A Hint of Rapture

by Miriam Minger

  "I wonder what I've done to deserve such fine treatment," Garrett said with a thin smile. "I only wish I had done it sooner."

  Madeleine couldn't tell if he was jesting or not, and she certainly wasn't about to tell him the truth behind her presence in his room. She chose to ignore his statement and glanced over at the sergeant.

  "Could ye kindly push that chair closer to the bed?"

  Sergeant Fletcher nodded and quickly did as she asked. She sat down and cradled the bowl of broth in her hands.

  "That's enough talk for now, captain—"

  "Please," he cut her off, his expression sobering, his eyes serious. "Garrett. And I'd be honored if you would allow me to call you Madeleine."

  Madeleine stared at him and then shrugged. 'Twas no harm in it, she decided. She would humor him, for now.

  "Very well, Garrett. Glenis's orders were for ye to eat this broth, but only a little at a time." Ignoring his unsettling gaze, she concentrated on holding the spoon to his mouth and tilting it. He swallowed weakly and smiled again.

  "That's good. More, please . . . Madeleine."

  She almost laughed out loud in spite of herself. "I told ye, Glenis said slowly."

  His hunger was a good sign, she thought as she fed him more. She blushed anew when she spilled some broth on his upper chest, the liquid disappearing beneath his bedshirt.

  "I-I'm sorry," she said uncomfortably, setting down the bowl. " 'Twas so clumsy of me." She undid the buttons and wiped his chest and tautly muscled abdomen with a linen napkin, not daring to look at his face. Her fingers shook as she refastened his shirt, and she fumbled with the last few buttons.

  "It's no matter, Madeleine," Garrett said softly, bringing his hands up to cover her own. She started, meeting his eyes, and for an instant she was lost, aware of nothing but his touch and the heated expression in his gaze.

  Sergeant Fletcher's embarrassed cough finally broke the spell between them. Madeleine's heart thundered as she slid her hands from beneath Garrett's and reached for the cup of tea. "Glenis said ye're to drink this down. It's her special remedy."

  "What's in it?" Garrett asked with a smile. He sniffed the dark, clouded liquid and eyed her skeptically.

  "Never ye mind. Now drink. 'Tis no longer hot, so it winna burn yer throat."

  He took a sip and grimaced. "I'd say there's a bit of Scots whiskey in this tea." He wheezed, his eyes smarting. He took a longer draft. "I'd swear to it." He lifted the cup and gamely finished it off, presenting it to her with a small flourish. "You must tell Glenis I enjoyed the broth and the tea very much. And I especially enjoyed your kind assistance, Madeleine."

  Flustered by the quiet intensity in his voice, Madeleine rose to her feet. "Ye must rest, Garrett. Could ye ease up a bit so I might fix yer pillows?"

  Garrett leaned on one elbow as she plumped the pillows. Suddenly he winced in pain, his hand flying to the knot on his head. He touched it gingerly.

  "That's where the bloke hit you, captain, whoever he was," Sergeant Fletcher said, looking at his commanding officer with concern. "We searched the entire area around the house, but there was no trace of him, not even footprints. It's like he was swallowed up by the moor."

  Madeleine's eyes widened. If the sergeant only knew how close he was to the truth. She bent over Garrett and tucked the tartan bedspread around his lean waist, very much aware that he was watching her. She felt a shiver and stepped away from the bed. "There now, Garrett. Ye can lie back."

  He did so, exhaling sharply, and it was clear to Madeleine that his small movement had taxed him greatly. He would no doubt remain bedridden for several days, which was fine with her. While Garrett was recuperating she could resume her raids without fear (This personal intervention.

  Now that he was feeling better, her conscience was soothed. Well, only somewhat, she admitted to herself. Yet Glenis and Sergeant Fletcher would have to see to Garrett without her now. She had to plan her raids. Just last night Ewen had sent word to her through Duncan, who had passed himself off as a blacksmith looking for work, asking when they would ride again. She would no longer make her kinsmen wait.

  She picked up the tray and turned to leave but stopped when Garrett gently touched her arm.

  "Would you sit here with me awhile, Madeleine?" he asked quietly, staring into her eyes. "Please. I'd appreciate your company. Fletcher will take the tray back to the kitchen, won't you, sergeant?"

  Before Madeleine could refuse, the sergeant walked over and took the tray from her. "It will give me a chance to fetch some lunch for myself, if you don't mind, Mistress Fraser," he said. He moved briskly to the door. "I'll be back shortly." Then he was gone, leaving Madeleine standing awkwardly beside the bed.

  "Please . . . sit down," Garrett bade her.

  Madeleine sighed softly, then sat, deciding there was no harm in lingering for a little while. She stared at her folded hands, not knowing quite what to say. She hadn't expected this at all.

  "Sergeant Fletcher told me I've been out for four days," he said, breaking the silence. "I can hardly believe it. That must have been some bump on the head."

  Madeleine winced. She coughed slightly and raised her head. "Aye, ye gave us quite a scare . . ." She faltered, her cheeks suddenly very warm. "I mean yer men, they've been worried sick for ye, and Sergeant Fletcher—well, Glenis and I thought for sure he'd fall ill himself when ye became delirious. He was so upset that we had to send him outside for fresh air."

  He chuckled, and she smiled. His face looked so boyishly handsome when he laughed, so honest and open. If not for the fact that he was a redcoat, she might have liked this man.

  Madeleine looked away, disturbed by her thoughts.

  "I suppose I filled your ears with a lot of nonsense," Garrett said, startling her. "I've seen people with fevers before. My father had one just before he died, as did my grandmother. It's like listening to someone's nightmare."

  She stared at him, wondering if he was well enough for her to ask him about Culloden. She quickly decided against it when he grimaced and his hand strayed to his bruised forehead. His memories were obviously painful, perhaps too painful to discuss right now. In a few days she would ask him, when he was more fully recovered.

  "Ye did mumble a bit," Madeleine allowed. "Well, it was more swearing, really."

  "Swearing?"

  "Aye. Ye dinna have kind words to say for Gordon, or Celinda."

  Garrett seemed stunned for a moment then laughed softly, but Madeleine sensed there was no humor in it.

  "Gordon, the earl of Kemsley, is my older brother," he replied, his tone edged with bitterness. "It's because of him I'm in the military. He bought a commission for me as a token of his high esteem and affection," he added sarcastically.

  "Ye were forced?" Madeleine asked, confused.

  Garrett smiled wryly. "In a way. I could have turned it down, but our family honor demanded I accept. I've one year left, then I'm a free man."

  Madeleine's mind raced. So Garrett was an aristocrat. That explained his gentlemanly ways and refined speech. She knew the English army was a common refuge for younger sons of the nobility, who usually possessed no estate of their own.

  Perhaps the earl had been thinking of Garrett's welfare and provided him with a profession, at least for a few years. Yet it was clear Garrett resented what had happened to him. Had he been forced to leave a woman behind, a mistress, a betrothed? Celinda?

  Garrett's fingers lightly touched her arm, dispelling her thoughts but not the twinge of jealousy that pricked her.

  "Now I believe I should thank Gordon," he said, staring at her intently. "This is the most pleasant assignment I've ever had, because I met you." Madeleine's eyes stared into his, and her skin tingled from his featherlight touch. Perplexed, she shifted uncomfortably in her chair and drew her arm away.

  "And who is Celinda?" she asked, trying to keep her voice nonchalant. As Garrett looked at her curiously, she had the strangest feeling he could sense how furiously her heart was poundin
g.

  "Celinda is Gordon's wife," he replied. "We courted for a time, but she opted for my brother's title."

  "I'm—I'm sorry," Madeleine stammered, surmising she had touched a raw nerve. No wonder he had cursed Celinda's name. To be so slighted, and for his own brother! How terrible. Garrett must have truly loved Celinda to express such emotion in his delirium.

  Discomforted by that thought, she rose from the chair. "Forgive me for prying, Garrett. Ye really should rest now." She gasped as he caught her hand.

  "Celinda was a youthful fancy, nothing more, Madeleine," he said, stroking her trembling fingers with his thumb.

  "Ye dinna have to explain—"

  "There's no one else," he insisted, leaning up on his elbow.

  Why was he telling her this? she wondered wildly, her pulse racing. She didn't care, or did she?

  "What of you, Maddie Fraser?" Garrett asked suddenly, causing her heart to skip a beat. "An enchanting woman like yourself—"

  "Humph! Ah, excuse me, captain," Sergeant Fletcher said loudly, clearing his throat as he pushed open the door. "I've brought you some more hot tea."

  Madeleine snatched her hand away as she felt her cheeks firing bright pink. She glanced from the grizzled soldier to Garrett. His eyes clearly showed his disappointment at the sudden interruption.

  "Lie back with ye now," she said briskly, attempting to mask her rampant emotions. She smoothed the tartan spread and stepped away from the bed, threading her fingers together nervously. "Ye must see that he gets some rest, Sergeant Fletcher," she advised, passing by him as she walked quickly to the door. "If ye need anything, ye've only to ask."

  "Madeleine," Garrett called out to her.

  She leaned for an instant on the door frame and drew a steadying breath before she turned around. "Aye?"

  "I owe you and Glenis my life. I'm grateful to you."

  She felt a dizzy rush of warmth as his eyes bored into hers, and her knees grew weak. Embarrassed by his sincerity, she flashed him a small smile, then fled the room.

  Madeleine leaned against the wall just outside the room and closed her eyes. She could not deny that his words had pleased her.

  Whatever was the matter with her? She had never felt so breathless and giddy in her life! It was almost as if Garrett wielded some mysterious power over her whenever she was near him, eliciting a strange yearning within her she could not comprehend. A yearning such as she had felt at the loch, shattering her reason and her will. A yearning that frightened her—

  "If you're up to it, captain, maybe you could tell me what happened the other night."

  Madeleine froze as she overheard Sergeant Fletcher's words, her eyes snapping open. Her jumbled emotions receded into the background. She listened carefully, scarcely breathing.

  "I think it was Black Jack," Garrett began, describing his pursuit of a black-clad figure across the moor until the moment he was struck on the head. "I could swear it was he. I believe we've been searching too far afield, Fletcher. Perhaps this outlaw resides nearby, maybe in the mountains directly to the east, maybe even in Farraline. I want you to double the guards at night, and we'll also begin patrolling the village."

  Madeleine swore softly. She should have been more careful, but she hadn't expected anyone to be out on the moor at that time of night. Now her task would be harder than ever.

  "I've some important news for you, Captain Marshall, especially in light of what you just told me. It came by special courier yesterday from Colonel Wolfe. Perhaps we should discuss it later, if you're feeling tired."

  "I'm fine, except for this blasted ache in my head. What is the news?"

  "Black Jack and his men raided another supply train, just north of Inverfarigaig, on the night you were injured. It could very well have been he out on the moor, on his way back from the raid."

  "Damn!"

  "It seems our presence hasn't daunted the bastard in the least, captain."

  "Was there anything else in the message?"

  "Yes. I've got it right here."

  Madeleine heard the crisp rustling of paper, then another vehement outburst from Garrett.

  "Three weeks? He's given us only three weeks to capture the outlaw? The colonel must be mad, or, more likely General Hawley had something to do with it. He probably lost more of his precious wine in that supply train."

  Madeleine gulped. There had been several casks of wine in one of the front wagons. Since wine was useless to them, Kenneth and Allan had dumped the casks into Loch Ness, to make more room in the wagon for foodstuffs.

  They had lowered their voices, and she couldn't hear them. Frustrated, she crept closer to the door. What she heard then filled her with apprehension.

  "I think it's time I tell Madeleine about our mission."

  "Why, captain? She's just a slip of a girl. What could she possibly know about Black Jack?"

  "She's the mistress of Farraline, Fletcher. The Frasers of Strathherrick are her people. She must know something about what's going on in this valley. If I bring our mission out into the open, she might be willing to help us. Especially if she knows the danger her people face if Black Jack isn't captured soon."

  "You would trust her with this information, captain? A Highland wench? Say she does know Black Jack's whereabouts. What if she warns him and we never find him?"

  "We'll have to take that risk. I have no choice but to trust her. Three weeks is not a long time, Fletcher, and you know Hawley. Madeleine may be our best chance to end this peacefully. I only hope she'll trust me enough to believe what I tell her."

  "Would you like me to talk to her, sir? You should rest, at least for another day or so. You look tired, and I've burdened you enough already."

  "No, I'll take care of it. I'm sure I'll soon feel more like myself."

  "I hope so, captain. You gave me the devil of a scare. I'll leave you now so you can get some sleep."

  Madeleine blanched and backed quickly away from the door. She held her breath as she hurried along the hallway and down the stairs. She didn't stop until she had reached the kitchen, where she slumped into a chair.

  So Garrett was planning to take her into his confidence and to ask her questions about Black Jack. Well, she had some questions of her own. She rested her forehead in her hands, her mind reeling.

  What was this danger he had mentioned? Did it have something to do with what he had said last week about innocent people suffering and bearing the blame? How did that fat swine, General Hawley, fit into all this?

  Exasperated, she slammed her small fist on the table. She didn't have time to sort it all out now. Her kinsmen were waiting for her in the village, waiting to plan their next raid. She'd sent a message to Ewen saying she would meet them that afternoon at Angus's cottage if she could get away.

  With so many people to feed in Strathherrick, the food they'd stolen a few nights ago would not last much longer, and the stores hidden in the cave on Beinn Dubhcharaidh were being depleted with each passing day. She did not have time to waste wondering what the redcoats were up to. Besides, if Garrett was true to his word she would know the answers to her troubling questions soon enough.

  Madeleine grabbed a thick woolen shawl from a peg by the kitchen door and wrapped it securely around her, covering her head. She opened the door and stepped out into the drizzling rain, ignoring the guards' curious stares as she sloshed along the puddle drive.

  If she had her way, they would set out on another raid that night. It would be the very distraction she needed to free her mind from what she had just overheard and the strange foreboding that still gripped her.

  Chapter 12

  Garrett groaned as he drew on his shirt, waving away Sergeant Fletcher, who was standing nearby. He had never known his muscles to feel so tight and sore. His trembling fingers worked at the buttons one by one while he stood somewhat shakily in the middle of the room. Finally he was done. He reached for his coat, staggering ever so slightly. The sergeant rushed to his side and caught his arm.

&nbs
p; "Captain, are you sure you want to do this? Another day won't matter so much. Perhaps you should stay in bed—"

  "I'm fine, Fletcher," Garrett insisted sharply, for what seemed like the hundredth time. He shrugged on his coat. "You're worse than a nagging nursemaid."

  When he saw his sergeant's wounded look, he chided himself for his thoughtlessness. The man had had much to do with his recovery. He softened his tone. "Don't worry, Fletcher. It's time I got up on my feet. Lying in bed another day won't make it any easier for me to regain my strength. I've got to start moving around again, go walking, riding. I need some fresh air—it's the best cure I can think of."

  "Very well, captain," Sergeant Fletcher said, though he did not look completely convinced.

  "I know what you're thinking," Garrett said wryly. "But it won't happen again. I feel better already, just standing here."

  He remembered all too clearly his first attempt to rise from the bed yesterday, not long after Sergeant Fletcher had left the room to let him sleep. His legs had buckled beneath him, and he had crumpled to the floor. The sergeant had rushed in to find him on his knees clutching the bedspread, vainly trying to stand.

  He would have tried again if it hadn't been for Sergeant Fletcher's strong insistence that he resign himself to one more day of bed rest. Glens had vehemently seconded the opinion later, when she heard about his futile effort. He smiled as he recalled her heated words.

  "How dare ye get out of bed when ye're just over the fever," she had scolded him. "I dinna nurse ye these past four days to see ye take sick agin, Captain Garrett Marshall. Ye'll do just as the good sergeant has asked ye, and as I'm tellin' ye!"

  She reminded him of his grandmother at that moment, with her hands on her narrow hips and her dark eyes flaring. He had no intention of crossing her. He had obediently remained in bed, and she had rewarded him with the best beef stew he had ever tasted, and more of that fiery Scots tea. He slept more soundly after that meal than he had in days.

  Garrett's stomach suddenly rumbled. It was so loud that Sergeant Fletcher laughed.