Chapter 4

Madeleine felt a warm satisfaction as she lifted the last basket from the cart and hooked it over her arm. “Will ye see to the mare, Neil, whilst I visit yer mama?” she said gently, smiling at the young boy who was hopping excitedly beside the cart.

“Oh, aye, Maddie!” he exclaimed, his ruddy cheeks aglow with health and vigor. His hazel eyes, wide as saucers, glanced at the basket. “Have ye anything for me?” he asked hopefully.

Madeleine feigned a stern expression though her eyes twinkled gaily. “Perhaps I do, Neil, but first ye must answer me this. Have ye been a good boy this week, and helped yer mama with yer two younger brothers now that the babe has come?”

Neil nodded his head vigorously, his reddish-blond hair glistening in the warm sunshine. “Mama says as the oldest, I make a fine man o’ the house!”

Madeleine felt a rush of pity but gave no note of it in her voice. “And right she is, Neil Chrystie,” she agreed heartily as she flipped aside the linen cloth and reached into the basket. She pulled out a white tissue-wrapped packet and handed it to the boy. “‘Tis fresh from Glenis’s kitchen. Mind ye, remember to save some for yer brothers.”

Neil hastily tore away the paper, his small face splitting into a wide grin as he revealed the sweet treasures. He bit eagerly into a thick square of tablet candy studded with sugared walnuts. Munching happily, he suddenly remembered his manners. “Thank ye, Maddie,” he managed, his mouth full to bursting.

Thanks to the English is more the truth of it, Madeleine thought, walking toward the neat stone cottage. She had found the unexpected surprise of a large bag of walnuts in one of the supply wagons stolen earlier in the week.

Aye, it had been a most successful raid. Almost perfect, except for the shooting. She had never shot a man before. Yet she did not regret her action. She had done what was necessary to protect her kinsman, and she would gladly do it again if she had to.

Och, dinna think of the blasted redcoats, she scolded herself, or ‘twill ruin yer outing for sure. She thought instead of what had transpired that day, and her sense of pleasure swiftly returned.

She had had a wonderful morning paying calls on the villagers in Farraline, especially the widows of Culloden and their children. The well-fed, contented faces that had greeted her at every turn were a reward more precious than gold. The stocked pantries and bubbling stew pots further gladdened her heart and heightened her belief that she had done the right thing.

Madeleine stopped and rapped several times at the stout wooden door of the cottage. “Flora? ‘Tis Maddie.” A lilting voice called out for her to enter. She had to duck her head as she stepped through the low doorway.

Her eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light in the one-room cottage, a stark contrast to the bright sunshine outside. The simple cottages of the clansmen were known as black houses because most of them could not afford glass for windows and used sacking instead. The peat fire in the middle of the room cast a welcome glow, its smoke curling through a hole in the thatched roof.

“‘Tis good of ye to visit, Maddie,” Flora said. She began to rise from a chair set beside the cradle, but Madeleine waved her back down.

“Rest yerself, Flora. Ye dinna have to get up on my account,” she said, placing the basket on a table. She walked quietly to the cradle and knelt in front of it, heedless of the dirt floor.

“Oh, she’s a wee darlin’,” Madeleine said admiringly, gazing at the cherubic face of the tiny infant who was barely one week old. A tuft of pale hair peeked from beneath a fleecy cap, and she couldn’t resist reaching out and stroking the silken strands. Her hand brushed against the smooth magic stone placed beside the babe’s pillow to ward off witches. It was a heathen custom in a Christian land, yet no Highland mother would do without it. “Have ye decided upon a name?” she asked.

“Mary Rose,” Flora replied. “After my dead Neil’s mother.”

Madeleine glanced up at the young woman and met her sad eyes. “‘Tis a bonnie name for the lass, Flora,” she said. “Neil would have been pleased by yer choice.”

“Aye.”

A silence borne of a common sorrow fell between them. Madeleine sighed as she looked down at the sleeping infant. She had always loved children. She marveled at the babe’s tightly curled fists and her pink, pouting lips. A trail of milk was dried on her petal-soft cheek.

She noticed a slight movement in another corner of the room. Twin boys lay napping on a pallet in a tangle of plump limbs and tousled red hair. How fortunate Flora was, she thought, despite the loss of her husband. She had four beautiful children to sustain her, to care for, to give her strength.

“Would ye like to hold her, Maddie?” Flora asked. Without waiting for an answer, she leaned over and gently scooped the child from the cradle, placing her in Madeleine’s open arms.

Madeleine felt a tightness in her breast as she held the infant against her. She would never know what it was to feel a babe grow within her, never experience the throes of childbirth, its agony and joy. Yet this knowledge brought her no great sadness, only a poignant understanding. She would never have a family of her own, but she would always have a larger family around her, consisting of her clan, her people. It was enough.

“Do ye have everything ye need, Flora?” Madeleine asked softly, her gaze sweeping the modest surroundings. Plain wooden furniture, earthenware pots, and a butter churn were the trappings of their simple life. A cast-iron pot hung above the fire, suspended from an oaken beam by a long hook. Steam was escaping beneath the lid, filling the room with the herbed fragrance of boiled beef.

“Aye, Maddie, ye mustn’t worry for us. We’ve been well provided for, thanks to the brave soul who defies the English to lay food upon our doorstep. Between that and what ye kindly bring us with yer visits, we’ll more than manage.”

Madeleine smiled. “There’s wild strawberry jam in the basket, herbs from Glenis’s garden, some healing tea for ye, and a christening cake for the minister’s visit tomorrow. Neil has no doubt eaten his fill of tablet candy by now, though I did ask him to save some for his brothers.”

Flora laughed, her smile easing the premature lines in her pretty face. “I’m so pleased ye’ll be standing up for Mary Rose before the minister, Maddie. It does me proud to think the mistress of Farraline will be my daughter’s godmother.”

“I’m honored ye asked,” she replied sincerely. Suddenly the baby whimpered, her blue eyes fluttering open as she began to squirm in Madeleine’s arms. “I think ‘tis time for another feeding, eh, little one? Ye’ll have to look to yer fine mother for that.”

As if to confirm her words, the infant let out a lusty wail, her tiny hands grasping at the air. Madeleine handed the child over to Flora, who made soothing sounds to calm her. Neither heard the door swing open as young Neil rushed into the cottage.

“Maddie, come look! There’s soldiers marching through the village, with guns and wagons and everything!”

Startled, Madeleine was on her feet in a flash. “Neil, stay here with yer mother,” she said, rushing to the window.

“But Maddie—”

“Hush, child,” Flora silenced him sternly. “Go and sit with yer brothers.” She lifted a corner of her thin chemise to suckle Mary Rose at her milk-laden breast.

Neil reluctantly did as he was told, though his eyes followed Madeleine. His brothers had been abruptly awakened by his shouting, and their confused crying added to the discord.

“Hush with ye now,” he said importantly. “There’s redcoats creeping about. Ye dinna want to bring them in here, do ye?” When his words showed little effect, he offered them some sticky tablet candy. The twins quieted immediately, brown eyes wide and watchful as they sucked on the sugary squares.

Madeleine leaned on the stone ledge, her heart thumping hard against her chest. There were at least twenty redcoats marching alongside a long procession of ten wagons driven by more soldiers. God’s wounds! What were they doing in Farraline?

She craned her head to get a better view. She couldn’t get a close look at them because Flora’s cottage was on a side street, but it was clear that they were merely passing through the village. Their pace did not slacken, and their commanding officer seemed to be waving them onward from atop a great bay horse. Most of the wagons had already turned onto the road leading to the next village, the same road that wound past her estate…

“Flora, ‘tis best to keep the bairns inside ‘til the soldiers have passed,” she said urgently, facing her kinswoman. “I’m going to set out for Mhor Manor. Glenis is alone there, since the two girls have the day free. If she spies the soldiers on the road, she’ll think the worst and panic for sure. I hope ‘tis not another contingent sent to burn us out.”

“Be careful, Maddie,” Flora warned. Concern etched her pale features, and she hugged her infant daughter protectively.

Madeleine nodded. “‘Twill be faster if I leave the cart here and ride the mare back to the estate.”

She smiled quickly at the three boys as she hurried from the cottage. She deftly unhitched the small cart and jumped on the mare’s bare back, her skirt gathered between her legs.

“Off with ye!” she cried, clucking her tongue and kicking the mare with the heels of her sturdy leather brogues.

The startled animal lurched forward. They skirted the village along a familiar footpath, well out of view of the soldiers, then set off at a full gallop across the green valley toward Mhor Manor, Madeleine’s hair flying behind her.

***

When he reached the outskirts of Farraline, Garrett pulled up on the reins. His massive bay gelding snorted and pawed restlessly at the heath. “Easy, Samson, easy,” he murmured, untying his cravat and wiping the dust and sweat from his face.

He squinted against the midday sunlight, looking down the narrow road that wound ahead of them through the rugged Highland landscape.

Like the other roads they had traveled since abandoning the paved efficiency of Wade’s highway, it was no more than two rutted, dirt tracks with a grassy strip in the center. He and his men had been forced to stop twice already and replace broken wagon wheels.

At least we’re almost there, Garrett thought. In the near distance he could see whitewashed walls and a black slate roof framed by a backdrop of fir trees and jagged gray mountains. The large manor house Colonel Wolfe had suggested to him lay just ahead.

He twisted in his saddle and surveyed the rumbling line of supply wagons drawn by exhausted horses. Two soldiers marched between each wagon, their loaded muskets held crosswise in front of them. The wagon drivers had loaded weapons beneath their seats as an added security measure.

The rigorous strain of the long march showed in the soldiers’ tired faces. Garrett had pushed them hard. They had not slept since leaving Fort Augustus and had paused only briefly for quick meals of salted beef, hard biscuits, and warm ale. They had followed a different route this time, staying well on Wade’s Road until the last possible moment. He had taken every precaution to prevent another encounter with Black Jack.

He grimaced, recalling the reprimand he had received after his unexpected return to Fort Augustus, thankfully clothed. General Hawley’s incensed ranting still rang in his ears. Only Colonel Wolfe’s intervention had spared him twenty lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails, and the colonel’s persuasive arguments had convinced Hawley to grant him one more chance to capture the brigand.

Yet such a lashing could not have intensified his burning commitment to bring Black Jack to justice. He had a personal score to settle for the humiliation he and his men had suffered, as well as for the injury inflicted on his former sergeant. They had barely reached Fort Augustus in time and the man had nearly died from his wound. Dammit, he would find the bastard!

“Sergeant Fletcher!” he shouted as he stuffed his soiled cravat in the side pocket of his coat.

A stout soldier stepped out from the line, slinging his musket over his shoulder. “Captain?”

“I’m going to ride ahead. See that the men keep moving. The manor house is just beyond that copse of trees.”

“Very good, sir.”

As Garrett dug his boots into the horse’s sides and took off at a gallop, the sergeant’s terse command cut through the air. “You heard the captain, lads. Keep up the pace. There’ll be a swig of brandy awaiting each of you when we get to our new quarters.”

Racing along the road, Garrett reveled in the great strength of the animal beneath him. It was exhilarating to allow the bay such freedom after holding him tightly in check for most of the journey. The landscape they passed blurred, melding into streaks of vibrant color: dark green heather, brown earth, blue sky. The white manor house with its two adjoining wings drew closer and closer…

Suddenly he veered sharply to the right as another horse appeared on the left racing onto the road from a narrow path hidden between two large trees, and bumped into his bay. Garrett swore loudly and firmly grasped the reins, his experience and the muscled power of his thighs enabling him to stay in the saddle.

The other rider was not so lucky. He heard a short high-pitched scream and the smaller horse whinnying in fright, then a crash as the rider, a slim young woman, pitched headlong into a row of unkempt box hedges at the foot of the drive leading to the manor house.

“Whoa, Samson, steady now!” he yelled, pulling the bay hard about. The startled animal reared and bucked, fighting him, but it gradually calmed enough to allow Garrett to jump to the ground. He ran over to the hedges, dreading what he might find. It would be a miracle if the wench survived such a fall.

Garrett spied a pair of leather shoes, snagged white stockings, and the torn hem of a plain brown skirt poking out from the dense thicket. He leaped over the hedges to the other side and knelt beside the woman. Her face was turned away from him. Relief poured through him when he saw her fingers move and heard a low moan breaking from her throat.

With great care he took her by the shoulders and pulled her slowly from the bushes, then rolled her onto her back. Her rich chestnut hair, glinting with strands of gold in the bright sunlight, fell across her face and obscured her features.

Garrett quickly felt her slender limbs for broken bones. There fortunately didn’t seem to be any. Her breathing appeared normal, her chest rising and falling evenly. He leaned over her and gently moved her hair away from her face, his hand grazing her soft cheek. He felt a sudden catch in his throat.

If anyone had been blessed with the legendary Scots beauty he had heard so much about, it was this woman. She was stunning. This was not the porcelain perfection he had seen during a brief stay in Edinburgh, where the damsels mimicked Londoners in their use of rouge and lip stain. This woman possessed a beauty kissed by nature, breathtaking and unspoiled, like the wild Highlands about her.

Garrett could not resist tracing his finger along the high curve of her cheekbone. He marveled at the silken texture of her skin and its fresh hues of sun-warmed rose and cream. Her forehead was shapely, and slim brows arched above closed eyelids fringed with lush, dark lashes. Her nose was straight, almost patrician. Her lips were full, delicately curved, and as red as ripe berries above her soft and rounded chin.

He had a strong urge to press his mouth against hers and taste the inviting warmth of her lips, but he did not. Another soft moan forced his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand. The woman had not yet regained consciousness and needed care. She would do far better lying in a bed than on the hard ground.

Perhaps he should take her to the manor house, Garrett thought. She had been riding in that direction; she probably worked there as a maidservant. Her simple, frayed gown and her scuffed shoes certainly attested to such a post.

He bent down and scooped her into his arms, then rose easily to his feet. He stepped over the hedges and turned onto the dirt drive, striding toward the manor house. He could hear jingling harnesses and creaking wagon wheels, indicating his men were not far away. He walked faster. He was anxious to be done with this chore before they arrived. He was not in the mood for any coarse jests.

As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white throat, the enticing outline of her breasts straining against her bodice, and her narrow waist. Heat raced through his body.

What had Colonel Wolfe said to him the morning he first heard about Black Jack? Something about finding a lass to aid his quest, and secrets betrayed at the height of passion?

Garrett smiled thoughtfully. Perhaps this tempting wench might very well lead him to Black Jack.

If she worked as a maid in this house, he would see her often. Perhaps after a tender wooing—a few soft words, well-chosen compliments, and gentle caresses—she might prove willing and eager to warm his bed. Once he gained her trust, she might even share with him any knowledge she had about Black Jack. He was not one to wantonly mislead a woman’s affections, but time was of the essence in this mission. It was worth a—

He exhaled sharply, grunting in pain as a stinging jab in the ribs caught him by surprise. The next thing he knew the woman pushed against him and wrenched free of his arms, kicking his shin and stamping on his toes as she found her footing. Her startling blue eyes blazed as she wheeled to face him.

“H-how dare ye!” she sputtered, confusion and rage reflected in her eyes. When she stepped back and began to stagger, Garrett feared she might fall. He reached out to steady her, but she darted away.

“Easy, lassie,” he said softly. “I’m only trying to help you.”

“Dinna lassie me, ye swine! Ye filthy redcoat!”

Garrett chuckled at her heated outburst. He walked slowly toward her, his eyes raking her from head to foot.

She was truly the comeliest woman he had ever seen, with a fiery spirit to match. Yet he still feared she might collapse. Her knees appeared wobbly, and she was massaging her left temple. He had better subdue her before she brought herself to more harm.

“Tell me your name,” he insisted gently, moving closer. The woman shook her head fiercely. “Your horse ran into mine on the road. Do you remember? You took a hard fall, lass, and I think it’s best you lie down for a while.”

“Aye, I remember well enough, and I dinna need yer reminding,” she spat, retreating another few steps. “Had ye not been riding where ye’re not welcome, ‘twould not have happened.” A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she raised her chin stubbornly. “I’m fine now, as ye can see, though ‘tis no business of yers. Now get off my la—”

“Oh, but it is my business, as is everything in this valley,” Garrett interrupted, growing impatient. He looked beyond her shoulder at the first supply wagon turning into the drive. It gave him an idea. “My soldiers are arriving, lass. Come on now, I’ve no more time to argue with you.”

At these words she whirled around, and Garrett seized his opportunity. In two steps he had her in his arms. She screamed, twisting and struggling, but he held her tightly. Tossing her over his shoulder, he gritted his teeth as her doubled fists rained blows upon his neck and broad back.

For a wench who had suffered a hard fall, she was certainly putting up a good fight, he thought wryly, holding her legs away so she couldn’t kick him. Suddenly her body went limp, and she began to mumble incoherently. The strain of her recent injury had obviously proved too much for her, as he thought it might.

Garrett strode to the door and pounded on it. After a few moments he heard shuffling footsteps, then the door was opened by a frail-looking old woman. She gaped up at him, her hands flying to her throat.

“Maddie!”

“So that’s the spitfire’s name,” he said under his breath, walking into the dim hallway. He turned to face the woman. “And what is your name, dear lady?”

“Gl-Glenis,” she stammered, her dark eyes wide with shock. “Glenis Simpson.”

“Well, Glenis, this young woman had quite a nasty fall from her horse. She should be put to bed immediately, until she’s feeling more like herself. Where are the servants’ quarters?”

“Servants’ quarters?”

“Yes. If you’ll only show me the way, I’ll explain what happened. And you might summon the master of the house—”

“Sir Hugh is dead, sir. He was killed at Culloden.”

Garrett fell silent and felt awkward. He should have guessed as much. He softened his tone. “His wife, then, the Lady…”

“Fraser, sir,” she finished for him. “Lady Jean died many years ago. There is only the young mistress now.”

“Where is she?” Garrett asked, shifting the woman’s weight on his shoulder. “We have much to discuss. And I wish to explain what happened to her maidservant here, Maddie.”

Glenis’s eyes lit with understanding. “‘Tis no maidservant ye’re carryin’, sir,” she murmured gravely. “‘Tis the mistress of Farraline, Madeleine Fraser.”

Now it was Garrett’s turn to stare. He swallowed hard, his face flushing warmly. He had never felt so sheepish in his life. He didn’t know quite what to do or say.

Glenis finally broke the uncomfortable silence. “If ye’ll kindly follow me, sir—”

“Captain Garrett Marshall,” he said.

“If ye’ll follow me, Captain Marshall,” Glenis said with great dignity, “I’ll show ye to my mistress’s chamber, where I might see to her needs.”

Garrett simply nodded. As he climbed the stairs behind the aged Scotswoman, he could not help thinking that his mission had gotten off to another miserable start.