Untamed by Pamela Clare Page B

her chin, fighting to ignore the way his smile touched her. “But I fear I have not succeeded as I should have liked.”
    He chuckled, a warm, deep sound. “Dinnae judge yourself too harshly. I’d wager there is little hatred in you, and ’tis hard to loathe an enemy you have helped to heal.”
    She looked into his eyes and wondered how he saw through her so clearly. “ Oui, Major MacKinnon, I forgive you. May God rest my father’s soul.”
    And a weight she hadn’t known she was carrying lifted off her shoulders.
    L ord William fingered the bloodstained bit of old plaid, then glanced down at the parchment once more, some part of him unable to believe the words he read. He’d watched the MacKinnon brothers cheat death so many times that he’d come to take their survival for granted. He’d fed the legend surrounding them, whispering a discreet word in the right social circles, quietly encouraging the papers to write about the brothers’ exploits, exhibiting their skills to visiting commanders. When Lieutenant Cooke had questioned his actions, he’d explained that he hoped to help the British army drum up new Ranger recruits. Young colonials would admire the MacKinnon men and seek to be like them, he’d reasoned.
    But in truth, the MacKinnon brothers were the finest fighting men he’d ever seen. Headstrong Highland Gaels, robust and well favored, they’d been exiled from Scotland as boys and had grown up on the frontier, living amongst the Mahican Indians, whom they counted as kin. They knew the land like few others, and there were no better marksmen in the world. William had seen them strike impossible marks, reloading on their backs when occasion demanded it, and firing with a speed that few men could match.
    What a pity that something so small as a routine scouting mission should claim Morgan MacKinnon’s life.
    He heard a clamor outside his private study—shouts, curses, a string of Gaelic oaths—and had just tucked the plaid in his pocket when his doors were thrown wide and Iain MacKinnon strode in together with Captain MacKinnon and Captain Joseph, a red-faced Lieutenant Cooke struggling to keep pace behind them.
    “My lord, the MacKinnon brothers are here,” Lieutenant Cooke stammered.
    “So I see. You are dismissed, Lieutenant—and close the doors behind you.”
    “Aye, my lord.” Cooke gave a little bow and was gone.
    “Your Immensity.” Iain MacKinnon, the eldest of the three MacKinnon men, had never been one to waste time on pleasantries. “What word have you of Morgan? I would hear it now.”
    Had the MacKinnon brothers and their men not been so skilled at war and woodcraft, their treasonous insults and unceasing hatred of William and his royal grandfather might have earned them a berth on a prison barge. Most of the time, however, William found their disrespect a refreshing respite from the fawning and flattery that came with being the son of a royal princess. No one had dared call him a “wee German princeling” before he’d met the MacKinnon brothers. But there was no diversion in their behavior for him tonight.
    He held out the parchment and watched as Iain read through it. The missive had arrived late this afternoon, borne by a French messenger carrying a flag of truce. It stated that, despite the care of Bourlamaque’s personal surgeon, Major Morgan MacKinnon had died of his injuries and that his body had been claimed by the Abenaki.
    The color drained from the eldest MacKinnon’s face. “Och, Christ! Sweet Jesus, nay!”
    Captain MacKinnon snatched the parchment from his brother’s hand, his gaze searching over the page. Then he dropped the letter, sank into a chair, and buried his unshaven face in his hands. “Oh, Mary, Mother of God! Forgi’e me, Morgan!”
    Captain Joseph glared at William through dark eyes, then bent down and spoke softly to Captain MacKinnon in his heathen tongue.
    “So Morgan…My brother…is dead?” Iain MacKinnon met William’s gaze, an