A Hint of Rapture

by Miriam Minger

  "So what ye're saying, Captain Marshall, is that some of these . . . troublemakers are in Strathherrick?" she asked innocently, belying her inner turmoil.

  Garrett perceived he had given more information than he had intended. It seemed his hostess was very inquisitive.

  "As I said, Mistress Fraser, we've been stationed here to keep the peace. You and your people have nothing to fear from us." He quickly changed the subject. "Perhaps you might accompany me through the house," he ventured. "I'd like to show you that my men have taken great care not to damage your property." He paused, then added dryly, "Unlike the soldiers who have been here before us."

  "Aye, yer brothers in arms already did a fine job of it," she muttered under her breath. She was frustrated that he hadn't answered her question. Yet she sensed her intuition was correct. She would have to speak with Angus and Ewen at once, that very night, and warn them of this new danger.

  Garrett held out his arm to her. "Shall we go, then, Mistress Maddie?"

  Madeleine shot him a look of pure venom. "Only my kinsmen call me by that name, Captain Marshall," she said hotly. "Ye may have taken over my house, but ye dinna have the right to consider yerself part of the family. Ye and yer men are unwelcome here, and not a day shall pass that I dinna tell ye so. Now, if ye'll kindly step out of my way."

  He did so, and she brushed past him into the narrow hall. "And I dinna need yer invitation to survey my own home," she flung over her shoulder. "I'll see to yer men's clever handiwork m'self!"

  Garrett stared after her, surprised by the ungentlemanly direction of his thoughts and the quickening of his desire. God, but she was lovely!

  He admired the provocative sway of her skirt—the lustrous fabric skimming her slender hips and the teasing hint of lace petticoat peeking from beneath the hem. It pleased him that she wore no hoops, a ridiculous fashion which had obviously not made it to the Highlands. Her simple gown stirred his imagination, conjuring a tantalizing vision of her hidden charms.

  An amused grin lit his face. He had never been so intrigued by a woman before, and the devil knew he'd had his share. Everything about her fascinated him—the way she moved, the timbre of her voice, and her flashing blue eyes. Her every gesture and her every word bespoke passion and spirit.

  She was so different from the passive beauties he had known in England, with their carefully schooled smiles, empty heads, and conniving mothers who were eager to wed their daughters to a fortune. Even his memory of Celinda paled in comparison. This woman spoke her mind, and with a vengeance. Damn, it was refreshing!

  A curious thought struck him. Other than the obvious act of leaving her home, what would he have to do to bring a smile to the beauteous Mistress Fraser's lips? he wondered wryly. Could kindness, gallantry, gentle wooing, and a healthy dose of patience win her favor? Perhaps his earlier plan when he had thought her a maidservant was not so far off the mark after all.

  If he could gain her trust, even her slightest affection, she might be able to help him. As the mistress of Farraline, she probably knew a great deal of what went on in Strathherrick. Perhaps she even knew where to find Black Jack . . .

  Garrett strode after her, eager to put his new plan into action. From what he had seen of her so far, he had no doubt Mistress Madeleine Fraser would fight him every step of the way. Yet the thought did not daunt him.

  His Scots grandmother had told him once there was no woman more stubborn and headstrong than a Highland wench. Yet when her favor was won, however hard fought, there was never a woman more true.

  Such a woman's trust was more than worth the challenge . . . if it might lead him to Black Jack.

  Chapter 6

  An hour later Madeleine stormed into the kitchen and slammed the door behind her. She startled Glenis, who was draping a fresh tea towel over a pan of hot scones.

  "What is it, lass?" Glenis asked, whirling to face her disgruntled mistress. "Though I must tell ye, I canna stand too many more surprises in one day."

  "Have ye seen the dancing room lately?" Madeleine blurted out angrily. She plopped into one of the wooden chairs placed around the table, her gown cascading in rippling folds to the floor. Without waiting for a reply she rushed on, determined to vent her spleen.

  "Ye'd never know 'twas once reserved for our Highland reels and dances and the playing of the pipes. It looks to be a barracks, with twenty bunks lining the walls and men sitting upon them, cleaning their weapons, polishing their boots, laughing and joking and carrying on as if 'twas a common thing to intrude upon another's home!"

  She drew a deep breath, pushing her hair behind her ear. "The guest rooms have fared no better. Mama would surely be having a fit if she'd lived to see redcoats lying upon her fine needleworked coverlets and satin pillows."

  "Dinna speak so of your mother, Maddie," Glenis chided, her voice shrill and cracking. " 'Tis bad luck, and well ye know it. Leave her spirit to rest in peace. We dinna need any ghosts summoned forth to add to our troubles."

  "I'm sorry, Glenis," Madeleine said distractedly. She rubbed her temples; the dull pain was still plaguing her. She was certain it would have been gone by now if not for that infuriating Captain Marshall. He'd given her twice the headache in the span of one short hour!

  First he had followed her into the dancing room like a second shadow after she told him she could manage alone. Then he had insisted on introducing her to each of his men, as if she cared to know them: Sergeant Lowell Fletcher, Corporal Denny Sims, the hapless soldier she had shoved in the hall, and so many others whose names had simply flown by her.

  To her surprise, the men had been quite respectful and courteous, though a few rough-looking soldiers had eyed her with more than passing interest. At those times Captain Marshall had acted in the most peculiar manner. His expression had darkened, his tone had grown brusque, and he had quickly steered her to the next man.

  She would have balked at the possessive pressure of his hand on her elbow if she hadn't been surrounded by so many soldiers. But his attention gave her an odd sense of security, and she realized grudgingly he was the only buffer between herself and his men. If he appeared protective, so much the better. At least she wouldn't have to fear any unwelcome advances from them.

  That thought reminded Madeleine of a decision she'd made while making her excuses to Captain Marshall and finally fleeing the dancing room. She jumped up from the chair and hurried over to Glenis, who was expertly turning another batch of scones on a buttered griddle set atop the hearth. She kept her voice low in case any soldiers were walking outside near the kitchen windows.

  "Glenis, I have something important to discuss with ye."

  "Hold on for a moment, lass, whilst I finish these scones," Glenis said. She turned the last one, then set down her wooden spatula and wiped her hands on her apron. "All right, what is it ye wish to tell me?"

  Madeleine held her finger to her lips, indicating they should speak softly. "In the morning I want ye to tell Meg Blair and Kitty Dods not to come to the house anymore. 'Tis for their own good whilst the soldiers are here."

  "Who'll help me with the cleaning and washing then, Maddie?" Glenis protested, raising her voice. At Madeleine's stern look her tone fell to an agitated whisper. "With my old bones, 'tis a wonder I can still move about the house at all!"

  "I'll help ye," Madeleine said. "I'm no stranger to housework, if ye remember." She smiled faintly. "I can wield a broom and dustcloth just as surely as a pistol, Glenis, though I may not like it as well."

  "Och, but that's just it, lass. Ye've got yer other duties to think about. Ye've no time to be helpin' me. And knowin' ye to be as stubborn as yer da, I dinna expect ye'll be ridin' out any less than before, soldiers or no!"

  Madeleine fell silent. To be truthful, she wasn't quite sure what she and her men were going to do now that the English soldiers had come to Strathherrick. Their situation had become much more precarious. Yet she wouldn't make any final decision until she spoke with her band later that evening.

&
nbsp; That is, if she managed to sneak out without being detected. She had no idea how many guards Captain Marshall was planning to station around the manor house, or where. Their positions would certainly be a crucial factor in any future raids.

  "Glenis, there's something else ye must know," she began. She quickly relayed the details of her encounter with Captain Marshall in the main hallway, and of the last raid. Glenis's eyes widened as she listened, her forehead furrowing with concern when Madeleine reported her suspicion about the purpose of Captain Marshall's mission.

  "I told ye they'd come lookin' for ye one day!" Glenis hissed, wringing her hands. "Ye wouldna listen! Och, 'tis a woeful day, Maddie. What are ye goin' to do?"

  Madeleine shook her head. "I winna know until I speak with Angus Ramsay and the Burkes tonight, in Farraline. They'll send word to the Fraser brothers. Together we'll decide if we press on or lay low until the soldiers leave."

  "Dear God, what a choice ye have to make, lass!"

  "Aye. Either way, 'tis risky. If we go on with our raids, we may be found out. If we stop, the villagers will run out of food. We have enough stores hidden in the caves of Beinn Dubhcharaidh to last awhile, but it could be gone before Captain Marshall and his men depart Strathherrick. I, for one, dinna wish to see children starving again. I'll say as much to Ewen and Angus tonight."

  Glenis grew pensive, then her eyes widened in apprehension. "Are ye mad, lass?" she blurted, as if she had just realized what Madeleine had said. "Ye canna walk out the front door tonight, just as ye please, without the soldiers or Captain Marshall wantin' to know where ye're goin' at such a late hour!"

  "Shhh, Glenis," Madeleine warned, looking fearfully at the window. "Someone will surely hear ye." She bent her head close to her servant's ear. "Ye've forgotten about great-grandfather's tunnel."

  Glenis sighed heavily, her shoulders appearing even more stooped than before. "Aye, so I have . . ." She glanced sternly at Madeleine. "If I wasna already an old woman, ye'd be turnip' my hair gray, Madeleine Elisabeth Fraser. I told ye before I wouldna burden ye with my fears, and I winna now. I'll pray for ye, though, good and hard, so ye'll be certain to journey safely to Farraline and back again, and make the right decision. "

  She sniffed suddenly, her nose wrinkling. "Och, the scones, lass, they're burnin'!" She turned back to the hearth and grabbed the spatula, deftly flipping the scones one by one from the griddle. "Just in time," she said. "I made yer favorite, cinnamon, nutmeg, and treacle. I thought 'twould cheer ye after the day ye've had . . . you'll be needing them now more than ever."

  She took a white china plate from the cupboard, placed two golden-brown scones on it, then handed the plate to Madeleine. "I understand yer worries for Meg and Kitty. Yet I dinna think ye should be botherin' yerself with house chores. If I know ye as well as I think I do, ye'll be out on a raid before another week is past."

  Before Madeleine could reply, Glenis gestured to the table. "Go on, lass. I'll fetch the tea."

  Madeleine obliged her and sat down while Glenis followed with a delicate china teapot. She set it on the embroidered runner and leaned against the table.

  "Let Meg stay on, Maddie. She's a good head on her shoulders and she works hard. Kitty's impetuous and far too pretty for her own good." Glenis paused, her gnarled hand smoothing the runner. She sighed sadly. "There's few young men left in the valley to court her now, and she might easily be swayed by smooth words, even from a redcoat. The girls know nothing of yer raids, to be sure, but I'd trust Meg over Kitty to keep quiet if she saw anything she shouldna."

  Madeleine was silent for several moments, mulling over the request. Glenis was right, she decided. The girls were both sixteen, but Meg was far more mature. She could be trusted. And Glenis could certainly use the help.

  "Very well, ye win," she said at last. "Meg may stay on. But if I see the soldiers giving her a rough time of it, she'll have to go. Agreed?"

  "Aye, ye know best," Glenis replied. She sat down across from Madeleine and poured them both a cup of hot, strong tea. "I've made barley soup for supper, if ye've a mind to taste it," she offered.

  "The scones will be enough for me," Madeleine said, breaking one apart. Steam drifted up from the crumbly surface, melting the sweet butter she had slathered on it. She took a bite, enjoying the melded flavors of spices and molasses.

  A companionable silence fell over the kitchen. Madeleine ate quickly while Glenis sipped her tea. She was anxious to retire to her bedchamber.

  It was her plan to wait until the house grew quiet, then creep down the side stairs and into the drawing room. If she could make it that far without being detected by any guards, she could surely make it to Farraline. The trap door leading to the secret tunnel was hidden in the drawing room closet.

  When her great-grandfather had built Mhor Manor a hundred years ago, he had dug a tunnel beneath it in case the family should ever need an escape route in time of war. It ran from the closet, the trap door concealed in the intricate floor planking, to a copse of ancient fir trees some forty yards beyond the house. As far as Madeleine knew, the tunnel had only been used once for its intended purpose.

  Madeleine finished the last of her tea and set the cup down with a clatter. "Ye make the best scones, Glenis," she said, rising from her chair and planting a kiss on her forehead.

  "Are ye sure 'tis enough to hold ye, lass?"

  "Aye, 'tis plenty. Sleep well tonight, and dinna worry for me." She opened the kitchen door. "Och, I almost forgot. If Captain Marshall should come looking for me, tell him I've retired early. He mentioned some nonsense about one of his soldiers being a fair cook and asked that I join him for supper. Can ye imagine? I told him the food would grow cold and rot before I'd ever sup with him."

  She began to close the door, then glanced back over her shoulder, smiling wickedly. "Better still, I know what ye can say, Glenis. Tell him I'm a delicate lass. The excitement of the day was simply too much for me."

  "A delicate lass indeed," she heard Glenis mutter as she shut the door. "As daring as any man, she is, and with enough spirit to prove it!"

  Madeleine walked through the dining room and up the stairs. The hall was nearly pitch dark, but she could see well enough. She strolled toward her room, humming a lilting Scottish air.

  She stopped suddenly, her blood pounding loudly in her ears. She stared wide-eyed at the faint sliver of light shining from beneath the door to her father's bedchamber. Visions of phantoms and ghosts leaped in her mind. Could it be that her father's restless spirit had come to haunt Mhor Manor?

  She quickly dispelled the thought, scolding herself for her fears. It was obvious she had been listening far too much to Glenis's superstitious rambling. There was a logical explanation for the light. There had to be. Glens or one of the girls had left a lamp burning while cleaning the room, or someone else was in there . . .

  She tested the latch. The door was unlocked. She leaned against it, tripping inside the dimly lit room as the door was abruptly pulled open from the inside.

  "Oh!" Madeleine exclaimed, knocking into something broad and hard. A strong arm circled her waist and prevented her from falling. Crisp curls brushed her cheek. She began to scream, but she was silenced by a large hand pressed over her mouth. Panic rose in her throat, and she twisted frantically, trying to free herself.

  "Easy, Mistress Fraser, easy. I'd rather you not bring my entire corps to your rescue, so if you'll kindly refrain from screaming, I'll remove my hand."

  Captain Marshall! Madeleine tensed at the familiar voice, but she was grateful her captor wasn't one of those rough-looking soldiers. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and nodded.

  She inhaled sharply as he dropped his hand, but instead of releasing her, he drew her closer. Her breasts were pressed tightly against him, and the warmth of his skin seemed to burn through her gown. His warm, male scent swamped her racing senses, and a soft, startled gasp broke from her throat as his fingers gently caressed the small of her back.

  A bewildering cur
rent of excitement shot through her, and she flushed with embarrassment as she felt her nipples grow taut and rigid, thrusting against her bodice. Her eyes fell to his rugged chest, sprinkled with dark blond curls, and with a start she realized he was naked from the waist up. Anger bubbled within her at his bold presumption, rescuing her from the traitorous sensations flooding her body

  "Release me at once, ye filthy—"

  "Redcoat, swine, bastard?" Garrett finished for her, painfully aware of the hardness swelling under his breeches. He regretfully willed away his growing ardor, smiling as Madeleine clamped her mouth shut and glared at him. "You seem to have a limited vocabulary when it comes to English soldiers, Mistress Fraser. Perhaps you might try calling me by my Christian name."

  "I'll do nothing of the kind," she snapped. She braced her hands against his bare chest and pushed, but her efforts were futile. He held her too tightly, his arms as powerfully muscled as his chest . . . a fact which strangely excited her once more. Infuriated by her errant feelings, she threw her head back, her eyes crackling with fire. "Let me go!"

  "Garrett."

  Madeleine could see she had no choice in this verbal tug-of-war. "Garrett," she muttered through clenched teeth.

  Suddenly he released her, and she felt strangely bereft, but only for an instant. She stepped back, her temper flaring anew as her gaze swept the large room. Garrett's personal belongings were everywhere, his scarlet coat draped over the chair by the mahogany desk, his waistcoat and white shirt lying on the tartan bedspread, a massive, brass-bound trunk at the foot of the canopied bed . . .

  "What do ye think ye're doing in my father's room?" she demanded, her fists clenched.

  Garrett sobered, the smile fading from his lips. Her late father's room. He had guessed as much, from the masculine decor and heavy furnishings. He had also anticipated her response to this new intrusion, but there was no help for it. He needed the space and the privacy.

  "I have decided to use this room during my stay," he explained. "We've run short of space for an extra bunk in the dancing room, and the guest rooms are full."