her humiliation. “Lieutenant Rillieux is a…good officer. I have wounded him. H-he wishes me to be his wife, but I…I have no interest in marriage.”
    And then Morgan had to ask. “Are you pledged to the Church?”
    She bowed her head. “Were it not for this war, I should most likely have returned to the abbey at Trois Rivières by now.”
    At once Morgan felt both a sense of loss that so beautiful a woman should spend her grace on the Church and a strange surge of relief to know that no man would ever have her. “I am sorry.”
    She raised her head, met his gaze—then frowned. “Let me tend your face.”
    “Is it so bad, then?”
    She did not answer but hurried to the bedside table, poured water from the pitcher into a wooden bowl, and dipped a clean cloth into it, a look of concern on her face. “He struck you. You are shackled and injured, and he struck you.”
    “Dinnae fret, lass. I wager I’ll suffer worse ere I leave this place.”
    Abruptly, she stilled, the sodden cloth in her hands dripping water into the bowl. Then she seemed to catch herself. She squeezed the cloth out, but her motions were wooden, her face giving play to her distress.
    So, the thought that he