A Hint of Rapture

by Miriam Minger

  "What the hell does that mean?" Garrett shouted angrily, jumping to his feet. "Either you can help me or you can't!"

  Gordon grabbed the glass on the table, sloshing some of the brandy onto the carpet. He shoved the glass at Garrett. "Drink this," he demanded between clenched teeth. "When you're calmer, we'll talk." He walked around the desk, pausing to peer out the window as a glossy black carriage clattered to a halt near the front door. His tone softened somewhat. "Ah, Celinda must have completed her afternoon calls." He turned around just as Garrett slammed his empty tumbler on the table.

  "There, I feel better," Garrett said, his throat burning. "Do we have an agreement, Lord Kemsley?"

  Gordon nodded, eyeing Garrett steadily. "I will draft a petition of pardon and present it to the king tomorrow morning. I well understand the need for haste in this matter. "

  "What will you tell him?"

  Gordon impatiently waved off Garrett's question. "Leave the particulars to me, Garrett. I know the king's mind. His Highness has an intense dislike for Jacobites, as you've seen displayed in the duke of Cumberland's and Hawley's recent behavior, both being sons after his own heart."

  "I'd call them butchers," Garrett spat.

  "Now, now, brother, you'd best be careful what you say, or you might find yourself being tried for treason," Gordon warned, throwing him a dark look.

  Garrett's jaw tightened, his eyes flaring. "Don't even think of it. You know such a scheme would only drag you down with me, blackening your name along with mine. "

  "Believe me, Garrett, I realized long ago that that idea lacked potential," Gordon commented dryly. He began to pace behind his desk, idly playing with the frothy white lace at his throat. "A young woman stealing food to save her starving people . . . Well, even if she is a Jacobite the story does have a decided touch of pathos."

  "Pathos?" Garrett snorted. "You have a gift for reducing brave and desperate acts to a matter of little consequence, Gordon. You should see what's been done to the Highlands, see the innocent people struggling to survive on what little we've left to them."

  Gordon pointedly ignored his outburst. "Yes, it just might sway the king," he considered aloud. "After all, the Highland Scots are his subjects as well, though they'd be the last to admit it. King George has already effected pardons for some of the misguided fools who participated in the uprising. Why not pardon a woman who has wisely seen fit to charm an English officer?" Suddenly he stopped pacing to stare at Garrett.

  "What?" Garrett snapped, glaring back at him.

  "You said you love this wench?" Gordon queried. "Perhaps, then, you're even considering a marriage?"

  "Her name is Madeleine," Garrett corrected him, "and yes, that is my hope, if she'll have me. After what Hawley did the other night, she's more likely to spit in my face."

  "It's perfect," Gordon said to himself. "That might be exactly the point to sway him."

  "What are you talking about?"

  Gordon set down his glass and came around the desk to stand in front of Garrett. "You're a fool if you think the king will restore a forfeited estate to a pardoned criminal," he said harshly. "What guarantee does King George have that she won't begin her disruptive activities again?"

  Garrett shook his head, unable to answer.

  "Exactly. So what I propose is this. Offer the wench a choice. If she agrees to marry you, she'll be granted the king's pardon and the estate will be restored in your name. You'll be stationed permanently in Strathherrick, where you'll complete your commission, and King George will rest easy knowing she's wed to an Englishman who will keep her under firm control."

  "And if she doesn't agree to marry me?" Garrett asked grimly, though he already sensed the answer.

  Gordon shrugged. "Then she chooses her own death sentence."

  Furious, Garrett grabbed Gordon's velvet coat, wrenching his brother to within inches of his face. "That's not good enough, Gordon," he grated, his voice dangerously low. "Either she lives or you've lost Rosemoor forever. I'd burn it down rather than have you ever set foot in it again."

  Gordon's face was ashen, though he didn't flinch. "Let go of me," he demanded quietly, belying his barely controlled rage "Don't threaten me again, Garrett. I'm your only hope, and you damn well know it. Do you think I'd rest this entire agreement on the fickle whims of a woman?"

  He staggered back as Garrett roughly released him. His expression was grim as he straightened his coat, his gray-green eyes darkened to the same hard slate as his younger brother's. "You said she has five kinsmen who were captured with her."

  Garrett nodded, too angry to speak.

  "It's simple, Garrett. Tell Mistress Fraser that if she doesn't agree, her kinsmen will share the same fate as her own. Do you think she will so wantonly throw away their lives? I doubt it. From, the way you've described her, she'd do anything to save them."

  Gordon moved away at the sound of tapping footsteps in the outer hall. "I share the same Scots blood as you, Garrett," he added quickly. "I've heard grandmother's countless stories of clan loyalty. If Mistress Fraser knows her kinsmen will also be pardoned if she agrees to a marriage, then you'll have a wife before the day is out." He threw back the last of his brandy. "I only hope she's worth it to you."

  Suddenly the door swung open, and a tall, blond woman in a beribboned gown of rose satin walked gracefully into the room.

  "Oh, forgive me, darling," she said, stopping abruptly. "I didn't know you had a visitor."

  Garrett turned around, his gaze meeting cool ice-blue eyes in an exquisite porcelain face. "Celinda," he said, swallowing his ire. "It's good to see you again."

  "Garrett," Celinda said, clearly stunned. She walked stiffly toward him. "What a surprise." She cast a look at her husband as Garrett kissed her hand lightly. "Gordon, you didn't tell me your brother was due in London. I would have planned a dinner, made arrangements—"

  "It was as much of a surprise to me, my dear."

  "It's only a short visit, Celinda," Garrett replied, seeking to ease some of the tension in the room. "I trust I will be on my way back to Scotland tomorrow, after my business here has been completed." He glanced meaningfully at Gordon, who slightly inclined his head.

  "Well, I hope you'll share supper with us," Celinda said graciously, having recovered herself and her impeccable manners. She accepted Garrett's proffered arm. "Do you have lodging? If not, we'd be delighted to have you stay with us, wouldn't we, Gordon?"

  Garrett found himself smiling. Celinda was as beautiful and imperturbable as ever. He had long ago forgiven her for her slight, realizing she had meant him no ill will. She had evidently always wanted to be the wife of a member of the House of Lords, something Garrett could never have offered her.

  He walked with her from the library, thinking how fortunate he was that Celinda had chosen Gordon instead. It had left his heart free to love his wild Highland beauty.

  Garrett felt his heart lurch in his chest at the thought of Madeleine in a cold prison cell.

  God willing, he prayed fervently, King George would sign the pardon, and he would arrive in Edinburgh in time to save her from the gallows by making her his bride.

  ***

  It was three days before the precious document was placed in Garrett's hands, three days that had passed like the slowest torture.

  "His highness was reluctant to sign," Gordon stated matter-of-factly, "no doubt anticipating Hawley's displeasure. It was his high regard for my good judgment and the marriage clause that finally convinced him, though he quipped that you must be mad to take on a Highlander as a wife. He trusts you'll keep her well in hand." He sighed meaningfully. "I hope the delay does not prove costly to us."

  Garrett made no comment as he read every word carefully, at the bottom of the page tracing his finger over the king's florid signature and the royal seal. His blood roared in his veins and he felt light-headed with relief, scarcely believing it. Madeleine's pardon.

  "Satisfied?"

  Garrett glanced at his brother acro
ss the desk. "Yes," he acknowledged. "Everything seems to be in order." He quickly rolled up the document and slipped it inside his heavy riding coat. "You've reviewed the papers drawn up by my solicitor?"

  Gordon nodded tersely.

  "Good. I have retained a quarter interest in the property's income and the monetary inheritance I received from Father, for which you receive full deed and title to Rosemoor and the remaining yearly income. Are you agreeable to this arrangement?"

  "I have signed it," Gordon answered, arching a dark brow. "You strike a hard bargain, Garrett. I look forward to hearing from you posthaste concerning the outcome. I trust it will prove profitable for both of us."

  Garrett was already striding to the door. As an afterthought he stopped and turned around, his gaze meeting his brother's. "I thank you, Gordon," he said, the words not leaping easily from his tongue. He knew if not for Rosemoor, the priceless parchment next to his heart would never have come to pass. Yet he meant it all the same, for what it was worth.

  "Don't thank me yet, brother," Gordon replied. "You've a long ride ahead of you. You don't want to tempt the devil." He glanced out the window, then back to Garrett. "I've given you the best charger I own to start you on your way. Arabian bloodlines."

  Garrett swallowed hard, not missing the hint of understanding in Gordon's eyes. It was the first warmth he had seen there in years. "Lord Kemsley," he said with a short bow, then turned to go.

  "She must be truly extraordinary."

  Garrett started, glancing back at his brother. He smiled faintly, then walked through the door.

  Chapter 25

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Madeleine sank into a crouching position against the rough stone wall and pressed her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to drown out the piteous moans of the prisoner in the adjoining cell, a Highlander who had lost his mind after Culloden.

  Or so the surly guards had told her. More likely he had gone mad from torture and abuse. She had seen and heard enough misery during the past five days of imprisonment in Edinburgh Castle to last a lifetime, and her life was becoming very short indeed.

  Her public execution was slated for tomorrow afternoon, on Castle Hill at the same site where scores of criminals convicted for treason, heresy, and sorcery had met their end. She was almost thankful the wretched ordeal would soon be over.

  The trial had come soon after she and her kinsmen arrived in Edinburgh, a hasty affair that had taken no more than an hour from beginning to end. She, Angus Ramsay, Ewen and Duncan Burke, and Allan Fraser had been found guilty of high treason against the Crown and sentenced to be hanged until dead. Their bodies would then be drawn, quartered, and consumed by fire, their heads displayed prominently on iron spikes to the curious citizenry of Edinburgh.

  At least Kenneth Fraser would not share their grisly fate, she thought. He had died on the first day of their week-long march to Edinburgh, and his body was quickly buried beneath a cairn of stones along the steep Corrieyairack Pass.

  She had shed no tears. They had all been spent. She and her kinsmen were given barely a moment beside the grave before they were shoved back into line, flanked by soldiers on every side who taunted and jeered.

  It had been a nightmare. Her only consolation was that she had been spared from rape. It was as if her filthy man's garb somehow protected her, making her appear less a woman in the eyes of the soldiers.

  Madeleine sat cross-legged on the floor, worn smooth by countless prisoners before her. She massaged her bare feet. The painful blisters were almost healed, enabling her to walk with only a slight limp.

  The soles of her feet had been bleeding and raw by the time they had reached Edinburgh, her leather boots no match for the long march. She had collapsed on the edge of town and been roughly dumped into a wagon for the last leg of their journey, her eyes staring hopelessly into those of her kinsmen, who had trudged close behind.

  Madeleine forced the bitter memory from her mind and rose stiffly, steadying herself against the wall. She had never felt so weak, and she knew it was from lack of nourishing food. The stale bread and tepid tea was hardly the fare she needed to keep up her strength.

  She laughed grimly, the sound echoing about the low-ceilinged chamber. Keep up her strength—for what? So she might swing more vigorously from the gallows, fighting for breath even as the noose tightened inexorably around her neck?

  Banishing the morbid thought, Madeleine limped to the narrow window and stood up on tiptoe, peering outside.

  The stone ledge was slanted upward so sharply she could see nothing but an overcast sky, but she didn't care. She felt her spirits lighten despite her limited view. She was thankful she had not been thrown into a dark hole without windows. This small patch of sky had been her one link to sanity; an occasional shaft of sunlight was like a welcome friend.

  She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh air which did much to diminish the fetid stench of her cell. The steady breeze was scented with rain, and she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

  Madeleine thought of Strathherrick and the wild thunderstorms that rolled over the mountains from spring until late autumn, when the wind whistled and howled and the rain lashed the earth. She stood before the window with her eyes closed, her hands planted on the graded ledge, the cool draft blowing through h her hair, imagining she was there. She imagined le was a child again, playing in the puddles, giggling happily, evading both her father and Glenis-

  A loud, jarring noise startled her, shattering her daydream. She spun around as the heavy iron bar was lifted on the other side of the door, the screeching sound causing her to grit her teeth. The door was pulled back, revealing a group of six armed guards. The closest one ducked his head and entered the small chamber.

  Madeleine backed up against the wall, cold fear flooding her body. The guard was so solemn—dear God, had she miscounted the days? Was it Saturday after all, the day of her execution? Her throat was constricted so tightly she could scarcely draw breath.

  "Wh-what?" she choked, her eyes wide with fright.

  "You must come with me, Mistress Fraser," the guard muttered, grabbing her arm. When she recoiled, he gave her a hard push and she stumbled forward, almost falling. He caught her in time, but she yanked away from him.

  "Where—where are ye taking me?" she stammered, seeking refuge in a corner. She gasped when another guard entered the cell. Her eyes darted desperately from one man to the other. She felt trapped, like a hunted animal, as they advanced upon her, seizing her arms. "No!" she cried, her feet slipping on the stone floor as they propelled her toward the door. "No!"

  Outside in the dim corridor, she found herself surrounded by guards, two in front and two in back of her, besides the soldiers gripping her arms. The presence of so many guards checked her futile cries, and she fell silent, overcome with dread.

  This was not how she had planned to act at all, Madeleine thought wildly, limping between her captors as they hurried her along the corridor and up a long flight of winding stairs. Where had her courage flown? Her resolve to face her death bravely? She was so frightened she feared she might wet her clothes and humiliate herself before these English soldiers. She could never have anticipated the stark terror gripping her now.

  Madeleine panted, fast losing her battle to retain any semblance of reason and her ability to place one foot before the other. If not for the guards supporting her arms and forcing her along, she would have collapsed altogether. They walked through an empty room, then a wide studded door swung open and they were outside in a square courtyard flanked on all sides by two-story buildings.

  Madeleine blinked, shielding her eyes. Despite the dense clouds, the daylight was much more intense than anything she had experienced for five days. She hazarded a glance around her, fearing to find a wagon which would carry her to the execution site.

  There was no wagon, and as the guards marched across the courtyard, she thought fleetingly that they were going to make her walk the entire way. She could not have t
een more stunned when they entered another building and proceeded down a wide hallway, stopping abruptly before an ornately carved door. The guard on her left knocked loudly, Yen lifted the brass latch and pushed open the door.

  Madeleine was ushered into a large room spartanly furnished with a long, polished table at one end and a single upholstered chair in the center of the floor. While the four guards who had flanked her waited by the door, the two men holding her arms pushed her forward and shoved her into the chair, snapping to attention as a side door creaked open.

  Breathless and totally bewildered, Madeleine gasped as General Hawley lumbered into the room, scarcely acknowledging her presence. He was followed by the prison sheriff and the judge who had tried and pronounced sentence on her and her kinsmen the day after they had arrived at Edinburgh Castle.

  What was going on? she wondered crazily, not even venturing to guess why she had been brought to this room. She was so intent on watching them take their places at the table that she did not notice the last man enter and remain standing near the wall. She only glanced at him when she heard his boots scraping on the wooden floor. Her heart stopped.

  Garrett.

  She was so stunned that the earth could have dropped from beneath her and she would never have known it. She stared at him and he stared back, his eyes filled with familiar warmth.

  All she could think was that he was surely a phantom; her mind must be playing tricks. She had gone mad; the terrible strain had broken her at last. She probably would have fainted if General Hawley's booming voice had not shattered the room's silence. Blood rushed to her face as he addressed her.

  "Mistress Madeleine Fraser, if you would kindly direct your attention this way," he commanded, pounding his huge fist on the table.

  She jumped, her gaze riveted on the corpulent general, certain if she looked back at the wall, Garrett would be gone.