A Hint of Rapture (34 page)

Madeleine sobs gradually quieted. She found comfort in
Angus's words, though she had no idea what he'd meant by his last statement.
She rested her head on his broad shoulder, wiping her face with her jacket
sleeve. "Aye, I told Glenis to let Meg Blair's father know about the cave,
too," she said. "I hope she's all right."

Angus's tone was reassuring, though his expression was
somber. "Dinna fear for yer Glenis," he replied. "I'm sure she
had the good sense to take refuge on the moor when she saw the redcoats coming.
Remember what I told ye last night, soon after ye came out of yer faint?"

"Aye," Madeleine said softly. "Ye said
ye had overheard General Hawley talking to Major Marshall, telling him he would
spare the villagers' lives."

"That I did," Angus said, nodding gravely.
"I thought 'twas important ye knew that, so ye wouldna worry. 'Twas bad
enough ye were in such pain yerself, without fearing what was happening to yer
kin. And ye shouldna fear for them now. Ye accomplished what ye set out to
do." He paused, drawing a deep breath. "I was close enough to General
Hawley to overhear a few other things, Maddie, but I wanted to wait 'til ye
were feeling better to tell ye the rest."

Madeleine looked up at him. "What did ye hear,
Angus?" she asked, puzzled.

"I believe I misjudged Major Marshall," he
said quietly. "Ye were right to trust him, Maddie. I've never seen a more
coldhearted bastard than General Hawley. He came to Farraline looking for Black
Jack, just as Major Marshall warned he might. 'Twas by divine chance we came
along when we did. If we hadna, 'twould not have been enough for Hawley to burn
the village. He would have taken every life in Farraline without blinking an
eye." He shuddered visibly. "I dinna think that bodes well for us in
Edinburgh, lass."

Madeleine was shaken by his admission. She'd never have
dreamed Angus Ramsay would ever say a good word about an Englishman. Sudden
indignation seized her, sweeping away her chilling numbness.

"Aye, I trusted him, Angus," she said
heatedly. "But Major Marshall lied to me. He said Hawley wouldna come to
our village at all if Black Jack was found—"

"I think 'twas as much of a surprise for him to
find General Hawley in Farraline as 'twas for us, Maddie," Angus
interjected. "Major Marshall received quite a tongue-lashing for saying
the whole matter could have ended peacefully, if only Hawley had been more
patient."

Madeleine stared at him openmouthed, too stunned to
speak.

"Major Marshall ordered the soldiers to stay the
torches, Maddie. I heard him admit as much to the general. 'Twas Hawley who set
his men upon the village once more, saying 'twould be a lesson for the rest of
Strathherrick."

"Why are ye telling me this, Angus?" Madeleine
demanded hoarsely, finding her voice at last. "We're on our way to prison
in Edinburgh Castle, and the major," she hissed, "with his fine
promotion, is on his way back to Fort Augustus. What does it matter?" She
rose abruptly to her feet, but Angus caught her sleeve.

"I'm sorry, lass. We—we face such troubles
ahead," he said falteringly, as if unsure how to express what he was
feeling. "Last night, well, I've never seen ye so distraught. Ye're like a
daughter to me, Maddie. I thought ye'd want to know what Major Marshall had
done to help your kin, that's all . . . I dinna want ye to go on thinking he
lied to ye, after ye trusted him so."

Madeleine broke away from him and hurried to the high
window, wrapping her arms tightly about herself. She rested her forehead upon
the sill, her thoughts a tangled confusion.

Garrett hadn't lied to her. She would never have
believed it but for her Angus telling her it was so. Garrett had tried to stop
the destruction . . .

She inhaled sharply as vivid memories of the night
before flooded her mind. The flames, the raucous laughter, the screaming.
Garrett's anxious voice, imploring her to drop the pistol.

Madeleine rubbed her temples, her head beginning to
pound. Garrett's words came back to her in a rush.
You can still trust me, Maddie
. . .
I told you the truth
. . .
You
must believe me
. . .

Yet she hadn't believed him. She would have shot him
dead if that other officer—

A ragged moan broke from her throat, and she covered
her face with her hands. Other memories, other words, crowded in upon her:
Foyer's Falls, their night together, his fierce embrace, his words—his words!
Garrett had said nothing would happen to her, not if he could prevent it.

Madeleine slowly lifted her head, her eyes blurred with
fresh tears as she gazed searchingly out the window. There were redcoats all
around, marching along the drive, walking in and out of her home, camped upon
the back lawn, in the orchard, laughing and talking. Yet none of them was
Garrett.

He was gone.

The awful finality of it struck her with resounding
force, echoing in her mind. Garrett was gone. He had spoken those words before
he knew she was Black Jack. She could expect nothing from him now. Nothing.

Shattering heartache suddenly gripped her, far worse
than anything she could have imagined. She trembled uncontrollably, her hands
curled into tight fists.

How she wished she still believed Garrett had betrayed
her, if only to dull the pain tormenting her now. That he had forsaken her was
more than she could bear.

"It doesna matter," she whispered fiercely,
wiping angrily at her tears. "It doesna matter!"

Yet deep in her heart, it did matter. She could not
deny it. She cared, and deep down she had begun to believe Garrett might care,
too. Until now.

Chapter 24

London, England

Garrett yanked at his waistcoat in irritation, the
stiff fabric him mad. He had become so accustomed to wearing a military uniform
he had almost forgotten what it was like to dress in formal civilian clothes.

He tugged at the white muslin stock tied tightly around
his neck, his fingers brushing against the frothy lace jabot. He winced
uncomfortably. He couldn't say he had missed them. He felt like a preening
peacock in his borrowed clothes, the pleated outer coat and breeches of plum
velvet, the gold brocade waistcoat, the cream silk stockings and red-heeled
shoes.

Either London fashions had become more outrageous,
Garrett thought dryly, or his brother was stretching the limits of good taste.
He sensed it was a bit of both. He had finally drawn the line at the curled
tie-wig his brother's dresser had insisted he wear. He had no time or
inclination for such frippery. It was enough he had agreed to Gordon's
insistence that he change out of his travel-stained clothes the minute he
walked in the door.

Garrett smiled thinly, recalling his brother's
expression when he had entered the plush salon where Garrett was waiting for
him. He was a study of unruffled composure, though Gordon's eyes had reflected
his shock. And how like Gordon to demand Garrett change before they discussed
his matter of great urgency, so that his stink and his mud-splattered clothes
would not offend the household.

Garrett glanced about the library, which was clearly
his brother's private domain. Well-dusted tomes stretched from floor to painted
ceiling, a goodly portion of them from their late father's collection. The room
was dominated by a massive desk placed near the high, arched windows
overlooking fashionable street. Garrett could well imagine his brother sitting
there, poring over letters and papers dealing with the king's business.

His eyes strayed to the crystal decanter on the
mantelpiece. He could use a tumbler of brandy right now. He started to rise,
then changed his mind and sat back down. He wanted to be completely clearheaded
for the important discussion which lay ahead.

Garrett drummed his fingers impatiently on the stuffed
armrest, wondering what was keeping his brother. He had journeyed at a devil's
pace to get to London, the exhausting trip taking him just over four days with
stops for fresh horses and brief respites for sleep. A few moments' wait might
be trivial, but to him it seemed unbearable. Every instant that passed brought
Madeleine closer to—

"So, Garrett, what is this urgent matter which has
brought you so unexpectedly to London?" a deep, resonant voice sounded
from the doorway, startling him.

Garrett stood up and turned to face his brother.
"Gordon," he acknowledged stiffly, though he did not cross the floor
to greet him. He thought fleetingly how little Gordon had changed in the two
long years since he had last seen him.

His older brother was nearly as tall as he and slightly
broader, with the same gray-green eyes as his own, but the resemblance ended
there.

Gordon took after their father's side of the family,
with his pale coloring and dark brown hair barely visible beneath his full
powdered wig. He was probably considered handsome, with narrow, patrician
features that had a somewhat hawkish look about them.

An undeniable air of authority clung to Gordon, tinged
with studied restraint. He had a fearsome temper, which Garrett had witnessed
on numerous occasions when it had usually been directed at him. The last
occasion had been two years ago, just before Garrett left London to fulfill his
commission. Their parting had been anything but convivial.

"You look well, brother," Gordon said,
looking him over as he walked to stand by his desk. He smiled tightly.
"The military seems to have agreed with you. You look hale and healthy,
though a bit weary from your journey."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Garrett replied,
attempting to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. By his
brother's raised eyebrow, he knew he had failed utterly.

"Ah," Gordon murmured. "So the tone is
set." He moved purposefully to the mantelpiece. "A brandy,
Garrett?" he asked over his shoulder. He poured two tumblers without
waiting for a reply, returning to hand one to Garrett. "Here, you seem
tense. This might help you relax." He clinked his glass to Garrett's, then
took a good swallow. "Go on, drink up. It's the best quality, I can assure
you. You probably haven't tasted good brandy in some time."

Garrett set the untouched glass on the table next to
his chair. "I'd rather talk first, Gordon. Perhaps I'll share a drink with
you later."

"As you wish," Gordon said lightly, sitting
down at his desk. "Dammit, man, at least take a seat. And you might cease
that glowering." He chuckled wryly. "I've already surmised this isn't
purely a social call or necessarily a friendly one."

Garrett resumed his chair, not taking his eyes from his
brother. "It's a personal matter, Gordon, and I'll come right to the
point. I take it you're still interested in possessing Rosemoor?"

Gordon's gaze widened slightly, his expression
tightening. "An unexpected question, Garrett, I must admit," he said,
leaning back in his chair. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass,
studying Garrett thoughtfully. "I'm sure you can guess my answer. Why do
you ask?"

Garrett felt an oppressive weight lift from his chest,
though he knew the battle was not won yet. "I may be interested in parting
with it—for a small price, of course." He watched Gordon's face, gauging
his reaction. He could see his brother was stunned, though he was trying hard
not to show it.

"What has brought about this change of
heart?" Gordon inquired shrewdly. "Gambling debts, perhaps? I've been
told military officers spend much of their leisure in such idle diversion. Have
you gotten yourself into a bit of financial trouble, Garrett?"

"Again, sorry to disappoint you," Garrett
responded with a short laugh. "My finances are secure." He sobered
quickly. "My price is this. I have a friend, a young woman I met in
Scotland, who desperately needs my help. Unfortunately, I cannot help her
without your assistance, Gordon."

"Have I heard you correctly?" he asked,
leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "You puzzle me, Garrett.
You speak of Rosemoor in one breath and a mysterious Scotswoman in the
next."

"Exactly. They are intertwined, Gordon. If you are
able to assist me in this matter to my full satisfaction, I shall present you
with Rosemoor. Then we shall both have what we want."

Gordon did not reply for several long moments, his eyes
boring into Garrett's. His voice was barely above a whisper when at last he
spoke. "You have captured my full attention, Garrett. Now, what has this
woman done? It must be something serious for you to consider striking such a
rare and priceless bargain." His gaze narrowed knowingly as Garrett
sharply exhaled. "Ah, so it is just as I thought."

Garrett was not surprised by his brother's astuteness.
"Her name is Madeleine Fraser," he began. "She's the daughter of
a baronet who was killed at Culloden—"

"A Jacobite?" Gordon interjected archly.
"I'm sure you can hear Father spinning in his grave. You and he were
always far apart politically, but this . . ." At Garrett's frown he
hastily apologized. "Go on. I'll not interrupt you again."

Garrett quickly recounted the entire story, doing his
best to ignore Gordon's changing expressions: incredulity, contemplation, and
grim humor. Finally a serious look settled on his countenance as Garrett
relayed General Hawley's plans for his prisoners.

When Garrett finished, a weighty silence fell over the
room. It seemed to stretch interminably, filling him with dread. He felt an
added chill when Gordon tossed his head back and downed the fiery contents of
his glass in one draft, then rose to refill it once again. He returned slowly,
stopping in front of Garrett's chair. He lifted the tumbler as T in salute.

"I applaud you, Garrett," he said
sarcastically, shattering the grim silence. "You could not have presented
me with a more difficult task. A king's pardon, and the restoration of an
estate, for a Highland wench nicknamed Black Jack who will shortly be tried for
treason against the Crown, if she hasn't been already." He laughed under
his breath. "If you were not dangling Rosemoor before me, I would have
told you right out I could not help you." He paused, taking a quick sip.
"Even so, I cannot guarantee my efforts will prove successful. You may
find yourself alone and growing old in Rosemoor."