exciting news, Amalie glanced up and felt some of her anger abate at the look of satisfaction on Lieutenant Rillieux’s face. She knew how much this meant to him. “Oh, Lieutenant! You must be so pleased.”
“I knew you would be happy for me.” He smiled. “It is an honor I have long sought and one I deserve, if I might be so bold. I accomplished something many believed could not be done—I captured one of the MacKinnon brothers. I shouldn’t be surprised if dispatches bearing this news make their way to Paris and my name is read before le Bien-Aimé .”
Amalie thought it unlikely that the king’s ministers would trouble His Majesty with news from New France, but she didn’t say so. She finished dabbing on the poultice and began to bind the prisoner’s wound once more while Lieutenant Rillieux boasted at length about the night the Ranger was captured and how Bourlamaque never could have accomplished such a deed himself and how Bourlamaque knew this and even now treated him with a new regard, the stolen case of wine forgiven, if not forgotten.
“With this change in my fortunes, I feel emboldened to say that it is time you reconsidered my offer. It is no small honor to be the wife of a captain.” And with that, his rambling ceased.
Amalie tied off the bandage, drew the blankets over the prisoner’s leg, then stood, searching for words that would spare Lieutenant Rillieux’s feelings but finding none. “You flatter me with your attentions, monsieur, but I cannot marry you. Even if I were wholly resolved not to return to the convent and take vows, I know you and I would not—”
“You speak with such conviction.” Lieutenant Rillieux looked down at her as if she’d just said something absurd, his face a blend of insult and amusement. “But how can you be certain? You’re a virgin and were raised in a convent. You know nothing of men or marriage.”
She lifted her chin, met his gaze, no longer bothering to hide her anger. “I know my own mind, monsieur.”
He stepped back from her, a mocking look in his eyes. “As much as I admired your father, he has done you a terrible disservice by encouraging such willfulness. If he had not insisted that Bourlamaque allow you freedom to choose your own path, you would already be my wife. You were not meant for the convent, Amalie.”
With that, he turned and was gone.
Fort Edward
On the Hudson River
His Majesty’s Colony of New York
L ord William Wentworth took in the news, caught off his guard by the surge of distress that washed through him. He studied the pieces on his chessboard without truly seeing them, struggling to keep his face impassive. Beside him, Lieutenant Cooke found the words to say what he, lacking his voice, could not.
“I am deeply grieved to hear of your loss, Captain. Major MacKinnon was a skilled marksman and leader. I…I admired him.”
Given the undying animosity that lay between the Rangers and His Majesty’s Regulars, Cooke’s confession was unusual, if not unexpected. Most British Regulars viewed the Rangers as nothing more than uncouth colonials, barbarians without the disposition necessary for the military arts. But the Rangers had saved Cooke’s life at Ticonderoga last summer, their skill clearly having won his respect.
William cleared his throat. “Start at the beginning, Captain. And go slowly this time.”
Captain Connor MacKinnon, the youngest of the three MacKinnon brothers and the most unpredictable, closed his eyes, drew a breath, and began again.
The Rangers, together with Captain Joseph’s Stockbridge warriors, had watched from Rattlesnake Mountain as the French had unloaded powder casks from a small ship. They’d waited until nightfall, then moved in under cover of darkness to blow up the casks and burn the ship—only to find themselves ambushed. One of the Rangers had been wounded, and unwilling to abandon him, Major MacKinnon had braved French musket balls and borne the wounded man out on his
“I knew you would be happy for me.” He smiled. “It is an honor I have long sought and one I deserve, if I might be so bold. I accomplished something many believed could not be done—I captured one of the MacKinnon brothers. I shouldn’t be surprised if dispatches bearing this news make their way to Paris and my name is read before le Bien-Aimé .”
Amalie thought it unlikely that the king’s ministers would trouble His Majesty with news from New France, but she didn’t say so. She finished dabbing on the poultice and began to bind the prisoner’s wound once more while Lieutenant Rillieux boasted at length about the night the Ranger was captured and how Bourlamaque never could have accomplished such a deed himself and how Bourlamaque knew this and even now treated him with a new regard, the stolen case of wine forgiven, if not forgotten.
“With this change in my fortunes, I feel emboldened to say that it is time you reconsidered my offer. It is no small honor to be the wife of a captain.” And with that, his rambling ceased.
Amalie tied off the bandage, drew the blankets over the prisoner’s leg, then stood, searching for words that would spare Lieutenant Rillieux’s feelings but finding none. “You flatter me with your attentions, monsieur, but I cannot marry you. Even if I were wholly resolved not to return to the convent and take vows, I know you and I would not—”
“You speak with such conviction.” Lieutenant Rillieux looked down at her as if she’d just said something absurd, his face a blend of insult and amusement. “But how can you be certain? You’re a virgin and were raised in a convent. You know nothing of men or marriage.”
She lifted her chin, met his gaze, no longer bothering to hide her anger. “I know my own mind, monsieur.”
He stepped back from her, a mocking look in his eyes. “As much as I admired your father, he has done you a terrible disservice by encouraging such willfulness. If he had not insisted that Bourlamaque allow you freedom to choose your own path, you would already be my wife. You were not meant for the convent, Amalie.”
With that, he turned and was gone.
Fort Edward
On the Hudson River
His Majesty’s Colony of New York
L ord William Wentworth took in the news, caught off his guard by the surge of distress that washed through him. He studied the pieces on his chessboard without truly seeing them, struggling to keep his face impassive. Beside him, Lieutenant Cooke found the words to say what he, lacking his voice, could not.
“I am deeply grieved to hear of your loss, Captain. Major MacKinnon was a skilled marksman and leader. I…I admired him.”
Given the undying animosity that lay between the Rangers and His Majesty’s Regulars, Cooke’s confession was unusual, if not unexpected. Most British Regulars viewed the Rangers as nothing more than uncouth colonials, barbarians without the disposition necessary for the military arts. But the Rangers had saved Cooke’s life at Ticonderoga last summer, their skill clearly having won his respect.
William cleared his throat. “Start at the beginning, Captain. And go slowly this time.”
Captain Connor MacKinnon, the youngest of the three MacKinnon brothers and the most unpredictable, closed his eyes, drew a breath, and began again.
The Rangers, together with Captain Joseph’s Stockbridge warriors, had watched from Rattlesnake Mountain as the French had unloaded powder casks from a small ship. They’d waited until nightfall, then moved in under cover of darkness to blow up the casks and burn the ship—only to find themselves ambushed. One of the Rangers had been wounded, and unwilling to abandon him, Major MacKinnon had braved French musket balls and borne the wounded man out on his
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