A Hint of Rapture (8 page)

As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more
at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white throat, the enticing outline of
her breasts straining against her bodice, and her narrow waist. Heat raced
through his body.

What had Colonel Wolfe said to him the morning he first
heard about Black Jack? Something about finding a lass to aid his quest, and
secrets betrayed at the height of passion?

Garrett smiled thoughtfully. Perhaps this tempting
wench might very well lead him to Black Jack.

If she worked as a maid in this house, he would see her
often. Perhaps after a tender wooing—a few soft words, well-chosen compliments,
and gentle caresses—she might prove willing and eager to warm his bed. Once he
gained her trust, she might even share with him any knowledge she had about
Black Jack. He was not one to wantonly mislead a woman's affections, but time
was of the essence in this mission. It was worth a—

He exhaled sharply, grunting in pain as a stinging jab
in the ribs caught him by surprise. The next thing he knew the woman pushed
against him and wrenched free of his arms, kicking his shin and stamping on his
toes as she found her footing. Her startling blue eyes blazed as she wheeled to
face him.

"H-how dare ye!" she sputtered, confusion and
rage reflected in her eyes. When she stepped back and began to stagger, Garrett
feared she might fall. He reached out to steady her, but she darted away.

"Easy, lassie," he said softly. "I'm
only trying to help you."

"Dinna lassie me, ye swine! Ye filthy
redcoat!"

Garrett chuckled at her heated outburst. He walked
slowly toward her, his eyes raking her from head to foot.

She was truly the comeliest woman he had ever seen,
with a fiery spirit to match. Yet he still feared she might collapse. Her knees
appeared wobbly, and she was massaging her left temple. He had better subdue
her before she brought herself to more harm.

"Tell me your name," he insisted gently,
moving closer. The woman shook her head fiercely. "Your horse ran into
mine on the road. Do you remember? You took a hard fall, lass, and I think it's
best you lie down for a while."

"Aye, I remember well enough, and I dinna need yer
reminding," she spat, retreating another few steps. "Had ye not been
riding where ye're not welcome, 'twould not have happened." A flicker of
pain crossed her face, but she raised her chin stubbornly. "I'm fine now,
as ye can see, though 'tis no business of yers. Now get off my la—"

"Oh, but it is my business, as is everything in
this valley," Garrett interrupted, growing impatient. He looked beyond her
shoulder at the first supply wagon turning into the drive. It gave him an idea.
"My soldiers are arriving, lass. Come on now, I've no more time to argue
with you."

At these words she whirled around, and Garrett seized
his opportunity. In two steps he had her in his arms. She screamed, twisting
and struggling, but he held her tightly. Tossing her over his shoulder, he
gritted his teeth as her doubled fists rained blows upon his neck and broad
back.

For a wench who had suffered a hard fall, she was
certainly putting up a good fight, he thought wryly, holding her legs away so
she couldn't kick him. Suddenly her body went limp, and she began to mumble
incoherently. The strain of her recent injury had obviously proved too much for
her, as he thought it might.

Garrett strode to the door and pounded on it. After a
few moments he heard shuffling footsteps, then the door was opened by a
frail-looking old woman. She gaped up at him, her hands flying to her throat.

"Maddie!"

"So that's the spitfire's name," he said
under his breath, walking into the dim hallway. He turned to face the woman.
"And what is your name, dear lady?"

"Gl-Glenis," she stammered, her dark eyes
wide with shock. "Glenis Simpson."

"Well, Glenis, this young woman had quite a nasty
fall from her horse. She should be put to bed immediately, until she's feeling
more like herself. Where are the servants' quarters?"

"Servants' quarters?"

"Yes. If you'll only show me the way, I'll explain
what happened. And you might summon the master of the house—"

"Sir Hugh is dead, sir. He was killed at
Culloden."

Garrett fell silent and felt awkward. He should have
guessed as much. He softened his tone. "His wife, then, the Lady . .
."

"Fraser, sir," she finished for him.
"Lady Jean died many years ago. There is only the young mistress
now."

"Where is she?" Garrett asked, shifting the
woman's weight on his shoulder. "We have much to discuss. And I wish to
explain what happened to her maidservant here, Maddie."

Glenis's eyes lit with understanding. " 'Tis no
maidservant ye're carryin', sir," she murmured gravely. " 'Tis the
mistress of Farraline, Madeleine Fraser."

Now it was Garrett's turn to stare. He swallowed hard,
his face flushing warmly. He had never felt so sheepish in his life. He didn't
know quite what to do or say.

Glenis finally broke the uncomfortable silence.
"If ye'll kindly follow me, sir—"

"Captain Garrett Marshall," he said.

"If ye'll follow me, Captain Marshall,"
Glenis said with great dignity, "I'll show ye to my mistress's chamber,
where I might see to her needs."

Garrett simply nodded. As he climbed the stairs behind
the aged Scotswoman, he could not help thinking that his mission had gotten off
to another miserable start.

Chapter 5

Glenis closed the polished wardrobe door, clucking her
tongue disapprovingly. "Ye've scarce given yerself time to rest, Maddie.
'Tis only been a few hours, and already ye're up and about. Ye took a bad fall
accordin' to the captain. He told me all about it. He was quite sorry he'd
caused ye harm. I think ye should climb back into bed and stay put until
tomorrow morn."

"Since when do ye believe anything an Englishman
tells ye?" Madeleine retorted. "I'm fine, Glenis." Her fingers
worked furiously at the mother-of-pearl buttons on her bodice. Knowing what was
going on downstairs, she could not dress fast enough. She winced at the sudden
sharp ache in her head and bit her lower lip.

"There, ye see!" Glenis noted with
exasperation, wagging a bony finger. "I should have forced of my nettle
tea into ye, whether ye liked the taste or no. At least ye'd still be asleep
and ye wouldna be feelin' so poorly." Glenis moved to the bed and flung
back the flowered Coverlet. She patted the mattress firmly. "Back to bed
with ye, Madeleine Fraser. Ye can speak to the captain in the morning. From the
looks of it, those soldiers plan to be stayin' at Mhor Manor for quite a while."

"They winna if I can help it," Madeleine
fumed, ignoring Glenis's suggestion. Redcoats under her own roof! She could
hardly believe it. She bent down to fasten the brass buckles on her brogues,
then straightened, smoothing the skirt of her clean linen gown. "What did
ye say was that captain's name?"

Clearly frustrated, Glenis sighed heavily and sank down
on the bed. She gave Madeleine a look she had known all her life, reproaching
her for her stubbornness. "Captain Marshall. Garrett's his Christian
name."

"I dinna care one whit about his Christian
name," Madeleine muttered under her breath. Without another word she
flounced from the room.

How dare they invade my home, she thought furiously as
she rushed down the hallway to the main staircase. While she had slept the
afternoon away, thirty-odd redcoats had taken over the entire right wing of
Mhor Manor. Glenis had told her they were building bunks in the dancing room
and the spare guest rooms. Bunks!

Madeleine felt another sharp pang, and she paused,
leaning against the wall, until it subsided. Her thoughts were still fuzzy, her
memory of the accident earlier that day only fragmented pictures in her mind.
She distinctly remembered the wild ride from Farraline, but what followed was
no more than a streaking blur of events. Everything had happened so fast.

There had been a violent jolt as her mare struck the
other horse, then she had flown through the air. After that she recalled only
blackness until she opened her eyes to find herself in the arms of an English
soldier. It had been like a terrible nightmare.

She remembered a struggle to free herself and the sound
of his deep and steady voice, but not his words. Nor could she recall her own
words, only her feelings of anger as he seemed to stalk her, drawing closer and
closer. She had had the strangest sensation she had seen him somewhere before .
. .

Then she had been in his arms again, fighting and
cursing, the breath knocked from her body as he had thrown her over his
shoulder. The next thing she knew, she was lying in her bed, Glenis
spoonfeeding her that bitter tea. She had fallen asleep, only to wake a short
while ago to find Glenis nodding off in the rocking chair by the window.

Madeleine pushed away from the wall and walked to the
top of the staircase. She looked down into the main hallway. Her eyes narrowed
as a young soldier entered through the front door, his arms full of bedding.

Indignation seized her. The scene reminded her of the
last time redcoats had violated her home. She had been powerless to do anything
on that occasion. This time she was not. She practically flew down the stairs
and gave the soldier a good shove. He fell back, grunting in surprise, blankets
and linen sheets tumbling to the floor.

"What do ye think ye're doing?" she cried,
throwing herself between him and the hall leading to the adjoining right wing.
"Get out of my house, ye freckled weasel! Now! And take yer bedclothes
with ye!"

The startled soldier mumbled something unintelligible,
his face a bright shade of red that nearly matched his uniform. He began to
step backward, keeping one eye on her while he glanced over his shoulder for
the door.

"Stop right where you are, soldier," a deep
voice commanded him from directly behind Madeleine.

The young man froze. "Yes, sir," he said
miserably.

Madeleine spun around to meet this new adversary, a
stinging retort on her lips. It died when she came face to face with the
handsome, blond officer who loomed in the archway, the powerful breadth of his
shoulders blocking out everything behind him. His eyes, a compelling shade of
gray flecked with green, studied her quizzically.

It was he. The man who had accosted her, she thought
angrily. A familiar sensation gripped her. She could swear she had seen him
before today, but where?

Suddenly her memory cleared, like sunlight piercing
through a mist. Her last raid! He had been the commanding officer, forced to
strip with his men . . . She felt a blush scorch her skin, and she bowed her
head so he wouldn't see her discomfort. Her mind raced.

Easy, lass. Stay calm, she assured herself. She and her
kinsmen had nothing to fear. They had been well disguised during that raid.
'Twas only a strange coincidence, nothing more.

"That's hardly a way to treat your new guests,
Mistress Fraser," the officer began, interrupting her thoughts.
"Allow me to introduce—"

"There's no need for introductions,"
Madeleine snapped, quickly recovering herself. She looked him full in the face.
"I know who ye are, Captain Marshall."

"Garrett."

"Whatever. Glenis has told me all about ye."

"Ah, then. I hope it was complimentary."

Garrett smiled as his gaze wandered over her. He took
in every aspect of her comely appearance, from her glossy curls to the trim fit
of her lavender gown. Its buttoned bodice, demurely edged with lace, revealed a
full swell of creamy bosom. She was definitely not a maidservant, he thought
appreciatively. How could he have so misjudged her?

He was also pleased to observe that she looked none the
worse for her accident. Her cheeks were flushed with a healthy rose color, her
eyes were lively and sparkling. He took a step toward her. "How are you
feeling?"

"What are ye and yer sorry lot of soldiers doing
in my house?" she demanded, disregarding his soft-spoken question. His
frank appraisal was unsettling, and she shivered, acutely aware of his striking
good looks. She placed her hands on her hips and eyed him belligerently,
forcing her mind from this baffling attraction.

"Perhaps we could sit in the drawing room while we
discuss a few matters, rather than stand here in the hall. Or we could stroll
outside. The sun is about to set and it's a lovely summer evening."

"I'll not sit down nor walk in any garden with the
likes of ye," Madeleine said evenly, raising her chin. "Ye'll kindly
answer my question, Captain Marshall. Why are ye turning my home into a . . . a
bunkhouse?'

"Very well." Garrett gestured to the soldier,
who was still standing stiffly to one side. The man quickly gathered up the
bedding and hurried past them. Only when he disappeared down the hallway did
Garrett speak again. His expression sobered.

"I'll be brief, Mistress Fraser. Your manor house
will be serving as headquarters and billeting for myself and my men for an
indefinite period of time."

"Billeting?"

"Yes. We've been ordered by our chief commander,
General Henry Hawley, to occupy Strathherrick."

Madeleine started. She had heard of Butcher
Cumberland's bastard brother. His cruelty had far surpassed the duke's at
Culloden. If this man was one of his officers, surely he was cut from the same
maggot-infested cloth. "For what purpose, captain, if I might ask?"

Garrett did not readily reply. He could not tell her
the truth because it might jeopardize his mission.

If she knew anything about Black Jack, she could
possibly warn the outlaw of their intent to capture him. No doubt the bastard
would flee into the mountains at the first whiff of trouble. Then all would be
lost, for himself and the people of Strathherrick. Perhaps if he could ever
trust her, it might be different, but for now . . .