A Hint of Rapture

by Miriam Minger

  Chapter 21

  Madeleine slowed her fast sprint, stopping abruptly when she reached the bottom of the hill. Breathless, she bent over and rested her hands on her knees, her lungs burning as she inhaled great gasps of air.

  She always ran this last distance to the yew tree as hard as she could. It never failed to exhilarate her and clear her mind. She needed that more than ever tonight.

  She stood up, adjusting her black cap and checking to see that her thick braid was stuffed into her jacket. As she smeared powdery peat ash on her face, her gaze instinctively darted in the direction of the yew tree.

  The swirling fog had gathered so thickly here she could see only a few feet in front of her. Even the full moon was almost obscured from view, no more than a pale orb through the incandescent vapor. She wondered if the road to Inverfarigaig was buried in mist and fleetingly prayed it was not.

  Madeleine began to walk in what she believed was the right direction, allowing her instincts to guide her. She sensed it was near midnight. She had left Mhor Manor as she usually did, at quarter to eleven. Fortunately she hadn't encountered any obstacles that would have slowed her progress.

  She had easily slipped into the drawing room closet while the guard in the main hallway was idly chatting with one of his compatriots. The tunnel had offered no difficulty, other than the disgusting spiders clinging to the dank walls. The trapdoor at the far end had been harder to lift because of the water-soaked sod, but that had only taken her a few extra moments. So far, this night had been like any other.

  " 'Tisn't like any other," she whispered vehemently. She stopped for a moment to get her bearings.

  Why did she have the sensation that she was walking in the wrong direction? she thought irritably. Damn this fog! The yew tree couldn't be more than twenty feet away, yet at this rate she wouldn't find it unless she stumbled headlong into its gnarled trunk.

  A sudden noise startled her, and she whirled around, unable to see through the dense fog. Her heart knocked against her chest and her skin tingled with goosebumps.

  She could have sworn it sounded like a groan, but it had ended so abruptly she couldn't be sure. She turned in a slow circle, listening, her eyes straining for any hulking shapes that might be her kinsmen.

  A sharp whinny cut through the air. Madeleine nearly jumped out of her muddy boots.

  "Och, what's come over ye, Maddie?" she chided herself nervously. It was only one of her kinsmen's horses. She took a few steps in the direction she thought she had heard the whinny, then hesitated.

  Should she call out to them? she wondered anxiously. She was wasting precious time blundering about like this in the fog. If she didn't meet up with them soon, they would abandon the plan, thinking perhaps she had decided against it for tonight.

  Madeleine frowned, repelled by the thought. She had no intention of agonizing and waiting through another entire day. She quickly made up her mind.

  "Angus, 'tis Maddie!" she hissed, cupping her hand to her mouth. "Where are ye?"

  A long silence followed, then she heard a faint rustling somewhere off to her right. She tensed, holding her breath, then tried again. "Ewen? Duncan? Answer me!"

  "Aye, Maddie. Over here," a gruff male voice responded this time, again to her right.

  Relief poured through Madeleine's body, her legs feeling strangely weak. She hurried in the direction from which the voice had come, her boots making squishing noises in the soggy turf. She discerned the faint outline of a tree looming overhead—the ancient yew!

  Madeleine began to run, unaware of stealthy shapes moving in behind her, following her. She was almost to the tree when she heard a crackling sound, like a branch snapping in two, in back of her. She wheeled around but found only twisting fog and shadow. She did not see the dark forms pressed to the ground only five feet away from her, melding into the tufted peat.

  "A-Angus?" she stammered, stepping backward. She had a creeping sensation that something was terribly wrong. Surely her kinsmen would have been gathered by the tree, along with their horses. Where could they possibly be—?

  "Och!" she gasped, bumping into something hard. She felt strong hands suddenly grip her shoulders, then spin her around so roughly her head snapped back.

  "An odd time of night for a stroll, Madeleine," her captor said, "or should I say—Black Jack."

  Madeleine's eyes widened, her scream dying in her throat. "Garrett!" she exclaimed hoarsely, her mind reeling

  He had called her Black Jack! she thought wildly. Garrett knew she was Black Jack. He had said it with such certainty, such grim conviction. But how?

  "Aye, 'tis Garrett," he acknowledged, imitating a gruff Scottish burr. "Not yer Angus, or Ewen, or Duncan, as ye might have supposed, nor even yer two flame-haired Fraser kinsmen who put up quite a fight, I can tell ye."

  Madeleine drew a ragged breath as cold realization seized her. So it had been Garrett who answered her a few moments ago! He knew the names of her kinsmen. God's wounds, then the groan she heard must have been . . .

  "What have ye done with my kinsmen?" she blurted, wincing as his fingers bit cruelly into her arms. "Where are they?"

  "They live, Madeleine, which is more than I could have said if you'd ridden out to meet us on the road to Inverfarigaig as you had planned," Garrett answered bitterly. "That's the Highland way, isn't it, Maddie? Go out fighting, taking as many of the filthy redcoats with you as you possibly can? How glorious!" he spat furiously. "A bloody death befitting Strathherrick's brave outlaws, to be sung about for years to come around the ceilidh fire."

  Madeleine was stunned by his scathing words. Someone must have told him she and her kinsmen were meeting at the yew tree, perhaps the same person who had told him she was Black Jack. Who would have so betrayed her, even if it had spared her life, and the lives of her kinsmen, for a time? It had to be someone Garrett trusted, otherwise he would surely have never believed she was his outlaw.

  "Would you have taken me down as well?" Garrett inquired, his low-spoken question splintering her thoughts. His voice throbbed with undisguised anguish. "You're a hard lass to figure out, Maddie Fraser. You lie in a man's arms one night, then you plan to shoot him dead the next—"

  "No!" Madeleine cried, struggling against his viselike grip. "I'd never have shot ye!" She would have admitted more, but she was suddenly aware of someone standing directly behind her. She clamped her mouth shut and hung her head, overwhelmed by the spinning events.

  "What is it, Fletcher?" Garrett barked.

  "The captive, sir, the one who was shot—"

  "Who's been shot?" Madeleine rasped, twisting to peer at the sergeant.

  "Kenneth Fraser," Garrett answered for him. "At least that's the name Angus gave us. Angus Ramsay kindly provided us with all of your kinsmen's names, after a bit of reasonable persuasion."

  "What happened to Kenneth?" she demanded, not wanting to consider what that persuasion might have entailed. "Ye said my kinsmen were unharmed."

  "Not unharmed," Garrett responded grimly. "Alive." At Madeleine's horrified expression he softened his tone, but not by much. "Your kinsmen were roughed up a bit, Maddie, which is to be expected considering they did not wish to surrender easily."

  "That's putting it mildly, captain," Sergeant Fletcher growled under his breath. "It's a good thing the blokes didn't have time to draw their pistols." He grunted and fell silent at Garrett's dark look.

  "Kenneth was the only man shot," Garrett continued. "He had the good fortune to tackle with Rob Tyler, who didn't take kindly to being kicked in the groin or having his arm sliced open. If it had been one of my other soldiers, your Kenneth might very well be dead. Tyler's an excellent shot, even in a thick fog like this. He winged Kenneth in the leg to put him down." He glanced at Sergeant Fletcher. "What's the matter with the prisoner?"

  Madeleine started. Prisoner. Aye, that's what she and her kinsmen were now. Prisoners of Captain Garrett Marshall. No doubt to be handed over to General Hawley as soon as possible and their he
ads to be proudly displayed upon tall spikes within the week. Her stomach lurched queasily at the thought.

  "It's his wound, sir," Sergeant Fletcher replied, breaking into her morbid reverie. "The bleeding's stopped, but it needs attention we can't give him here. The same goes for Tyler's arm."

  "Very well, Fletcher," Garrett said. "Have the men mount up." He paused, his gaze sweeping Madeleine from head to foot, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. "Now that we've caught our Black Jack, there's no reason to linger."

  "Yes, sir." Fletcher turned around and appeared to address the mist. "Up with you, men, and onto your horses. Captain Marshall has the prisoner well in hand."

  Madeleine gasped as ten soldiers materialized out of the fog just behind her, some springing up from the uneven ground where they had crouched, hiding.

  "In case you had run the other way, instead of backing into me," Garrett said, reading her mind. "We couldn't risk losing you in this fog." He sighed raggedly. "Let's go, Madeleine."

  He walked with her to a beech grove where his bay was tethered, a short distance from the towering yew. The air was alive with sounds now, as all around them soldiers were mounting their horses, their voices raised and animated.

  Garrett said nothing as he drew a thick piece of rope from his saddlebag and tied it securely around her wrists.

  "I winna try to escape," she said dully.

  "I know," he replied. "It's for appearances. My men already suspect . . ." His voice trailed off, realizing he had said more than he wanted to right now.

  There would be time to talk later, when they were alone. He could well imagine the questions tumbling in her mind. How had he known to find her at the Fraser yew? How had he discovered she was Black Jack? All this and more he would answer for her, but not now.

  To Garrett's relief, Madeleine seemed to ignore what he had said. He lifted her onto the horse tethered to the same tree, then mounted his bay. He grabbed both sets of reins and nudged his horse with his boot. "Get on with you, Samson."

  He and Madeleine fell in line with the rest of the soldiers, though the fog was still so dense he could see no farther than the horse in front of him. That soon changed when they rode up the hill and left the swirling mist behind them. The moonlit sky reappeared, scattered with myriad twinkling stars. It felt as if they had left a place of shadow and danger for a world of tranquil order.

  Garrett studied Madeleine in the moonlight as she rode so silently beside him. He had to admit she looked exactly like the outlaw who had raided his camp, with her black jacket, trousers, and boots and her smudged face.

  Garrett's gaze swept the double line ahead of him, then he twisted in his saddle and assessed the small group behind him, checking to see that all was well. The subdued prisoners were flanked by soldiers. Their hands were trussed behind their backs, and thick ropes secured them to their saddles.

  The last had been an extra precaution and probably unnecessary, he conceded. He doubted the Highlanders would attempt an escape. Their fierce loyalty to Madeleine was too ingrained. They would go with her wherever she was taken, sharing whatever fate would be hers.

  Garrett gritted his teeth as a gut-wrenching sense of despair overwhelmed him. He glanced at Madeleine, but she was staring straight ahead of her. If she was aware he was looking at her, she gave him no indication.

  Her soiled face was haunting in its calm repose, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. She was so beautiful, this defiant, courageous, and passionate woman who had so captured his heart. And she was his notorious Black Jack. But no matter who she was or what she had done, his love for her had not changed. Yet an aching desperation gnawed at him, tearing his secret dream into tattered shreds.

  How was he possibly going to save her? Garrett raged silently. Apprehending her—and ambushing her hot-tempered kinsmen, for that matter—had been nothing compared to the dangers that loomed ahead. The biggest danger was General Hangman Hawley, the one brutal man who held the power of life and death over every Highlander. If he had his way, Madeleine would become the gallows' bride instead of Garrett's. Hawley had shown little mercy to Highland women before. Why should he now?

  Garrett's tortured thoughts were interrupted by a shocked gasp from Madeleine. For a moment he imagined she was looking at Loch Mhor as they skirted its northern bank, perhaps admiring its shimmering beauty in the moonlight. It was indeed a bewitching sight, the placid black water mirroring the night sky.

  "Och, no, please, it canna be," Madeleine breathed, her frantic whisper rising to a cry of terrible pain. "No, no!" She was gazing in horror toward Farraline, great sobs wracking her shoulders.

  "What is it, Maddie—" Then he saw it, his voice strangling in his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief as furious anger seized him.

  A bright orange glow rose above Farraline, lighting the sky like an aura of destruction. Towering flames shot up from thatched roofs while distant screams pierced the evening stillness.

  "Liar!" Madeleine screamed at him, hitting him with her clenched hands. "Ye lied to me. Ye said if I gave m'self up, this wouldna happen!" She hit him again, this time with every ounce of her strength. "I hate ye! Ye lied, ye blackhearted bastard! Ye lied!"

  Suddenly she violently kicked the sides of her horse. "On with ye! Go!" she yelled. The startled animal lurched forward, the reins snapping out of Garrett's hands.

  Madeleine grabbed the pommel and held on tightly, leaning low in the saddle. Her thighs gripped the horse's heaving sides, the pressure of her knees keeping the terrified animal on course. In an instant she had flown past the astonished soldiers, the horse galloping at a breakneck pace along the dirt road to Farraline.

  She did not hear Garrett's massive steed thundering behind her. She did not hear his desperate shouts for her to stop.

  All she heard was the blood roaring in her ears, the anguished cries tearing from her throat, and the terrible litany pounding in her brain, rising to a manic pitch.

  She should never have trusted a redcoat! She should never have trusted a redcoat!

  Chapter 22

  Madeleine raced into Farraline, her sweat-lathered horse almost crashing into a large group of English soldiers standing in formation near the intersection of the road and the village's main street. She frantically dodged the outstretched hands attempting to yank her from the saddle and kicked her horse onward.

  They careened along the main street, surrounded on every side by chaotic confusion. Everywhere Madeleine looked people were running. Soldiers waved lighted torches above their heads, and men, women, and children bolted from their smoke-filled cottages. Terrified screams, shrieks, and raucous laughter rent the air.

  Finally Madeleine's horse would go no further, rearing in fright and wildly flailing its hooves despite Madeleine's frenzied urging. She clutched at the horse's coarse mane until she could slide off the saddle, then began to run dazedly through the village.

  She coughed and wheezed, her lungs burning from the acrid smoke, her chest heaving painfully. Her eyes stung and tears spilled down her cheeks. She stumbled and fell heavily to her knees but dragged herself back up and ran on, her stricken mind barely comprehending the devastation before her.

  The cottages at the south end of Farraline were completely engulfed, rolling orange flames pouring from every blackened window and yawning door. Several dozen English soldiers were methodically setting fire to the thatched roofs of another row of cottages while officers on horseback guided their progress.

  Once again screams filled the air as villagers abandoned their homes at the last possible moment, forced out by the soldiers' warning shouts and the thick, billowing smoke. Madeleine spied Flora Chrystie, her tiny daughter in her arms, and her three boys fleeing to the safety of the moor with their neighbors.

  "Stop it, I tell ye!" Madeleine yelled hoarsely, overcome by blind rage. "Stop!" She dashed toward the nearest mounted redcoat, catching him from behind. Before the startled officer knew what had hit him, she had grabbed his wide belt and p
ulled him with all her might from his horse. She bent over and wrenched his pistol from his belt, clutching it with her tied hands.

  "Ye devil!" she cried, pointing the muzzle shakily at his ashen face. Her finger grazed the trigger, and she closed her eyes.

  "Madeleine, you can't stop it this way!"

  Garrett's anxious voice seared into her consciousness, and she whirled around just as he dismounted from his heaving horse a few feet away from her. His eyes were the color of slate, boring into hers as if demanding she acknowledge the desperate plea written there.

  "Put down the pistol, Madeleine," he said urgently. "I'll never be able to help you if you shoot someone."

  "No," Madeleine said numbly, shaking her head. She took a step toward him. "Ye lied, Garrett. I believed ye, trusted ye—"

  "You can still trust me, Maddie," he interjected, holding out his hands. "Everything I told you was the truth. I knew nothing of this. You must believe me."

  "No," she breathed fiercely, aiming the muzzle at his chest. "I thought ye were different, Garrett, but ye're the same as the rest of yer kind—"

  Suddenly she felt a sharp, sickening blow to the back of her head, and her words died on her lips. She staggered, blackness washing over her. The last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground was Garrett rushing toward her.

  "That'll teach the bastard," the young lieutenant grunted, patting the polished butt of his musket. He prodded Madeleine's prone body with his toe. "He's lucky I didn't put a ball right between his shoulder blades instead. He surely deserved it, pointing a gun in my face—"

  "Get away from her!" Garrett snarled, falling to his knees. He pushed off her black cap and cradled her head gently, relieved to see there was no swelling or bleeding. Her breathing was shallow but even, another good sign. At worst when she woke up she'd have a terrible headache.

  Garrett gathered Madeleine into his arms and stood up quickly, his eyes ablaze. "I'm Captain Marshall, assigned to this valley by General Henry Hawley. Who's in command here? Who gave you the order to burn this village?"