A Hint of Rapture (22 page)

"What are ye reading?" she asked, her soft,
melodic voice lulling his anxious thoughts.

Garrett held up the small, feather-bound book. "
As You Like It
, by William
Shakespeare." He glanced over at the narrow bookcase, lined with
well-dusted volumes. "You have quite a nice collection of his works. I'm
glad they survived the soldiers who came here in May."

"Aye," she said simply, quickly skipping over
the disagreeable topic. "My mother was very fond of Shakespeare. She and
my father would travel as far away as Edinburgh to see one of his plays, though
I've not seen any yet." She smiled wistfully. "I would love to see
As You Like It
performed on the stage.
'Tis my favorite comedy."

"Mine also," Garrett said with a wry note in
his voice. "That's why I picked it out. I thought a comedy might ease my
mind."

As the smile faded from Madeleine's lips, he felt like
kicking himself. It was a wondrous thing when she smiled, and talking to her like
this was a rare gift. He decided it was worth it to avoid any mention of Black
Jack, just to see her smile again.

He would just have to find the cursed outlaw on his
own, he thought resolutely. Right now, he just wanted to concentrate on
Madeleine, to sit with her and savor her enjoyable company.

"Tell me what you like best about the play,"
he asked, encouraged when he saw her expression brighten.

"Och, so many things, really," she began,
" 'Tis a love story. She hesitated, her pretty blush eliciting a surge of
warmth in Garrett. "But most of all, I like the character of Rosalind. She
knows her own mind, and she's not afraid to speak it."

Garrett chuckled as he thumbed through the book,
looking for a certain passage. He found it and began to read, his voice soft
and resonant: " 'From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind.
Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind. All
the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalind. Let no face be kept in
mind, But the fair of Madeleine."

"Ye mean Rosalind," Madeleine corrected,
smiling self-consciously.

"Ah, so I do," Garrett said softly, studying
her intently. "Rosalind." When she turned and gazed into the fire, he
quickly found another page, sensing he had embarrassed her. "Here's a line
of fair Rosalind's wit. I've always pitied poor Orlando when he swears he will
die of love if he cannot have her, and she tartly answers: 'Men have died from
time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.'" He feigned a
woeful sigh. "Such feminine cruelty."

" 'Tisn't cruelty," she responded with a
small laugh, glancing back at him, "but sheer common sense. Orlando is so
besotted he's become absurd in his praise. Rosalind is merely saying if he
canna have her, he would find another reason to live."

"I don't know, Madeleine," Garrett countered,
staring at her thoughtfully. "If I loved as deeply as Orlando, I would
find it difficult to agree with your argument."

Distracted by the intensity of his gaze, Madeleine
shifted in her seat, then suddenly stood up. "The fire is very warm,"
she muttered, proceeding to shove the armchair away from the hearth.

"Let me help you," Garrett offered. He rose
and lifted the chair easily, setting it back a few feet. "How's
that?"

"That's fine, thank ye," she said, sitting
down. She watched him as he pushed his chair a bit closer to hers, thinking how
beautiful his hair was in the firelight. Not fully blond nor brown, but a
golden shade in between. She wondered what its texture might feel like if she were
to run her fingers through it . . .

"I'll tell you what I like about this
comedy," he said, his voice breaking into her errant thoughts.
"Rosalind disguising herself a man." He laughed, a rich, rumbling
sound. "What an intriguing double identity. She can make fun of love and
yet be a lover."

Madeleine nearly choked. Was he baiting her? she
wondered, looking at him sharply. His open smile revealed no trickery, but it
did not still her thundering heart. She quickly sought to change the disturbing
subject.

"Do you have other favorites among Shakespeare's
plays?" she asked lightly.

"
A Midsummer
Night's Dream
and
The Tempest
,"
he replied. "And you?"

"Aye,
The
Tempest
is a fine play," Madeleine agreed in a rush, "but I've
always liked
Romeo and Juliet
the best."
The minute she said it, she wished she hadn't. The way he was looking at her
made her feel quite dizzy.

"Then you are a true romantic at heart,"
Garrett said softly. "Not a pragmatist, like Rosalind." He leaned
forward in his chair. "Tell me more about yourself, Maddie."

Garrett's use of her nickname did not unnerve her as
much as his unexpected request. She had the feeling she'd revealed quite enough
about herself for one night. She rose abruptly, her gaze shifting from him to
the yawning archway, her means of escape, and back again.

"Ye must be tired, Garrett," she began
somewhat lamely.

"Not at all."

"I mean it's been a very long day. Perhaps we can
talk again—"

"Tomorrow night, then," he replied easily.
"I'm looking forward to it already." He stood and gallantly took her
arm, smiling at her. "Allow me to escort you."

Before she could think to refuse him, they were walking
together from the drawing room and up the main stairs. She caught a glimpse of
the guard staring after them, and she flushed to her toes. Between his bemused
expression and the tingling pressure of Garrett's hand on her arm, she felt as
if she were in a daze. Before she knew it they had reached her door, and
Garrett had opened it for her.

"Your charming company has been most appreciated,"
he said huskily, standing so close to her that she could sense the heat
emanating from his powerful body. "Good night, sweet Madeleine." He
bent and lightly kissed her cheek, then he turned and strode down the hall to
his room, disappearing inside.

Madeleine stood there a long moment, not quite sure
what had just transpired between them, or how she felt about it. Bewildered,
she closed the door and leaned on it, caressing her cheek. Her skin seemed to
burn where he had kissed her.

"Good night, Garrett," she whispered in the
dark.

***

One evening a week later, Madeleine sat on the edge of
her bed, staring out the window as the mountains towering behind Mhor Manor
became stark silhouettes in the gathering dusk.

"So much for taking a nap," she muttered resignedly.
She could have used it. Tonight she planned another raid, her fifth since
Garrett had told her about Hawley. Only a few more and the cave would be full.

She struck a flint and lit the thick candles on her
bedside table. Once again, her restless thoughts had not allowed her to sleep.
Never would she have imagined the perplexing double life she had come to lead.
It was like an intricate web spun with the finest gossamer, easily torn by one
misplaced emotion.

The past week had flown by in a blur. During the day
she had seen little of Garrett as they went their separate ways, he and his men
to search the valley and question villagers, while she either rested after a
raid or planned the next one with her kinsmen. Those were the times when it was
easy to keep her emotions firmly in check and her mission clearly before her.

It was in the evenings that her emotions ran rampant,
making her forget all else but the pleasure she found in Garrett's company. She
did not know at what point her conscious decision to seek him out had
transformed itself into an inexplicable desire to be with him, but it had
happened.

She was drawn to him despite herself, and despite the
nagging voice which forever warned her she was acting like a fool. Knowing the
dark days which lay ahead of her, perhaps she craved some happiness, and she
found it with Garrett.

The light conversations they shared—discussing music,
art, and literature, funny childhood stories, even hunting—somehow lessened the
chilling fear she always carried with her. Thankfully he had made no mention of
Black Jack, or of Hawley's threat; she surmised he needed some respite, too,
from the troubles which weighed heavily on his mind. The delight she had found
in his wit and intelligence, his humor, and his warm laughter made it easy to
forget she would soon become his prisoner, destined to be executed for high
treason.

"Och, dinna think of what's to come or ye'll
surely go mad," Madeleine whispered under her breath, shuddering as she
forced the bleak picture from her mind. She walked to the window and drew aside
the curtain, her breath fogging the cool glass. She traced a name upon the
pane. Garrett.

She sighed with longing. He was waiting for her in the
drawing room. She could sense it. She had agreed to meet him downstairs by
seven o'clock and have supper him. She glanced at the clock on the mantel. It
was as a quarter past. Perhaps he had already realized she wasn't coming. She
would simply have to tell him tomorrow she had changed her mind.

She could not go to him. She wanted to, badly, but she
could no longer allow herself to share his company. Not tonight, and not
tomorrow night, if she hoped to fight the forbidden desire growing ever
stronger within her.

Aye, she knew now that the strange yearning that had
plagued her was a desire which would surely make her a traitor to her people if
she gave it free rein.

When she was around Garrett, nothing made sense
anymore. It was so easy to forget that she was an outlaw and to forget why she
had become one, to forget the raids and her waiting kinsmen. She forgot Garrett
was an Englishman, a redcoat, and therefore her sworn enemy. And that she could
not afford to do. She needed a clear mind to continue her raids and to face
what lay ahead.

"No more, Maddie," she murmured to her reflection
in the glass. "Ye canna fail yer people. They need yer full attention, now
more than ever before."

Tonight there would be no lighthearted discourse with
Garrett, no shared laughter, and no conflicting emotions as he walked her
upstairs. She would stay in her room until it was time to sneak out through the
tunnel. By then, she hoped, he would have retired for the night. She would
simply have to find some other way to pass the time.

Madeleine's gaze swept her chamber, awash in soft
candlelight, and settled on her open wardrobe. She caught an enticing glimmer
of sapphire-blue satin and knew exactly how she would while away the hours. She
would try on her mother's gowns for one last time. It was a girlish fancy,
perhaps, but she did not know when, or if, she might have another chance.

She crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out the blue
satin gown with its silver brocade bodice and underskirt, then ran to her bed.
She was overcome with nostalgia as she changed, her troubled emotions forgotten
for the moment. The fabric glided like cool water over her skin and pooled at
her bare feet.

It had been such a long time since she had tried on
this beautiful gown. Her fingers trembled as she pinned the bodice to her
chemise, knowing it would not look quite right without stays but not caring.
She hadn't worn a corset since that afternoon at the loch.

The memory of Garrett's kiss came flooding back to her
as if it had happened that very day, and her wretched torment began anew. She
tentatively touched her lips, feeling again the blazing heat of his mouth upon
hers.

She had found herself thinking of that moment many
times over this past week, especially in Garrett's presence. He seemed to
elicit the wildest imaginings in her—

"No more," she warned herself unconvincingly,
crossing to the full-length mirror. As she stared at her shimmering reflection,
she tried to shrug off the vivid memory, but the unsettling sensations stayed
with her, taunting her.

Would Garrett find her lovely in this gown? she
wondered, shivering with excitement. She trailed a finger along the low-cut
bodice and up the lush curve of her breast, sighing softly.

She turned, her satin skirt rustling and swaying, and
stood in profile. Her hands strayed to her white throat. She lifted up her
hair, envisioning a more sophisticated style, then she let it tumble down her
back in a riot of tangled chestnut curls.

She closed her eyes, her hand sliding slowly down her
body from her neck to her curved hip. An image of Garrett leaped into her mind,
and she sighed again. He was dripping wet, naked and his strong hands were
caressing her own wet skin . . .

"I far prefer your hair down, Madeleine, wild and
unfettered. Like you."

Madeleine's eyes flew open and she whirled on her
intruder, mortified that he had seen her . . . God's wounds, she had never felt
so embarrassed!

"Garrett! How—how long have ye been standing
there?"

"Not long," he said quietly, stepping inside
the room. "Forgive me for startling you, Madeleine. When you didn't meet
me in the drawing room, I decided to come and find you. I knocked, hearing your
footsteps, and opened the door slightly." He paused, his eyes raking her
from head to foot. "I see you've dressed for dinner."

Madeleine moved away from the mirror, flustered by the
way his gaze was fixed upon her, as if he would devour her whole. She shivered
at the thought, struggling to maintain what little was left of her composure.

"Garrett, ye really must leave. I canna sup with
ye tonight."

"No?" he asked, drawing closer to her.
"Then why the gown? It is a most becoming one, I might add."

" 'Twas my mother's," Madeleine blurted,
becoming increasingly unnerved by his presence. "I wanted to try it on,
that's all."

"It fits you perfectly, Madeleine," he said
appreciatively. His gaze wandered to her breasts, which thrust against the
neckline. "Perfectly." He met her eyes, his expression growing
serious. "Why won't you dine with me?"