She glanced back at Angus. He was staring at her strangely, as if he was surprised she hadn't thrown some sharp-tongued barb to send Garrett and his men on their way. She couldn't tell him she felt too numb and paralyzed by Garrett's betrayal even to mention his name.
Angus would never understand. He had no idea of what had passed between herself and Garrett—nor would he. It was her own private pain, her well deserved punishment for having trusted a redcoat, for having ever entertained the notion that she loved him. Aye, she was truly a fool.
"I dinna care where the major is bound, Angus," she said dully. "I think we should be more concerned with what's to happen to us now."
It was true enough, she thought, pushing the dirty straw on the floor with her boot. She didn't want to think about Garrett any longer. He had gotten what he had come for, and left. It was as simple as could be. He was gone from her life forever.
"I heard the guards talking outside the window," Angus said, easing himself down beside her. He grimaced, his body bruised and sore from last night's ambush. "They said something about Edinburgh Castle."
Madeleine nodded slowly. "Ye know what that means, Angus. There's a prison in the castle. 'Tis where our Lord Lovat's son, Master Simon, is being held." She smiled grimly. " 'Twould not be so bad to share a cell with our future chief."
When Angus did not readily answer, Madeleine turned slightly to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, deep concern etched on his ruddy face. She followed his gaze to where Ewen sat, his eyes closed, Duncan sleeping beside him, then over to Allan, who was wiping the feverish sweat from his younger brother's brow.
She sighed heavily, besieged by despair. Kenneth was very ill, maybe dying. It was not so much the bullet that had felled him, but the surgeon's disinterested and incompetent care afterward which placed his life in jeopardy.
It had been a terrible scene. Kenneth's agonized screams were the first thing she had heard when she regained consciousness. The removal of the ball from Kenneth's thigh had been accompanied by a great loss of blood, the surgeon's clumsy knife having only made things worse. Kenneth had fainted from pain, his hands still desperately clutching his brother's.
After the surgeon had staunched the bleeding and bandaged the ravaged leg, he had left the stable and never returned. The others could only tend to Kenneth as best they could, tearing strips of their clothing into rags which they soaked into their drinking water to soothe his raging fever.
Now it was clear their efforts had been in vain. Kenneth was deathly pale, his breathing raspy and shallow. Madeleine feared he would not survive the journey to Edinburgh, or even the next few hours. Dear God, when would the horrors end?
She was suddenly overcome by everything that had happened and by her own wretched helplessness. Her chin trembled, tears tumbling down her cheeks. She could not have stopped them if she tried, and she was forced to break her vow that she would never let her kinsmen see her cry.
"Och, Maddie," Angus crooned gently when he heard her sobbing. He put his arm around her shaking shoulders. " 'Tis not yer fault, if that's what ye're thinking. Kenneth knew the dangers when he chose to ride with us. We all did." He hugged her tightly. "We fought a good battle, Maddie Fraser. For a few months we helped our kin to survive."
"Farraline is gone, Angus!" Madeleine cried, her tears flowing unchecked. "Burned to the ground!" She shuddered, remembering last night's flames and the curling black smoke she had seen that morning when she peered from the stable window. She could well imagine the smoldering ruins. "How can ye say we've helped our kin when we brought this upon them? Now they've no homes, and the winter is coming—"
"Hush with ye!" Angus chided, giving her a firm shake. "Think, Maddie. Think of all ye've done! Aye, ye gave them food, but dinna forget ye gave them hope, too. Do ye think 'twill die so easily in their hearts?"
She sniffed, not answering him.
"Clan Fraser is a hardy lot, lass," he continued fervently. "They'll rebuild long before winter, ye can be sure. And there's food on Beinn Dubhcharaidh, plenty of food to last the winter. Ewen saw to it last night that his good wife knows where to find the cave, and so does Flora Chrystie. Ye dinna have to worry for the Frasers of Strathherrick, Maddie. Ye saw to that." He swore under his breath. "They'll prove that Hawley wrong. A Fraser wishing himself dead—'twill never happen!"
Madeleine sobs gradually quieted. She found comfort in Angus's words, though she had no idea what he'd meant by his last statement. She rested her head on his broad shoulder, wiping her face with her jacket sleeve. "Aye, I told Glenis to let Meg Blair's father know about the cave, too," she said. "I hope she's all right."
Angus's tone was reassuring, though his expression was somber. "Dinna fear for yer Glenis," he replied. "I'm sure she had the good sense to take refuge on the moor when she saw the redcoats coming. Remember what I told ye last night, soon after ye came out of yer faint?"
"Aye," Madeleine said softly. "Ye said ye had overheard General Hawley talking to Major Marshall, telling him he would spare the villagers' lives."
"That I did," Angus said, nodding gravely. "I thought 'twas important ye knew that, so ye wouldna worry. 'Twas bad enough ye were in such pain yerself, without fearing what was happening to yer kin. And ye shouldna fear for them now. Ye accomplished what ye set out to do." He paused, drawing a deep breath. "I was close enough to General Hawley to overhear a few other things, Maddie, but I wanted to wait 'til ye were feeling better to tell ye the rest."
Madeleine looked up at him. "What did ye hear, Angus?" she asked, puzzled.
"I believe I misjudged Major Marshall," he said quietly. "Ye were right to trust him, Maddie. I've never seen a more coldhearted bastard than General Hawley. He came to Farraline looking for Black Jack, just as Major Marshall warned he might. 'Twas by divine chance we came along when we did. If we hadna, 'twould not have been enough for Hawley to burn the village. He would have taken every life in Farraline without blinking an eye." He shuddered visibly. "I dinna think that bodes well for us in Edinburgh, lass."
Madeleine was shaken by his admission. She'd never have dreamed Angus Ramsay would ever say a good word about an Englishman. Sudden indignation seized her, sweeping away her chilling numbness.
"Aye, I trusted him, Angus," she said heatedly. "But Major Marshall lied to me. He said Hawley wouldna come to our village at all if Black Jack was found—"
"I think 'twas as much of a surprise for him to find General Hawley in Farraline as 'twas for us, Maddie," Angus interjected. "Major Marshall received quite a tongue-lashing for saying the whole matter could have ended peacefully, if only Hawley had been more patient."
Madeleine stared at him openmouthed, too stunned to speak.
"Major Marshall ordered the soldiers to stay the torches, Maddie. I heard him admit as much to the general. 'Twas Hawley who set his men upon the village once more, saying 'twould be a lesson for the rest of Strathherrick."
"Why are ye telling me this, Angus?" Madeleine demanded hoarsely, finding her voice at last. "We're on our way to prison in Edinburgh Castle, and the major," she hissed, "with his fine promotion, is on his way back to Fort Augustus. What does it matter?" She rose abruptly to her feet, but Angus caught her sleeve.
"I'm sorry, lass. We—we face such troubles ahead," he said falteringly, as if unsure how to express what he was feeling. "Last night, well, I've never seen ye so distraught. Ye're like a daughter to me, Maddie. I thought ye'd want to know what Major Marshall had done to help your kin, that's all . . . I dinna want ye to go on thinking he lied to ye, after ye trusted him so."
Madeleine broke away from him and hurried to the high window, wrapping her arms tightly about herself. She rested her forehead upon the sill, her thoughts a tangled confusion.
Garrett hadn't lied to her. She would never have believed it but for her Angus telling her it was so. Garrett had tried to stop the destruction . . .
She inhaled sharply as vivid memories of the night before flooded her mind. The flames, th
e raucous laughter, the screaming. Garrett's anxious voice, imploring her to drop the pistol.
Madeleine rubbed her temples, her head beginning to pound. Garrett's words came back to her in a rush. You can still trust me, Maddie . . . I told you the truth . . . You must believe me . . .
Yet she hadn't believed him. She would have shot him dead if that other officer—
A ragged moan broke from her throat, and she covered her face with her hands. Other memories, other words, crowded in upon her: Foyer's Falls, their night together, his fierce embrace, his words—his words! Garrett had said nothing would happen to her, not if he could prevent it.
Madeleine slowly lifted her head, her eyes blurred with fresh tears as she gazed searchingly out the window. There were redcoats all around, marching along the drive, walking in and out of her home, camped upon the back lawn, in the orchard, laughing and talking. Yet none of them was Garrett.
He was gone.
The awful finality of it struck her with resounding force, echoing in her mind. Garrett was gone. He had spoken those words before he knew she was Black Jack. She could expect nothing from him now. Nothing.
Shattering heartache suddenly gripped her, far worse than anything she could have imagined. She trembled uncontrollably, her hands curled into tight fists.
How she wished she still believed Garrett had betrayed her, if only to dull the pain tormenting her now. That he had forsaken her was more than she could bear.
"It doesna matter," she whispered fiercely, wiping angrily at her tears. "It doesna matter!"
Yet deep in her heart, it did matter. She could not deny it. She cared, and deep down she had begun to believe Garrett might care, too. Until now.
Chapter 24
London, England
Garrett yanked at his waistcoat in irritation, the stiff fabric him mad. He had become so accustomed to wearing a military uniform he had almost forgotten what it was like to dress in formal civilian clothes.
He tugged at the white muslin stock tied tightly around his neck, his fingers brushing against the frothy lace jabot. He winced uncomfortably. He couldn't say he had missed them. He felt like a preening peacock in his borrowed clothes, the pleated outer coat and breeches of plum velvet, the gold brocade waistcoat, the cream silk stockings and red-heeled shoes.
Either London fashions had become more outrageous, Garrett thought dryly, or his brother was stretching the limits of good taste. He sensed it was a bit of both. He had finally drawn the line at the curled tie-wig his brother's dresser had insisted he wear. He had no time or inclination for such frippery. It was enough he had agreed to Gordon's insistence that he change out of his travel-stained clothes the minute he walked in the door.
Garrett smiled thinly, recalling his brother's expression when he had entered the plush salon where Garrett was waiting for him. He was a study of unruffled composure, though Gordon's eyes had reflected his shock. And how like Gordon to demand Garrett change before they discussed his matter of great urgency, so that his stink and his mud-splattered clothes would not offend the household.
Garrett glanced about the library, which was clearly his brother's private domain. Well-dusted tomes stretched from floor to painted ceiling, a goodly portion of them from their late father's collection. The room was dominated by a massive desk placed near the high, arched windows overlooking fashionable street. Garrett could well imagine his brother sitting there, poring over letters and papers dealing with the king's business.
His eyes strayed to the crystal decanter on the mantelpiece. He could use a tumbler of brandy right now. He started to rise, then changed his mind and sat back down. He wanted to be completely clearheaded for the important discussion which lay ahead.
Garrett drummed his fingers impatiently on the stuffed armrest, wondering what was keeping his brother. He had journeyed at a devil's pace to get to London, the exhausting trip taking him just over four days with stops for fresh horses and brief respites for sleep. A few moments' wait might be trivial, but to him it seemed unbearable. Every instant that passed brought Madeleine closer to—
"So, Garrett, what is this urgent matter which has brought you so unexpectedly to London?" a deep, resonant voice sounded from the doorway, startling him.
Garrett stood up and turned to face his brother. "Gordon," he acknowledged stiffly, though he did not cross the floor to greet him. He thought fleetingly how little Gordon had changed in the two long years since he had last seen him.
His older brother was nearly as tall as he and slightly broader, with the same gray-green eyes as his own, but the resemblance ended there.
Gordon took after their father's side of the family, with his pale coloring and dark brown hair barely visible beneath his full powdered wig. He was probably considered handsome, with narrow, patrician features that had a somewhat hawkish look about them.
An undeniable air of authority clung to Gordon, tinged with studied restraint. He had a fearsome temper, which Garrett had witnessed on numerous occasions when it had usually been directed at him. The last occasion had been two years ago, just before Garrett left London to fulfill his commission. Their parting had been anything but convivial.
"You look well, brother," Gordon said, looking him over as he walked to stand by his desk. He smiled tightly. "The military seems to have agreed with you. You look hale and healthy, though a bit weary from your journey."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Garrett replied, attempting to keep the bitterness from creeping into his voice. By his brother's raised eyebrow, he knew he had failed utterly.
"Ah," Gordon murmured. "So the tone is set." He moved purposefully to the mantelpiece. "A brandy, Garrett?" he asked over his shoulder. He poured two tumblers without waiting for a reply, returning to hand one to Garrett. "Here, you seem tense. This might help you relax." He clinked his glass to Garrett's, then took a good swallow. "Go on, drink up. It's the best quality, I can assure you. You probably haven't tasted good brandy in some time."
Garrett set the untouched glass on the table next to his chair. "I'd rather talk first, Gordon. Perhaps I'll share a drink with you later."
"As you wish," Gordon said lightly, sitting down at his desk. "Dammit, man, at least take a seat. And you might cease that glowering." He chuckled wryly. "I've already surmised this isn't purely a social call or necessarily a friendly one."
Garrett resumed his chair, not taking his eyes from his brother. "It's a personal matter, Gordon, and I'll come right to the point. I take it you're still interested in possessing Rosemoor?"
Gordon's gaze widened slightly, his expression tightening. "An unexpected question, Garrett, I must admit," he said, leaning back in his chair. He swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, studying Garrett thoughtfully. "I'm sure you can guess my answer. Why do you ask?"
Garrett felt an oppressive weight lift from his chest, though he knew the battle was not won yet. "I may be interested in parting with it—for a small price, of course." He watched Gordon's face, gauging his reaction. He could see his brother was stunned, though he was trying hard not to show it.
"What has brought about this change of heart?" Gordon inquired shrewdly. "Gambling debts, perhaps? I've been told military officers spend much of their leisure in such idle diversion. Have you gotten yourself into a bit of financial trouble, Garrett?"
"Again, sorry to disappoint you," Garrett responded with a short laugh. "My finances are secure." He sobered quickly. "My price is this. I have a friend, a young woman I met in Scotland, who desperately needs my help. Unfortunately, I cannot help her without your assistance, Gordon."
"Have I heard you correctly?" he asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. "You puzzle me, Garrett. You speak of Rosemoor in one breath and a mysterious Scotswoman in the next."
"Exactly. They are intertwined, Gordon. If you are able to assist me in this matter to my full satisfaction, I shall present you with Rosemoor. Then we shall both have what we want."
Gordon did not reply for several long
moments, his eyes boring into Garrett's. His voice was barely above a whisper when at last he spoke. "You have captured my full attention, Garrett. Now, what has this woman done? It must be something serious for you to consider striking such a rare and priceless bargain." His gaze narrowed knowingly as Garrett sharply exhaled. "Ah, so it is just as I thought."
Garrett was not surprised by his brother's astuteness. "Her name is Madeleine Fraser," he began. "She's the daughter of a baronet who was killed at Culloden—"
"A Jacobite?" Gordon interjected archly. "I'm sure you can hear Father spinning in his grave. You and he were always far apart politically, but this . . ." At Garrett's frown he hastily apologized. "Go on. I'll not interrupt you again."
Garrett quickly recounted the entire story, doing his best to ignore Gordon's changing expressions: incredulity, contemplation, and grim humor. Finally a serious look settled on his countenance as Garrett relayed General Hawley's plans for his prisoners.
When Garrett finished, a weighty silence fell over the room. It seemed to stretch interminably, filling him with dread. He felt an added chill when Gordon tossed his head back and downed the fiery contents of his glass in one draft, then rose to refill it once again. He returned slowly, stopping in front of Garrett's chair. He lifted the tumbler as T in salute.
"I applaud you, Garrett," he said sarcastically, shattering the grim silence. "You could not have presented me with a more difficult task. A king's pardon, and the restoration of an estate, for a Highland wench nicknamed Black Jack who will shortly be tried for treason against the Crown, if she hasn't been already." He laughed under his breath. "If you were not dangling Rosemoor before me, I would have told you right out I could not help you." He paused, taking a quick sip. "Even so, I cannot guarantee my efforts will prove successful. You may find yourself alone and growing old in Rosemoor."
A Hint of Rapture Page 25