A Hint of Rapture

by Miriam Minger

  She sighed softly. The strain of the past few weeks had taken its toll upon her. She thought of her kinsmen, recalling their gaunt faces. If only she knew how they were faring tonight.

  "Clara," she said, glancing up at the young woman. "Do ye know what's become of the four men who arrived at the inn shortly after my husband and m'self ?"

  "Oh, aye, they're fine," Clara answered, smiling as she combed out a glistening lock. "They've nice rooms on the third floor, along with the soldiers. Yer husband bought new clothes for them, too, m'lady. He's up there right now, seeing that they have everything they need." Her gaze met Madeleine's in the mirror. "If ye dinna mind me saying so, Lady Marshall, yer husband is a most generous man. He told my parents to spare no expense in making this a comfortable ev'ning for ye and yer kin."

  Madeleine did not answer, her temper flaring anew. She was grateful her kinsmen were being well treated, but it irked her that Garrett was putting on such a grand show. For what? She was not fooled. It was all part of his plan.

  If Garrett won some small modicum of her kinsmen's favor, it would only make it that much easier for him to spy on them when they returned to Strathherrick. Perhaps he was even telling them he possessed a bit of Scots blood to ease their minds and gain their trust. She couldn't wait to inform them it was Sutherland blood, the traitorous clan that would sooner lick King Geordie's boots than aid their Highland brothers in placing Stuart on Britain's throne.

  "There now, m'lady," Clara said, sweeping Madeleine's thick hair back from her forehead with the silver brush. She stepped away from the stool, surveying Madeleine's image with obvious pleasure. "Ye look beautiful, m'lady, as ye should for yer wedding night."

  Madeleine started, twisting around on the stool. "Who told ye 'twas my wedding night?" she blurted.

  "Why, yer husband, m'lady," Clara said, looking at her strangely. Then a slow smile spread over her face. "Och, I know just what ye must be feeling, Lady Marshall," she said with understanding. "I was so nervous on my wedding night only a few months past that I locked my poor Jamie out of my room!" She blushed, giggling. " 'Twas only later I discovered what fun I'd missed." She sobered suddenly. "Ye're as white as a sheet, m'lady. Let me fetch ye some wine."

  Madeleine caught her frilled sleeve, fighting her sense of light-headedness. "No, I'm all right, Clara. I think I could use a bit of food, though." As if to emphasize her words, her stomach rumbled loudly. She forced a smile to her lips. "Aye, perhaps some food and a glass of wine. For my nerves, as ye say."

  Clara held on to her arm as they walked into the sitting room, not letting go until Madeleine was seated comfortably at the table.

  "Mama's an excellent cook," Clara said, lifting the silver lids one by one. Aromatic steam wafted up from the white, oval plates, making Madeleine's mouth water. "Ye'll feel better in no time once ye taste some of her rabbit pie and thyme-roasted chicken. 'Tis the best in Edinburgh town, I'd swear."

  Madeleine nodded, her eyes agape at all the food.

  Besides the two main dishes Clara had mentioned, there were cheese tartlets, tiny crescent-shaped meat pies, and fresh-baked scones accompanied by pots of golden butter and dark heather honey. A wheel of Stilton cheese was surrounded by sliced apples and pears, and for dessert, a light ginger pudding studded with plump raisins was accompanied by a small pitcher of lemon sauce.

  Clara handed Madeleine a crystal goblet brimming with red wine. "Shall I fill ye a plate, m'lady?" she queried kindly, a look of concern still on her face as Madeleine took a small sip.

  "I'll see to her now," a deep, male voice answered for her. "Thank you, Clara."

  Madeleine almost choked on her wine. She looked beyond Clara to Garrett, whose broad shoulders seemed to fill the door frame, and she felt a nervous rush of excitement. He stepped into the room, his eyes warmly appraising her.

  Clara bobbed a curtsy. "Of course, Major Marshall." She flashed a reassuring smile at Madeleine, then hurried out, closing the door quietly behind her.

  Silence fell over the room, broken only by the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. Madeleine dropped her gaze and tightly gripped her goblet, staring into the wine's deep red depths.

  She tensed as Garrett's footsteps moved toward her, Clara's words resounding in her mind. Tonight was her wedding night. Tonight was her wedding night . . .

  She continued to stare blindly at the wine, afraid to look up, afraid of what she might read in his eyes, and afraid of what he might find in hers. No matter what she thought of him, she could not slow her racing pulse or stop the quiver of desire streaking through her.

  "Mrs. Merrett said she would prepare a fine meal, but I had no idea she meant a feast."

  Madeleine blinked at the sound of a spoon hitting a platter and looked up, hazarding a glance in Garrett's direction. He was seated across from her now, casually filling his plate. He smiled as he dipped the serving spoon into the rabbit pie.

  "You must be hungry, Madeleine. Please don't delay your supper on my account."

  Nonplussed, she watched as he ladled a heaping portion of every dish onto his plate, then poured himself a goblet of wine. He began to eat, virtually ignoring her as he savored his food.

  "It's wonderful, Madeleine," he said, helping himself to a cheese tartlet. "You should eat. You'll feel much better, and it will help you sleep tonight. We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

  Madeleine gaped at him, thoroughly bewildered. Garrett seemed so nonchalant, so at ease. Hardly what she would have expected after everything that had happened that day. But here he was, eating his dinner calmly, unhurriedly, and urging her to do the same!

  She licked her lips, her stomach growling painfully. The heady aroma of well-prepared food was driving her mad from hunger. She quickly made up her mind. If Garrett could appear composed and unconcerned, then so could she. She set her goblet on the table and bean to fill her plate.

  'The meat pastries are wonderful, and the roast chicken." He spooned a few pastries onto her plate, then concentrated on his own once again.

  Madeleine was so famished she immediately stuffed a pastry into her mouth, the brown gravy dribbling down her chin. Before she could catch it, Garrett reached over with his own napkin and wiped it away.

  "Thank ye," she muttered, swallowing. She ate ravenously for several moments, then slowed down as the pains in her stomach subsided. She barely looked up from her plate, unaware Garrett was watching her until she took a draft of wine. His eyes were lit with amusement.

  "What?" she snapped, embarrassed. She realized she must have made quite a spectacle of herself, gobbling her food like a pig at a trough. "Ye said to eat," she said defensively.

  "So I did," Garrett said, sobering. "Please . . . go on."

  Madeleine set down her fork. Suddenly she did not feel so hungry, and she sensed if she ate any more of the rich food, she might become ill. She plopped her napkin on the table.

  "I've had enough, thank ye," she said sullenly, meeting his steady gaze. She tilted her chin defiantly. "How are my kinsmen? Do they . . . do they know about the . . ." Her voice trailed off, unable to say the word wedding. "Do they know what has happened?"

  "Yes," Garrett answered with a touch of irritation. "They know we are husband and wife." His tone softened, though his eyes were hard. "Your kinsmen are well, Maddie, and grateful to be out of prison. Grateful to you, I should say."

  A yawning silence fell between them when Madeleine did not reply to his cryptic statement. She glanced toward the bedchamber door, feeling a warmth in her cheeks as he followed her gaze, then looked back at her.

  "Tired?"

  Madeleine nodded, a strange feeling of breathlessness seizing her. She began to tremble, holding her hands tightly so he might not notice.

  "Then I'll leave you," he said quietly.

  She was stunned. "Leave?" Her response was out before she could stop it. She desperately tried to think of something to cover what she'd said, hoping she hadn't given him the wrong impression. She spied his half-empty p
late. "Ye dinna finish yer supper," she said lamely.

  Garrett rose from the chair, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Actually, I'm not very hungry tonight," he replied, then quickly changed the subject. "I'll have Clara come and clear away the food. She'll wake you in the morning and help you pack. I take it you opened the packages I sent up." His gaze wandered over her. "That color is lovely on you, Madeleine. It brings out your eyes as well as I thought it would."

  "Aye, Clara opened them for me," Madeleine said hotly, his words pricking her temper. "If ye think to bribe me with yer gifts, Garrett—"

  "Not bribes, Madeleine," he interrupted, his expression clouding. "Necessities. You didn't think you'd be traveling back to Strathherrick in those filthy black rags, did you?"

  "Och, yes, forgive me," she flung at him. "My raiding clothes would hardly be suitable for the Lady Marshall. I dinna expect the fine title of lady, Garrett. I thought 'twas yer brother Gordon who had the title in the family. Or did ye acquire that from the king as well?"

  Garrett seemed to flinch. "I have no title, other than 'the honorable' before my name," he explained darkly. "It's a courtesy style, as it is a courtesy for you to be addressed as Lady Marshall. And you were correct about my brother. Gordon has everything, the title, and the family—"

  "Lands!" she finished for him, her eyes flashing. "So ye went after mine instead, Garrett Marshall," she spat, "Master of Farraline. I'll have ye know 'honorable' doesna suit ye at all. Try bastard, or royal spy! Aye, now that has a fine ring to it!"

  It happened so fast, in a blink of an eye. One moment Madeleine was seated, then the next she was in his arms, his fingers biting cruelly into her flesh. His eyes were ablaze with fury, burning into hers. Completely stunned, she could only gape at him.

  "You will not call me that again," he grated, giving her a rude shake. "I'm not the king's spy, Madeleine. Get that preposterous idea out of your mind."

  "Liar! I dinna believe ye," she answered hoarsely, finding her voice. She winced at the pain in her arms. "Ye're hurting me, Garrett! Let me go!"

  "Maybe you'll believe this, my lady wife," he said as his mouth suddenly came down hard on her lips.

  Madeleine gasped, struggling wildly, but her strength was no match for his. He crushed her against his chest, devouring her with his kiss. She quaked from the sheer force of it. Part of her screamed to fight him, to rake her fingernails down his face, but her reeling senses demanded she surrender.

  She thought no more as she felt his hand slip beneath her robe and cradle her breast, his fingers circling the hard, sensitive point—around and around—with maddening slowness until she cried out against his mouth when he tweaked her gently.

  Her arms flew around his neck, and she molded herself to his powerful body, moaning with desire when his hand slid from her breast to her bare bottom. His kiss deepened as he cupped her with both hands and lifted her against the hard swelling beneath his breeches, then he abruptly tore his mouth away from hers.

  "You want me, Maddie. I know you do. If you can believe in this," he breathed huskily, his hips straining forward emphatically, "in how much I want you, how much I need you, then why won't you believe I'm not a spy?

  His words pierced her passionate daze, and she froze in his arms, breathless and flushed. She was astounded her body had betrayed her so easily. Rage surged within her. Her voice rose shrilly as she tried to break free of his embrace.

  "Ye're a spy, Garrett Marshall, and there's nothing ye can say or do that will ever change my mind! If ye think yer lust will sway me, ye'll do well to think again!"

  She felt a flicker of fear at his thunderous look and almost regretted what she had said. God's wounds, she had never seen him so angry!

  Her heart lurched in her chest when he suddenly swept her into his arms.

  "No, Garrett! No! Dinna do this!" she cried, kicking and fighting him as he carried her into the bedchamber. With a heave, he tossed her onto the bed amid all the things he had bought her. She frantically pulled her robe around her exposed body and scrambled to a far corner, her eyes wide and frightened.

  "Don't worry, Madeleine, I'm not going to force you, if that's what you're thinking," he said, his deep voice laden with bitterness. "I've never forced a woman before and I'm surely not going to begin with my wife." He turned and strode from the bedchamber. "We'll be leaving early in the morning. Get some rest." Then he was gone, the, sitting room door slamming shut behind him.

  Madeleine was so shaken that long moments passed before she ventured to draw back the covers and settle herself beneath them. She barely noticed the clothing and slippers tumbling off the bed and hitting the floor.

  She brought the warm covers up to her chin, the four-poster bed seeming very large around her. She closed her eyes and placed her hand between her breasts. Her heart was still beating wildly, and her skin was ablaze from the heat of Garrett's touch.

  She stared at the canopy overhead, feeling strangely alone. It was her last thought before she fell asleep.

  ***

  Garrett shut the door to his bedchamber, his hand resting on the latch as he stood silently in the darkness. There were no candles lit in this room, no welcome fire blazing brightly in the hearth. It suited his black mood perfectly.

  What the devil had come over him? He had only gone to Madeleine's room to see if she was well, not to force himself on her. But something had snapped inside him when she accused him of being a spy and a liar. After everything he had done for her, the hell he had gone through thinking he might be too late to save her, she wanted nothing to do with him. Even her desire was not enough to sway her!

  Garrett drew a ragged breath. Fool! He should have known she would spurn any overtures he might make. He had seen the nervous defiance written plainly in those stunning blue eyes when he had first entered her room.

  He had almost turned around at that moment and left, but something had stopped him. Perhaps because he hadn't seen hatred reflected there, giving him a glimmer of hope. He had decided merely to share supper with her, feigning an appetite when he had none, at least not for food.

  He was grateful his charade had encouraged her to eat. He still hadn't gotten over his shock of seeing her emerge from prison so pale and thin. Yet despite her pinched appearance, her beauty had shone through with a haunting quality that had taken his breath away.

  Garrett sighed heavily, his hand falling away from the latch. He turned and groped his way in the dark to the mantel, where he found a tinderbox and a piece of flint.

  He lit a single candle, flooding the room with a soft glow. It reminded him of the night he had spent with Madeleine, the solitary candle burning brightly as he held her in his arms after the passion they had shared, spinning his dreams—

  "Don't torture yourself, man," he muttered under his breath, kicking off his boots. Madeleine was his wife now, that much of his dream had been realized, but it would clearly be a long time before she was convinced that he loved her more than life itself.

  How desperately he had wanted to tell her that he loved her today, in front of Hawley, during the carriage ride, just now in her rooms. Each time the words had died in his throat.

  Garrett laughed grimly. It was simple. He was terrified that she would throw his words back in his face, just as she had done when he insisted he wasn't a spy.

  Madeleine wasn't ready to hear the truth now, and probably wouldn't want to hear it tomorrow. She was entirely convinced he had obtained her estate and the pardon by becoming a spy for King George. The irony of it was almost more than he could bear. If he had had even an inkling that this might happen, he would have told Gordon to forget about including the title to Mhor Manor in the bargain to free Madeleine!

  Garrett stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, his mouth drawn into a tight line.

  Dammit all, what had he expected anyway? That she'd marry him and they'd live happily ever after, that tonight he'd be making love to the woman who inflamed him more tha
n any other, the mere sight of whom set his blood on fire? He was in agony from their brief encounter, his loins aching with frustrated desire!

  He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind from his discomfort.

  He hadn't expected Madeleine to turn down the pardon outright, saying she couldn't marry him because of her people. Especially after what he had learned by speaking with her kinsmen. Madeleine knew he hadn't betrayed her the night Hawley torched Farraline. Angus Ramsay had told him as much, and had even thanked him for trying to sway Hawley from his cruel purpose.

  Seized by frustration, Garrett banged his fist into the headboard. If he could have half the love Madeleine reserved for her people, he would be a happy man. He would settle for a third, even a quarter!

  He rolled over and brought himself up on his elbow, mulling over his last thought.

  "Maybe that's it," Garrett said aloud. Maybe the way to Madeleine's heart was through her people.

  She believed only the worst of him now, but it was clear he had already made some slight inroads with her kinsmen. They were still wary of him—Allan Fraser looked at him with downright hatred—but given some time, hard work, and patience, he might just have a chance to earn their grudging approval and a measure of their trust. Then Madeleine's affection must surely follow.

  Garrett got out of bed and quickly pulled on his boots. It was late, but if he was going to set his plan quickly into motion, he had to accomplish a few things before leaving Edinburgh in the morning.

  He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness, then moved swiftly to the door. His footsteps were determined as he strode down the silent hallway, a resurgence of hope spurring him along. He took the steps two at a time and was almost to the front door when Clara rounded the corner from the kitchen and nearly bumped into him.

  "Och, Major Marshall, ye frightened me," she exclaimed, stepping back.

  "Clara, could you see that the meal is cleared away in Lady Marshall's room?" Garrett requested. "She might be sleeping, so be careful not to wake her."