"Ye should have tried the stable first," Madeleine said bitterly. "Ye'd fit in nicely. There's plenty of room, now that most of the stalls are empty. Yer countrymen stole our finest horses, as well as our cattle and sheep."
Garrett was cut by her insult, though he did not show it. He knew there was great pain fueling her words, a sorrow that only time would heal.
Until trust grew between them, if it did at all, she would likely continue to hurl such insults at him. He would simply have to deflect them and keep his tem- per firmly in check. It would not further his plan to ash out at her, or to demand her compliance as one of the conquered.
If he stayed his course, perhaps he could crack her defiant exterior and expose the passionate woman beneath, a woman who might be willing to help him . . . and thereby help her people. These past few moments had already granted him a fleeting glimpse of desire burning in those incredible blue eyes. It seemed his effect on her was much the same as hers on him—a most intriguing discovery.
"I'm sure you can understand the stable would not be suitable," Garrett said, smiling faintly. "If there was another acceptable chamber on this floor, I would certainly—"
"There is, just down the hall," Madeleine interjected. "It's next to mine . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she flushed warmly, which only unnerved her further. She had never blushed so much before this man had entered her life.
She didn't want him to think she was suggesting anything, she thought, chagrined. She only wanted him to leave this room for another.
"What I meant to say," she began, groping for words, "is that there's a room . . . on the same side of the hall as my own."
"I know what you meant, and I already considered it," Garrett said gently, touched by her obvious embarrassment. "Unfortunately, that room faces the mountains," he continued. "Though it is a magnificent view, I prefer to stay here. These windows face the road and Farraline. As a commander, I must consider the safety of my men and our position. I'm sure you understand."
"Aye, I understand," Madeleine said hotly, "and I'll have ye understand this, Captain Marshall. Yer being in this room is an affront to my father's memory. Ye disgrace it with yer presence."
Garrett remained unperturbed. "I'm sorry you feel that way," he said. "I consider it an honor. Your father must have been a very brave and good man to earn such loyalty from his daughter." His voice fell. "I envy you. My late father and I were never very close."
Sudden tears glistened in Madeleine's eyes. "Aye, my da was a fine man," she barely managed, her throat tightening, "and I'd rather ye not speak of him. 'Tis an insult as well. He might still be alive if not for the treachery of yer kind."
Her words stung, and Garrett flinched imperceptibly. How he longed to take her in his arms again, to smooth back her hair and stroke her cheek and tell her that he deeply regretted the massacre at Culloden . . . that he had had no part in it.
The senseless slaughter was an act of inhumanity he would relive until his dying day. He carried a deep sense of shame within him, not only for the men who had committed the atrocities, but because he and a few other officers who felt the same had been powerless to stop it.
He took a step toward her, then restrained himself. No, this was not the time. She would spit the words back in his face and call him a liar. How could he blame her? She had never seen English soldiers behave in any manner other than abhorrently, like maddened beasts.
Have patience, man, he warned himself. You might have a chance with her, but only if you're patient. He turned and walked over to the washstand, where he picked up a thick bar of soap.
"I was just about to wash up for dinner," he said, changing the painful subject. "My cook, Jeremy Witt, has concocted a decent chicken stew in the kitchen tent he set up behind the house. He has also baked some of his famous pan bread. I'd be honored if you would reconsider my offer and join me. Perhaps we could eat in the dining room. My men won't bother us there. They seem to prefer eating under the stars, swapping stories in front of a blazing fire."
Madeleine stared at him as if he were insane. She blinked back her tears, her ire surging once more. "I dinna care about yer cook's chicken stew, nor his pan bread, and I hope yer men choke on their food! I told ye before, I'll never sup with the likes of ye."
Garrett smiled as he dipped the rough cloth into the basin of sudsy water. "You don't have to eat, then. Just sit with me," he said, scrubbing his face. "My Scots grandmother told me many stories about the Highlands, and I'm curious to hear more."
Madeleine gaped at him. If he'd suddenly grown horns and a forked tail, she couldn't have been more stunned. "Yer grandmother was a Highlander?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "Ye've Scots blood in ye?"
"Aye, that I do," Garrett said playfully, attempting a Scottish burr. He toweled himself dry. "She grew up in Edinburgh, but her people were one of the clans in the north.'
Now you've done it, he thought, watching her expression cloud and darken. It was obvious his rash tongue had only made things worse.
"What clan might that be?" Madeleine asked, though she already sensed his answer. Many of the clans in the northern Highlands had fought under King George's banners at Culloden, traitors against their own people.
Garrett threw the towel on the stand. He sighed heavily. "Clan Sutherland."
Madeleine's tone was scathing. "So, now I not only have a horde of redcoats under my roof, but their fine commander's Scots blood is traitorous to boot. To think ye'll be sleeping in my father's bed. I hope he comes back to haunt Mhor Manor, and I hope he runs his sword right through yer black traitor's heart!"
"Madeleine . . ."
"Dinna Madeleine me. Ye've no right, same as ye've no right to be staying in this room and no right to be here in my house!"
She turned and fled down the hallway, ignoring his calls for her to stop. Once in her room, she slammed the door shut behind her and locked it. She heard his footsteps approaching and her breath caught in her throat.
"Ye better not think to enter my room by force, ye devil," Madeleine mumbled, her back to the door. She pulled up her skirt and reached for the dirk she always wore strapped to her right thigh, ever since the day the soldiers had plundered her home.
It was the last gift her father had given her, smaller than most such weapons, with a silver hilt especially made to fit her hand. She held the razor-sharp blade against her breast and waited in the darkness of her room, listening.
She exhaled as his footsteps stopped abruptly and retreated back down the hallway. She waited a short while longer, then sheathed the dirk. She walked over to the bedside table, struck a flint, and lit a thick, tallow candle. As golden light filled the room, she noticed her fingers were shaking.
Bastard! she fumed, moving to her wardrobe. She changed quickly into a dark gray gown of coarse wool, suitable for her furtive outing. Then she sat on the bed and deftly braided her hair, securing it with a black ribbon. She flung the braid over her shoulder and fell back on the mattress, pounding it in annoyance.
If only she could leave for Farraline now! She couldn't wait to talk to her kinsmen, and she knew exactly what she was going to say. No more indecision wracked her.
She would do everything in her power to persuade them to continue the raids, whatever the danger. She was not going to allow this English dog, this . . . this Captain Garrett Marshall, to deter her from aiding her people.
Madeleine sat up and blew out the candle, then settled herself on the mattress again. She reached over and pulled a soft pillow under her head, closing her eyes.
A vision of Garrett appeared unbidden before her, just as she had seen him only moments before: his long, lean form bent over the washstand, his strong profile etched in the lamplight, water dripping from his tanned face and down his broad chest, over glistening blond curls. She saw his flashing smile, his startling gray-green eyes studying her, unnerving her, as if he could guess what she was thinking and feeling . . .
Madeleine punched her pillow angrily, forci
ng the disturbing image from her mind. It was not so easy to dispel the memory of his powerful embrace. Wholly frustrated, she grabbed the tartan blanket folded neatly at the end of the bed and covered herself, then rolled over onto her side.
Aye, she would go on with her raids right under his nose, she thought defiantly, tucking her legs beneath her. And she would relish every minute of it!
She yawned, growing drowsy. After a short nap she would set out through that secret tunnel, her mission clearly before her. Her decision had been made. There would be no turning back.
Chapter 7
Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows, blinding Madeleine as she opened her eyes. She pulled the blanket over her face and yawned. She could hear birds chirping outside and squirrels busily chattering along with the gently rustling leaves and creaking branches stirred by a soft breeze. They were such lovely sounds, she thought drowsily. She loved summer mornings . . .
Summer mornings! Suddenly Madeleine threw back the blanket and sat up, squinting against the brightness.
"God's wounds, girl, ye've slept the whole night away," she said to herself, exasperated. Obviously yesterday's excitement had proved too much for her. She cast the blanket aside in disgust and rose from the bed.
She was stiff and sore from sleeping at such an awkward angle, crosswise, with her legs curled up beneath her, and she winced painfully. She stood on tiptoe and stretched her arms high above her head, then dropped them to her sides. She took a few steps, almost tripping because her skirt and her linen petticoat were tangled about her legs.
She shook the material out vigorously. Her gaze darted to the porcelain clock on the mantelpiece, one of her few belongings that had escaped the soldiers. It was quarter past eleven.
Madeleine sighed heavily, furious with herself. So much for giving her kinsmen advance warning and alerting them to their new danger, she thought bitterly. By now they would have heard from someone else that English soldiers were billeted at Mhor Manor. News traveled fast in Strathherrick, especially when it had anything to do with redcoats.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it now. She would have to wait until later that afternoon to tell them her decision. She had a christening to attend first. She had promised Flora she would be there, and she never broke a promise.
She opened her wardrobe, her hand drifting across the small collection of better gowns hanging to the left side of her everyday wear. Her fingers lovingly caressed the three gowns she had inherited from her mother, gowns of silk, point lace, and satin, with quilted brocade underskirts.
Lady Jean Fraser had worn them long ago, during trips with her husband to Edinburgh and Glasgow. She had been a well-educated woman, fond of the theater and opera, and Sir Hugh had lovingly indulged her cultured tastes and love of finery. She had just begun to instill such interests in Madeleine when she died so tragically, bitten by a venomous adder while picking brambles in the woods.
Sir Hugh never went to the theater again, and he traveled very little. When Madeleine asked him once if they could journey to Edinburgh to see a Shakespearean play, he had quietly refused her. Even as a young girl, she sensed such diversions were simply too painful for him, evoking memories of happier days. She had never asked again.
Madeleine absently smoothed a satin flounce. The gowns were still considered fashionable thirteen years later, at least in the Highlands, though she didn't care one whit about fashion. It merely pleased her that they fit her so well and had belonged to her mother. Occasionally she would try them on in secret and whirl in front of the oval full-length mirror, the shimmering fabrics bringing hazy recollections, of the beautiful, chestnut-haired woman who had once worn them.
Her hand skimmed over her other gowns. Simpler in design and fabric, they had been made especially for her by an accomplished seamstress in the village and were reserved for special occasions. She smiled. Today was such an occasion.
Madeleine chose a gown of printed linen, admiring the delicate pattern as she lifted it from the wardrobe. It was very pretty, with lilac stripes on a cream background and sprigs of rose, lemon-yellow, and green. She laid it out carefully on the bed so as not to wrinkle it, then began to strip off her drab gray dress.
A sharp knock on the door startled her, and she immediately thought of Garrett. Her heart began to pound. If he had come to ask her to have luncheon with him . . .
"Who's there?" she called, rushing to the wardrobe. She grabbed a white cambric robe and whirled it around her shoulders.
"Glenis, lass," her servant called through the door. "Ye've slept so late I thought I should wake ye. I dinna want ye to miss the christening."
Madeleine unlocked the door and pulled it open. She was relieved, yet she felt an odd twinge of disappointment. She shrugged it off. "Ye're just in time to help me into this gown, Glenis. I fear 'tis one time I'll not be able to get by without those blasted stays."
Glenis's furrowed face broke into a smile, and she chuckled as she set a tall pitcher filled with warm water on the washstand. She turned to the armoire and pulled out the top drawer. "So ye'll be dressin' like the true lady ye are, eh, Maddie?" she teased, filling her arms with linen underclothes and a starched petticoat. She plopped them on the bed. "Well, let's be at it."
After Madeleine quickly bathed, she drew on the lace-edged chemise and drawers, then held firmly to the bedpost as Glenis laced her stays with an astounding vigor that belied her advancing age. "Ye'll strangle me for sure if ye pull any tighter," she protested. "I can hardly breathe."
" 'Tis the proper way," Glenis replied, smiling her approval as she tied the starched petticoat around Madeleine's narrow waist. "No wider than a man's two hands may span it."
Madeleine rolled her eyes at that statement but said nothing. She would not spoil Glenis's enjoyment. She slipped into the gown, adjusted the square-cut bodice which was a bit low for her taste, then finally drew on her best pair of brogues. She quickly undid her braid, brushing her hair until it shone, and secured it with two silver combs.
"Ye look lovely, Maddie!" Glenis exclaimed. "I wish I could see ye like this more often. Ye're as pretty as a picture."
" 'Tis not practical, and ye well know it," Madeleine objected mildly. "Not with what I'm about."
Glenis's smile faded. Her voice fell to a whisper. "How did it go last night, lass? What have ye and yer men decided?"
"I dinna make it to Farraline," she said dryly. "I fell asleep, and only awoke a short while ago." She ignored Glenis's pleased expression. "I'll be seeing the men later."
" 'Tis just as well, lass," Glenis said. "Ye needed the rest. And there was a fierce storm last night, with the wildest thunder and lightning."
"I dinna hear it," Madeleine said. It seemed the house could have come down about her ears and she wouldn't have known it, she thought with annoyance.
"Och, 'twas bad. I couldna sleep for the racket. 'Tis glad I am ye were safe in yer bed, though I wished I'd known it at the time. I wouldna have prayed so hard!"
Madeleine could not help laughing. "Come on, Glenis, let's go downstairs. I'll have to grab a wee bite of something, then be on my way if I'm to make it to the church by one o'clock. I left the cart at Flora's, and I canna ride in this dress, so I'll have to walk."
She stopped midway to the door and glanced at Glenis. "Are the soldiers about this morning?" she asked. She had no wish to run into Garrett. If he was somewhere in the house, she would attempt to avoid him altogether.
"Only a few," Glenis replied, frowning. "The rest set out for God knows where just after dawn. One of the sly foxes must have stolen the scones I baked. They were gone from the table when I went into my kitchen."
Madeleine cursed under her breath, but not for the missing scones. She had a strong suspicion Garrett and his men had set out to survey the valley, perhaps searching for any clues as to the whereabouts of the outlaw he was seeking.
It was just as well, she decided. If he was snooping about the valley, then he wouldn't be minding wha
t she was doing. That was fine with her!
***
The sun was blazing high in the sky when Madeleine stepped from the small stone church, cradling the sleeping infant in her arms. She held up her hand, shielding the tiny, pink face from the warm sunshine while Flora put a frilly lace cap over her daughter's head.
"Well, Mary Rose Chrystie, ye're baptized fine and proper now," Madeleine said and tenderly kissed the babe's cheek.
"Aye, she did well," Flora said with a smile. "Not a peep out of her, not even a burp to startle the minister."
Madeleine smiled as she gently handed the child to Flora. She looked down the narrow street to where Flora's three boys were playing with several other children. Their shrieks of laughter and boisterous shouting rent the air.
"Mary Rose winna sleep for long with that din," she said, chuckling, "but I wouldna think of quieting them. 'Tis like music to hear them laugh so."
Flora nodded, rocking the baby in her arms. "Would ye join us for luncheon, Maddie? I've made a fine roast."
Madeleine shook her head, her expression apologetic. "I canna, Flora, but thank ye for asking. I must see to some business with Angus Ramsay. With those redcoats stationed at Mhor Manor, the men in the village must know what I've been able to glean from the captain."
"I understand," Flora said softly. "Ye dinna have to explain." She looked at Madeleine with concern. "I'm afraid for ye, Maddie. I talked to Kitty this morning, and she's grateful ye thought of her welfare. But I have the same fears for ye. All those soldiers sleeping under yer roof. I've heard such terrible stories about what's happened to so many women . . ." She shuddered.
"Dinna worry, Flora," Madeleine tried to soothe her. "Captain Marshall seems to be an honorable man, more so than any other redcoat I've seen. He'll keep his soldiers in line."
She nearly bit her tongue in surprise. She'd never said a kind word about any English soldier before. It felt strange, but it was the truth. At least from what she had seen of Garrett's manners so far. He had been quite the gentleman since his arrival at Mhor Manor, except for the incident in her father's room.
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