There was the long victorious march into England as far south as Derby, the cities of Carlisle, Preston, and Manchester falling under the Jacobite standard. But instead of pressing on to London, the army decided to retire to Scotland due to the massing of Hanoverian forces under the duke of Cumberland, William Augustus, the corpulent third son of King George II. There the Jacobites would make a stand on home ground.
Upon returning to Scotland, the army's hopes were raised once again after the victory at the Battle of Falkirk in January and the successful routs of English forts scattered throughout the Highlands. Then no more was heard until news was brought that Bonnie Prince Charlie and his forces were quartered at Inverness until spring, while the duke of Cumberland remained in Aberdeen.
All seemed quiet until early April, when a large company of men from Clan Cameron passed through Farraline on their way north to Inverness and a rendezvous with the prince. Madeleine's excited inquiries discovered nothing more than that Cumberland and his troops were on the move toward Drummossie Moor, a barren, soggy plain to the west of the River Nairn.
Drummossie Moor. Why Madeleine felt a sudden chill seize her at that news she would only understand a few days later, when word arrived that the Battle of Culloden, from beginning to end lasting only an hour, had been lost to the government forces.
"Damn them, damn them," Madeleine whispered. She had only to think of the bastards who had mowed down the Highlands' finest sons with their cannon, bayonets, and grapeshot, and she was filled with rage.
How she hated them. Englishmen. Redcoats. The devil's own spawn. Murderers!
Since that bloody day Butcher Cumberland and his men had wreaked their revenge on the Highlands, their brand of "justice" to right the treasonous wrongs perpetrated against the Crown by the rebellious clans. It was a reign of terror that still showed no signs of abating.
It had begun when the Butcher granted the fallen clansmen no quarter on the battlefield. Both the wounded and the dead were stripped where they lay, then those still alive were bayoneted or shot or clubbed to death. Only a few were reserved for public punishment. A barn filled with wounded who had dragged themselves from the field was locked and set on fire, the unfortunate men inside suffering a grisly death.
It was several days before the dead were finally buried in mass unmarked graves, denied the dignity of being laid to rest in their own lands. How true Glenis's words had been. Her father would never come home again.
Fleeing clansmen were pursued by dragoons all the way to Inverness, the fearsome horsemen cutting down Jacobite soldiers as well as innocent bystanders who chanced in their way, including women and children. Only the Highlanders who fled in the opposite direction, south toward Strathherrick and beyond into Badenoch, lived to become fugitives in their own land, and they were hunted like wild beasts among the craggy hills.
Dougald Fraser was one of these desperate fugitives. A distant cousin and childhood friend, he was the man her father had intended for her to marry when the war had been won. Now there would be no wedding for a long time, if at all. If Dougald or any other fugitives, including their Lord Lovat, were caught, they faced imprisonment, deportation to the Colonies, or hanging.
Their bonnie prince was also a hunted man, with a price of thirty thousand pounds on his head. Madeleine knew in her heart that no Highlander would betray him, even for such an outrageous sum. Although a proclamation had been issued that anyone caught aiding the royal fugitive faced certain death, tales abounded of those who had risked their lives harboring the prince and his companions during the past four weeks.
All the atrocities had done little to curb the Butcher's insatiable thirst for blood. He turned next on the Highland people who had been left at home while their men fought the war. Operating from his newly regained headquarters at Fort Augustus, south of Loch Ness, he ordered his soldiers to strike out across the countryside and harry the glens.
Madeleine had heard horrible tales from fugitives passing by night through Farraline; tales of cold-blooded killings and the rape of young and old. Chieftains' houses were plundered and burned to the ground; Lord Lovat's beloved Dounie Castle in Beauly was one of the first to be laid waste. Even the rough, one-room cottages of the peasants were rarely spared the torch.
Madeleine's gaze swept the scattered wreckage in the room. After the senseless ferocity she had witnessed this morning, it was a miracle that Mhor Manor had not been burned. She could only hope the colonel would keep his word and spare the neighboring villages.
Bitter tears scalded her eyes, and she rose from the chair to pace angrily.
As if this day's injustice and devastation were not enough, what of the news that had come to Strathherrick only last week? The estates of chieftains who had participated in the uprising were being confiscated for the Crown, and Lord Lovat's lands were already forfeited and being administered by a royal commissioner. It seemed the English were wasting no time in their efforts to subdue the Highlands.
Worst of all, every Highland male was being forced to swear an oath that he would never again wear the belted plaid, tartan or any Highland garment—unless in a king's regiment—never possess a weapon, not even a dirk, or play the bagpipes, now considered an instrument of war by the government.
"If I were a man, I'd die before I'd swear that cursed oath," Madeleine whispered vehemently. "And I'd wear the kilt to my grave!"
She pulled aside a slashed curtain and looked out across the weed-strewn lawn and disheveled garden. The fog had lifted, revealing a pale blue sky streaked with shafts of golden sunlight. The beauty of it did little to soothe her aching heart.
An unsettling thought struck her. Would the English seize Mhor Manor as well?
The estate in Strathherrick had been in her family for over a hundred years, deeded to the Frasers of Farraline by the tenth Lord Lovat, the father of old Simon the Fox, their chief. Though he was the heritable head of Clan Fraser, the land belonged not to him but to her father.
Madeleine sighed heavily. No, the land now belonged to her. She was the mistress of Farraline.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to a mother and three little boys, their heads bent, their clothing dirty and bedraggled, who hurried along a footpath that cut across the estate. She recognized the woman as Flora Chrystie, the wife of one of her father's tacksmen who had died at Culloden. She guessed the young widow, who was seven months gone with child, had been alerted to the soldiers' approach and was fleeing for the safety of the mountains.
She watched as Flora turned her face, pinched and pale, toward the manor house. The woman bowed her head slightly in respect, then urged her children onward. Instead of scampering down the path, the boys clung listlessly to their mother's skirts, lacking the energy to run. They suffered, like so many others, because the plundering of their cattle and the destruction of their crops left little food to appease the gnawing hunger in their bellies.
Madeleine's throat constricted painfully at the pathetic sight, and defiant indignation seized her.
If something wasn't done soon, her people would starve! Even if their homes were spared, what good were roofs over their heads if they had no food to sustain life?
Her father's last words came back to her in a rush, reviving her flagging spirit and giving her strength:
Ye're the mistress of Farraline now, Maddie . . . . Tend to the needs of yer people . . . . They depend upon yer care and good judgment.
Madeleine let the curtain drop, her tears drying on her cheeks. A determined resolve flared brightly within her breast, and a bold plan took shape in her mind.
"Aye, something has to be done, Maddie Fraser, and ye're the one to do it," she vowed fiercely.
God help her, somehow she would see that the Frasers of Strathherrick would survive these awful times and live to prosper once again in the Highlands they loved so dearly!
Then come, thou fairest of the fair,
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share,
And by thy beauteous self I s
wear
No love but thine my heart shall know!
Robert Burns
Chapter 1
Fort Augustus Inverness-shire
July 1746
Captain Garrett Marshall stirred on his narrow cot, awakened by slow, cautious footfalls across the planked floor. Instantly alert, he tensed. He reached for the knife beneath his thin mattress, then rolled over without making a sound.
A flickering light drew his attention to the entrance of the officers' bunkhouse, and he eased himself up on one elbow, his keen gaze piercing the darkness. He immediately recognized the intruder and relaxed. It was one of General Hawley's aides, a young corporal.
What could he want at this early hour? Garrett thought irritably, watching as the soldier quietly made his way down the long row of wooden cots, holding his sputtering candle high. The corporal stopped occasionally to lift the edge of a coarse blanket and peer into the face of a sleeping officer, then moved on. It was clear he was searching for someone.
Suddenly the soldier tripped over a pair of boots standing beside a cot, his whispered oath eliciting groans from several men. He froze, the candlelight bobbing as his hand shook, until the groans lapsed once again into loud snoring. Only then did he resume his search, moving gingerly down the narrow center aisle.
Garrett smiled grimly. Whatever the corporal's purpose, he obviously did not want to wake anyone needlessly and receive a sharp cuff on the ear for his trouble. Yet his method was most unwise. Perhaps Garrett should teach this lad a lesson that might one day save his life.
He lay back down and pulled the blanket well over his shoulder, shadowing his face. He waited, listening, until the corporal was standing over him. In one sudden movement, Garrett threw off the blanket and jumped up from the cot, seizing the unsuspecting soldier by the throat.
"It's dangerous to creep so among armed men, corporal," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Better to announce your presence, and wake us, than be mistaken for the enemy. We have been tricked before by a Highlander wearing the king's colors."
The soldier nodded vigorously, gulping at the deadly weight of a knife pressed against his belly. Sweat broke out on his brow as he stared up into vivid gray-green eyes. "Y-yes, sir, C-Captain Marshall!" he finally managed to stutter.
Satisfied, Garrett released him. He slipped the knife back beneath his mattress, then straightened and ran his hands through his dark blond hair. "What are you doing here?"
With a start the flustered soldier remembered his mission. "Wh-why, looking for you, sir," he blurted out, though not too loudly. "General Hawley has requested your presence at his quarters immediately. Your commander, Colonel Wolfe, was summoned earlier and awaits you there."
"Very well. Any idea what this is all about?" Garrett asked, pulling on his breeches and reaching for the white shirt which hung from a peg wedged into the stone wall. He glanced out the small window high above his cot and that it was still dark, perhaps an hour yet before dawn.
"No, sir, though a messenger and escort were admitted through the gates no more than a half hour past. An important dispatch, I'd guess, because he made straight for the general's quarters." The corporal shrugged. "I cannot say for sure if this dispatch concerns you, captain, or if it's some other matter."
Garrett quickly drew on his red waistcoat, fastened the buttons, and expertly tied his white cravat. He mulled over the corporal's words as he pulled on his black boots, buckled his sword belt about his lean waist, and donned the long red coat that reached just to his knees.
Why would General Hawley have summoned him so early in the morning? If he had been a higher ranking officer, it would have made sense. But he commanded a company of one hundred foot soldiers, nothing more, nothing less. It was hardly worth singling him out—
Garrett's jaw tensed, and his eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was being summoned to discuss some disciplinary action against one of his men. Dammit all, that was the last thing he needed for morale!
General Henry Hawley, a bastard son of George II and half brother to the duke of Cumberland, had not earned the nickname Hangman due to his generosity and friendly rapport with his troops. He ruled his forces with an iron hand, hanging any man who disobeyed him or displayed the least bit of cowardice in battle. Fort Augustus had recently been given over to his command, after the duke had returned to London last week. If one of Garrett's men had already earned the general's displeasure, Garrett could do little to save him.
After tying his hair back with a ribbon, Garrett lifted his black tricorn hat from another peg and set it atop his head. He followed the corporal from the bunkhouse, although he took the lead when they approached the imposing fieldstone building in the center of the fort. A mist hung in the cool air, and Garrett inhaled deeply, bracing himself for whatever might lie ahead.
The sentinels standing guard allowed them entrance, and the corporal followed him through a heavy oak door, down a dark corridor, and into a well-lit room. Garrett halted and stood at stiff attention at the first sight of General Hawley. He was seated at one end of a long table with Colonel Thomas Wolfe at his left.
"Thank you, corporal," Colonel Wolfe said, nodding a curt dismissal. "Come in, Captain Marshall."
Garrett stepped forward until he stood at the opposite end of the table, his gaze fixed on a distant point above the portly general's head. "Sir, Captain Garrett Marshall of Wolfe's Regiment, Fourth Company of Foot!" he said briskly.
"And, if I am not mistaken, the younger brother of the earl of Kemsley, court minister to King George?" General Hawley inquired, leaning forward.
Garrett dropped his gaze in surprise, meeting the general's shrewd and cunning eyes, which resembled those of his half brother. He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, Lord Kemsley is my brother."
"Pray sit down, captain," Colonel Wolfe invited, motioning to a nearby chair.
Garrett swept off his hat and sat, perplexed by the direction of the conversation. He felt a sense of relief, however, that this meeting apparently had nothing to do with his men's behavior.
"Your family has a very interesting history," General Hawley continued. "Colonel Wolfe tells me you possess a bit of Scots blood, on your mother's side?"
Startled by this question, Garrett looked from the general to his commander, whose nod was barely perceptible then back again. "My grandmother was born in Edinburgh, sir, though her family came from Sutherland in the north, a clan loyal to the Crown," he stressed pointedly. "She married John Ross, an English merchant, and afterward lived much of her life in London, as did my mother until she married my late father, Geoffrey Marshall, the sixth earl of Kemsley."
"Colonel Wolfe also tells me you are familiar with the Highlanders and their ways."
Garrett's brow lifted. One night over several tankards of strong ale, he had mentioned his Scots heritage to the good colonel, who had become almost like a father to him. He'd spoken in confidence, but obviously that confidence had been breached. "May I be so bold, general, as to inquire why you ask this of me?"
"In due time, captain," Colonel Wolfe interrupted, his voice tinged with caution. "Please answer."
Garrett leaned back in his chair and stared stonily at the general. "When I was a child, my grandmother told me stories of the Highlands, sir, stories of her clan ancestors. I was born and bred in England, but if such lore makes me more familiar with the Highlanders than most Britons, then yes, I know something of their ways."
"Good." General Hawley turned to Colonel Wolfe. "I am satisfied, commander. You may proceed with the plan we have already discussed. See that Captain Marshall and a third of his men, the ones who prove best in the saddle, leave the fort by noon tomorrow." He rose from his chair, and the two officers followed suit. "Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I intend to catch another hour's rest before breakfast."
General Hawley strode toward the door, then stopped and glanced at Colonel Wolfe, his expression grim. "Commander, remember that if your humanitarian plan fails, I will send an entire regiment to sweep
through those blasted mountains. We'll find that bastard Black Jack if I have to burn every lice-ridden hovel to the ground!"
The door slammed shut behind him, and a heavy silence descended on the room. It didn't last long.
"What the devil—"
"Wait!" Colonel Wolfe hissed, squelching Garrett's outburst with a wave of his hand until the sound of the general's ponderous footsteps gradually faded. Then he smiled wryly. "I don't know which one is worse for ill temper, the duke or Hawley. They're both cut from the same cloth, it seems." He laughed shortly, walking over and taking the seat next to Garrett's. "Which, of course, they are. One above the royal sheets and the other below."
At any other time Garrett might have been amused by his commander's veiled reference to King George's mistresses, but he hadn't relished the general's personal questions. He was a private man who trusted few with details of his life. And the reference to his brother, Gordon, who at thirty-four was six years his senior, had rubbed salt in an open wound.
It was Gordon who had bought him the costly military commission Garrett had been honor-bound to fulfill. Garrett had no doubt his brother had hoped he would be killed in some foreign battle. Gordon would then inherit Rosemoor, the beautiful country estate their mother had left to Garrett.
It had been the countess's right to bequeath her own property to whomever she wished. She had chosen her favorite younger son, forever sealing Gordon's deep-seated resentment of Garrett and fueling his determination to claim Garrett's inheritance, using whatever means he could.
It wasn't enough that Gordon possessed all of their father's holdings, including the entailed family estate, Kemsley Grove, and the stately town house in London's most fashionable neighborhood. It wasn't enough that he had married the woman Garrett had long courted, Lady Celinda Gray. Gordon's greed to possess Rosemoor, the richest estate in Sussex, knew no bounds.
A Hint of Rapture Page 2