A Hint of Rapture (31 page)

The swirling fog had gathered so thickly here she could
see only a few feet in front of her. Even the full moon was almost obscured
from view, no more than a pale orb through the incandescent vapor. She wondered
if the road to Inverfarigaig was buried in mist and fleetingly prayed it was
not.

Madeleine began to walk in what she believed was the
right direction, allowing her instincts to guide her. She sensed it was near
midnight. She had left Mhor Manor as she usually did, at quarter to eleven.
Fortunately she hadn't encountered any obstacles that would have slowed her
progress.

She had easily slipped into the drawing room closet
while the guard in the main hallway was idly chatting with one of his
compatriots. The tunnel had offered no difficulty, other than the disgusting
spiders clinging to the dank walls. The trapdoor at the far end had been harder
to lift because of the water-soaked sod, but that had only taken her a few extra
moments. So far, this night had been like any other.

" 'Tisn't like any other," she whispered
vehemently. She stopped for a moment to get her bearings.

Why did she have the sensation that she was walking in
the wrong direction? she thought irritably. Damn this fog! The yew tree
couldn't be more than twenty feet away, yet at this rate she wouldn't find it
unless she stumbled headlong into its gnarled trunk.

A sudden noise startled her, and she whirled around,
unable to see through the dense fog. Her heart knocked against her chest and
her skin tingled with goosebumps.

She could have sworn it sounded like a groan, but it
had ended so abruptly she couldn't be sure. She turned in a slow circle,
listening, her eyes straining for any hulking shapes that might be her kinsmen.

A sharp whinny cut through the air. Madeleine nearly
jumped out of her muddy boots.

"Och, what's come over ye, Maddie?" she
chided herself nervously. It was only one of her kinsmen's horses. She took a
few steps in the direction she thought she had heard the whinny, then
hesitated.

Should she call out to them? she wondered anxiously.
She was wasting precious time blundering about like this in the fog. If she
didn't meet up with them soon, they would abandon the plan, thinking perhaps
she had decided against it for tonight.

Madeleine frowned, repelled by the thought. She had no
intention of agonizing and waiting through another entire day. She quickly made
up her mind.

"Angus, 'tis Maddie!" she hissed, cupping her
hand to her mouth. "Where are ye?"

A long silence followed, then she heard a faint
rustling somewhere off to her right. She tensed, holding her breath, then tried
again. "Ewen? Duncan? Answer me!"

"Aye, Maddie. Over here," a gruff male voice
responded this time, again to her right.

Relief poured through Madeleine's body, her legs
feeling strangely weak. She hurried in the direction from which the voice had
come, her boots making squishing noises in the soggy turf. She discerned the
faint outline of a tree looming overhead—the ancient yew!

Madeleine began to run, unaware of stealthy shapes
moving in behind her, following her. She was almost to the tree when she heard
a crackling sound, like a branch snapping in two, in back of her. She wheeled
around but found only twisting fog and shadow. She did not see the dark forms
pressed to the ground only five feet away from her, melding into the tufted
peat.

"A-Angus?" she stammered, stepping backward.
She had a creeping sensation that something was terribly wrong. Surely her
kinsmen would have been gathered by the tree, along with their horses. Where
could they possibly be—?

"Och!" she gasped, bumping into something
hard. She felt strong hands suddenly grip her shoulders, then spin her around
so roughly her head snapped back.

"An odd time of night for a stroll,
Madeleine," her captor said, "or should I say—Black Jack."

Madeleine's eyes widened, her scream dying in her
throat. "Garrett!" she exclaimed hoarsely, her mind reeling

He had called her Black Jack! she thought wildly.
Garrett knew she was Black Jack. He had said it with such certainty, such grim
conviction. But how?

"Aye, 'tis Garrett," he acknowledged,
imitating a gruff Scottish burr. "Not yer Angus, or Ewen, or Duncan, as ye
might have supposed, nor even yer two flame-haired Fraser kinsmen who put up
quite a fight, I can tell ye."

Madeleine drew a ragged breath as cold realization
seized her. So it had been Garrett who answered her a few moments ago! He knew
the names of her kinsmen. God's wounds, then the groan she heard must have been
. . .

"What have ye done with my kinsmen?" she
blurted, wincing as his fingers bit cruelly into her arms. "Where are
they?"

"They live, Madeleine, which is more than I could
have said if you'd ridden out to meet us on the road to Inverfarigaig as you
had planned," Garrett answered bitterly. "That's the Highland way,
isn't it, Maddie? Go out fighting, taking as many of the filthy redcoats with
you as you possibly can? How glorious!" he spat furiously. "A bloody
death befitting Strathherrick's brave outlaws, to be sung about for years to
come around the ceilidh fire."

Madeleine was stunned by his scathing words. Someone
must have told him she and her kinsmen were meeting at the yew tree, perhaps
the same person who had told him she was Black Jack. Who would have so betrayed
her, even if it had spared her life, and the lives of her kinsmen, for a time?
It had to be someone Garrett trusted, otherwise he would surely have never
believed she was his outlaw.

"Would you have taken me down as well?"
Garrett inquired, his low-spoken question splintering her thoughts. His voice
throbbed with undisguised anguish. "You're a hard lass to figure out,
Maddie Fraser. You lie in a man's arms one night, then you plan to shoot him
dead the next—"

"No!" Madeleine cried, struggling against his
viselike grip. "I'd never have shot ye!" She would have admitted
more, but she was suddenly aware of someone standing directly behind her. She
clamped her mouth shut and hung her head, overwhelmed by the spinning events.

"What is it, Fletcher?" Garrett barked.

"The captive, sir, the one who was shot—"

"Who's been shot?" Madeleine rasped, twisting
to peer at the sergeant.

"Kenneth Fraser," Garrett answered for him.
"At least that's the name Angus gave us. Angus Ramsay kindly provided us
with all of your kinsmen's names, after a bit of reasonable persuasion."

"What happened to Kenneth?" she demanded, not
wanting to consider what that persuasion might have entailed. "Ye said my
kinsmen were unharmed."

"Not unharmed," Garrett responded grimly.
"Alive." At Madeleine's horrified expression he softened his tone,
but not by much. "Your kinsmen were roughed up a bit, Maddie, which is to
be expected considering they did not wish to surrender easily."

"That's putting it mildly, captain," Sergeant
Fletcher growled under his breath. "It's a good thing the blokes didn't
have time to draw their pistols." He grunted and fell silent at Garrett's
dark look.

"Kenneth was the only man shot," Garrett
continued. "He had the good fortune to tackle with Rob Tyler, who didn't take
kindly to being kicked in the groin or having his arm sliced open. If it had
been one of my other soldiers, your Kenneth might very well be dead. Tyler's an
excellent shot, even in a thick fog like this. He winged Kenneth in the leg to
put him down." He glanced at Sergeant Fletcher. "What's the matter
with the prisoner?"

Madeleine started. Prisoner. Aye, that's what she and
her kinsmen were now. Prisoners of Captain Garrett Marshall. No doubt to be
handed over to General Hawley as soon as possible and their heads to be proudly
displayed upon tall spikes within the week. Her stomach lurched queasily at the
thought.

"It's his wound, sir," Sergeant Fletcher
replied, breaking into her morbid reverie. "The bleeding's stopped, but it
needs attention we can't give him here. The same goes for Tyler's arm."

"Very well, Fletcher," Garrett said.
"Have the men mount up." He paused, his gaze sweeping Madeleine from
head to foot, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. "Now
that we've caught our Black Jack, there's no reason to linger."

"Yes, sir." Fletcher turned around and
appeared to address the mist. "Up with you, men, and onto your horses.
Captain Marshall has the prisoner well in hand."

Madeleine gasped as ten soldiers materialized out of
the fog just behind her, some springing up from the uneven ground where they
had crouched, hiding.

"In case you had run the other way, instead of
backing into me," Garrett said, reading her mind. "We couldn't risk
losing you in this fog." He sighed raggedly. "Let's go,
Madeleine."

He walked with her to a beech grove where his bay was
tethered, a short distance from the towering yew. The air was alive with sounds
now, as all around them soldiers were mounting their horses, their voices
raised and animated.

Garrett said nothing as he drew a thick piece of rope
from his saddlebag and tied it securely around her wrists.

"I winna try to escape," she said dully.

"I know," he replied. "It's for
appearances. My men already suspect . . ." His voice trailed off,
realizing he had said more than he wanted to right now.

There would be time to talk later, when they were
alone. He could well imagine the questions tumbling in her mind. How had he
known to find her at the Fraser yew? How had he discovered she was Black Jack?
All this and more he would answer for her, but not now.

To Garrett's relief, Madeleine seemed to ignore what he
had said. He lifted her onto the horse tethered to the same tree, then mounted
his bay. He grabbed both sets of reins and nudged his horse with his boot.
"Get on with you, Samson."

He and Madeleine fell in line with the rest of the
soldiers, though the fog was still so dense he could see no farther than the
horse in front of him. That soon changed when they rode up the hill and left
the swirling mist behind them. The moonlit sky reappeared, scattered with
myriad twinkling stars. It felt as if they had left a place of shadow and
danger for a world of tranquil order.

Garrett studied Madeleine in the moonlight as she rode
so silently beside him. He had to admit she looked exactly like the outlaw who
had raided his camp, with her black jacket, trousers, and boots and her smudged
face.

Garrett's gaze swept the double line ahead of him, then
he twisted in his saddle and assessed the small group behind him, checking to
see that all was well. The subdued prisoners were flanked by soldiers. Their
hands were trussed behind their backs, and thick ropes secured them to their
saddles.

The last had been an extra precaution and probably
unnecessary, he conceded. He doubted the Highlanders would attempt an escape.
Their fierce loyalty to Madeleine was too ingrained. They would go with her
wherever she was taken, sharing whatever fate would be hers.

Garrett gritted his teeth as a gut-wrenching sense of despair
overwhelmed him. He glanced at Madeleine, but she was staring straight ahead of
her. If she was aware he was looking at her, she gave him no indication.

Her soiled face was haunting in its calm repose, her
eyes glistening in the moonlight. She was so beautiful, this defiant,
courageous, and passionate woman who had so captured his heart. And she was his
notorious Black Jack. But no matter who she was or what she had done, his love
for her had not changed. Yet an aching desperation gnawed at him, tearing his
secret dream into tattered shreds.

How was he possibly going to save her? Garrett raged
silently. Apprehending her—and ambushing her hot-tempered kinsmen, for that
matter—had been nothing compared to the dangers that loomed ahead. The biggest
danger was General Hangman Hawley, the one brutal man who held the power of
life and death over every Highlander. If he had his way, Madeleine would become
the gallows' bride instead of Garrett's. Hawley had shown little mercy to
Highland women before. Why should he now?

Garrett's tortured thoughts were interrupted by a
shocked gasp from Madeleine. For a moment he imagined she was looking at Loch
Mhor as they skirted its northern bank, perhaps admiring its shimmering beauty
in the moonlight. It was indeed a bewitching sight, the placid black water
mirroring the night sky.

"Och, no, please, it canna be," Madeleine
breathed, her frantic whisper rising to a cry of terrible pain. "No,
no!" She was gazing in horror toward Farraline, great sobs wracking her
shoulders.

"What is it, Maddie—" Then he saw it, his
voice strangling in his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief as furious anger
seized him.

A bright orange glow rose above Farraline, lighting the
sky like an aura of destruction. Towering flames shot up from thatched roofs
while distant screams pierced the evening stillness.

"Liar!" Madeleine screamed at him, hitting
him with her clenched hands. "Ye lied to me. Ye said if I gave m'self up,
this wouldna happen!" She hit him again, this time with every ounce of her
strength. "I hate ye! Ye lied, ye blackhearted bastard! Ye lied!"

Suddenly she violently kicked the sides of her horse.
"On with ye! Go!" she yelled. The startled animal lurched forward,
the reins snapping out of Garrett's hands.

Madeleine grabbed the pommel and held on tightly,
leaning low in the saddle. Her thighs gripped the horse's heaving sides, the
pressure of her knees keeping the terrified animal on course. In an instant she
had flown past the astonished soldiers, the horse galloping at a breakneck pace
along the dirt road to Farraline.

She did not hear Garrett's massive steed thundering
behind her. She did not hear his desperate shouts for her to stop.

All she heard was the blood roaring in her ears, the
anguished cries tearing from her throat, and the terrible litany pounding in
her brain, rising to a manic pitch.