A Hint of Rapture (16 page)

His lungs were on fire and his thighs were pumping
hard, but his footfalls made little sound. He headed straight for the trees,
knocking the branches out of the way as he plunged into the wooded grove. The
figure was only an arm's length away now.

Garrett reached out and lunged, catching a handful of
thick fabric. He yanked hard, and the figure fell in front of him, tripping
him.

Garrett lurched forward, the momentum of his body
toppling him over and over as he rolled on the ground. He hit the tree trunk so
hard it knocked the breath from his body. He lay there on his stomach, stunned,
his mouth full of dirt.

Then he felt a heavy branch striking him on the side of
the head. He yelled out in pain, saw blinding streaks of light bursting in
front of his eyes, then nothing . . .

***

Madeleine dropped the branch and stepped back, her
chest heaving furiously. She massaged her aching shoulder, which she had
bruised in her fall.

Damn, just when everything had gone so smoothly, this
had to happen. The soldier's cry still rang in her ears, still echoed about the
fir grove. She had to get out of there fast, in case any guards had also heard
his cry.

She didn't bother to turn the soldier over to see if he
was still breathing. There was no time, and she would discover soon enough if
he lived or died.

She found the bundle of clothing she had dropped when
she was tackled and ran swiftly toward the center of the grove where the
tallest fir tree stood. She stooped under the low-lying branches, sifting her
hands through the tall grasses for the loose square of sod. She found the
concealed trap door and lifted it. Taking one last deep breath of fresh air,
she clambered down the ladder, pulling the door down over her.

Again she was showered by dirt and debris. She coughed
'and wheezed, fumbling in the dark for the candle and tinderbox. She hurriedly
lit the candle, her fear easing as golden light flooded her end of the tunnel.
She dripped some wax on one of the rungs and twisted the candle into it.

Madeleine shook out the bundle of her gown and shawl
and quickly changed out of her black garb.

At least she would be wearing proper clothes if she
were caught in the drawing room. She could easily explain that she had been
awakened by the cry in the woods and had dashed down the stairs to find out
what had happened. If they found her near the closet, or even inside it, she
could say she was looking for lamp oil. The closet was stocked with oil, candles,
and many other household items.

She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, broke off
the candle, and hurried through the tunnel. The shadowed passage didn't bother
her as much this time. Her mind was too preoccupied, and her thoughts were
spinning.

She had never had such a close call before. That
soldier, whoever he was, had almost caught her. She had only heard him running
up behind her at the last moment, right before he grabbed her jacket.
Thankfully he had stumbled over her and rolled away, instead of coming down on
top of her. Otherwise she might never have escaped.

Madeleine fingered the sprig of yew tucked in the
bodice of her gown. Once again it had granted her good fortune. She swore that
from that moment on she would never go out on a raid without her clan badge.

She reached the other end of the tunnel and doused the
light, threw her black clothes in a corner, then climbed the ladder and fumbled
for the wooden handle. The trap door practically flew open on its hinges. She
crawled out, heaving a great sigh of relief. From what she could hear inside
the closet, the house was quiet.

Madeleine rose to her feet and shut the trap door
firmly. Until next time, she thought, straightening her gown and smoothing the
top of her hair. She pushed open the closet door and stepped into the drawing
room, holding her breath. The soldier in the hallway was awake. She could hear
him pacing. She was tip-toeing toward the side stairs when the front door
suddenly crashed open and a soldier yelled, "It's Captain Marshall. He's
been hurt!"

Madeleine gasped. Garrett—hurt? Dear God, he had been
the one who had grabbed her in the fir grove!

There was instant commotion in the hallway; men's
voices, raised and shouting, a chair scraping out of the way, and then from the
right wing of the house, the sounds of running feet and more shouts.

Madeleine flew up the stairs, heading straight for her
room. She stared wide-eyed at her door, stunned that it was open. She thought
back uneasily. She had left the door closed, hadn't she? Yes, she had, she
could swear it. Someone must have been in her room while she was gone.

She felt sick, her stomach lurching. She closed the
door and bolted it from the inside. As she quickly lit the candle on the table
by her bed, her gaze swept the room. Everything was the same as she had left
it. She looked at her bed. The coverlet was still pulled over the two pillows
she had heaped beneath the sheets, and it lay undisturbed.

A sudden breeze blew in the window, stirring the
curtains. Maybe it had been the wind, she reasoned, watching the embroidered
gauze billow and curl. The breeze could have been strong enough to force open
the door if she hadn't latched it properly.

Madeleine started as footsteps and anxious voices
sounded down the hall, Sergeant Fletcher's voice booming above the rest.

"Easy now, lads, that's it. Let's get him into the
room and lay him down on the bed. Watch it, you fool! Good, now hold his
shoulders fast while we get him through the door . . ." His voice trailed
off as the men moved into her father's room.

Exhausted and spent, Madeleine sank down on the edge of
the bed, twisting her hands nervously.

It was so dark in those woods, it had been virtually
impossible to make out the identity of the soldier who had attacked her. And
even if she had known it was Garrett she doubted she would have done anything
differently. Her survival had been at stake. Hers and the people she served. If
she had been caught, everything would have been lost.

Yet even as she reasoned with herself, she felt a poignant
pain, a tumble of mixed emotions that both confused and angered her.

How badly was he hurt? She hadn't hit him that hard, or
had she? What if he should die?

She felt another stab of pain. What was the matter with
her? She didn't care in the least if he lived or died. He meant nothing to her,
absolutely nothing. He was a murdering and lying redcoat.

Yet she knew that was not the truth. Garrett Marshall
was a redcoat on the surface, but he was altogether different from what she had
imagined an Englishman to be like. He had shown himself to be a man of honor
and integrity, not at all coarse or crude, a man of humor, a fair man . . . a
man who could send her senses reeling with his slightest touch.

Madeleine put her trembling fingers to her temples. Her
head felt as if it were about to explode. She almost screamed at the sudden
loud banging on her door.

"Who's there?" she said, forcing her voice to
remain calm and steady.

"Sergeant Fletcher, Mistress Fraser. I must speak
with you at once."

"Just a moment." Madeleine crossed to her
wardrobe and whisked off her gown and boots, replacing it with her white
bedgown and cambric robe. She quickly unbraided her hair and ran a brush
through the tangles to remove bits of grass and twigs. Then she rushed to open
the door.

"Forgive me, Mistress Fraser," the sergeant
began, his eyes moving over her appraisingly. He cleared his throat when he saw
her sudden frown, and rushed on. "Captain Marshall has been injured in a
mysterious accident. Would your housekeeper . . . uh . . ."

"Glenis."

"Yes, Glenis. Would she have any medicine? We're
looking for our medical supplies, but they've been misplaced somewhere. It's
urgent, I'm afraid. We've stopped the bleeding, but he's weak—"

"Of course, Sergeant Fletcher," Madeleine
said, frightened at this news. "If ye'll follow me, we'll fetch Glenis.
She is well versed in treating many ills."

Aye, Glenis would help Garrett, she thought, walking
swiftly down the stairs with the sergeant close behind her. Unwittingly, she
said a silent prayer for the injured man who lay in her father's bed.

Glenis would know what to do.

Chapter 11

Glenis dipped the linen cloth into the basin and wrung
it out. She laid it across Garrett's fore- head, carefully covering the
bruised, swollen knot above his right temple. She touched his stubbly cheek and
found that his skin was cool. He was sleeping peacefully. After four long days
and nights, his fever had finally broken.

She smoothed the blanket and tucked it beneath his wide
shoulders. Then she rose wearily from the chair and turned around.

"He's seen the worst of it, Sergeant
Fletcher," she said quietly. "The fever's gone, ye'll be glad to
know. As soon as we can get some nourishment into him, he'll be as good as
new."

The stocky soldier nodded gratefully, a look of
admiration for the stooped old woman showing on his face. "We can't thank
you enough, ma'am. You've saved his life . . . you and Mistress Fraser."

Glenis smiled faintly. She picked up the basin and
moved to the door. "I've some beef broth simmering in the kitchen, and
good hot tea in the kettle. Ye must let me know when he wakes, and I'll bring
up a tray. He'll be thirsty, but dinna let him drink too much water. He needs
the broth first, for strength."

"Yes, of course," Sergeant Fletcher agreed. "Whatever
you think is best." He sat down by the bed as Glenis left the room.

She walked stiffly down the hall, stopping at
Madeleine's door. She peeked in and shook her head in exasperation.

Madeleine was curled up on her bed with the tartan
blanket thrown carelessly over her. Rain was pouring in through the open
windows, the drenched curtains hanging like sodden rags from the wooden rods.

"Och, that child," Glenis muttered. She set
down the basin and crossed to each window in turn, closing them firmly. The
last one slipped and crashed down with a loud thud.

Madeleine stirred beneath the blanket.
"Glenis?"

"Aye, Maddie. 'Tis me. Go back to sleep."

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "No, no. I've slept
enough. How is he, Glenis?"

Glenis sighed and sat down on the bed beside her
mistress. "The fever's broken, thanks to yer fine care during the night,
Maddie. Ye know, I could have stayed up with him—"

" 'Twas no matter," Madeleine interrupted her
gently. She yawned widely and stretched. "I dinna mind, and ye needed yer
sleep. We canna have ye taking sick, Glenis. The household would be a shambles
without ye."

She swung her legs to the floor and patted her
servant's thin shoulder. "Ye've a kind heart, Glenis Simpson. Ye cared for
the captain like he was yer own kin, redcoat or no." She glanced at the
clock and saw the hands just touching noon. "Ye've been with him all
morning. Now it's my turn. And it's time for ye to have another rest."

"Aye, I do feel a bit tired."

"Then it's settled. Come on, I'll walk with ye to yer
room."

Madeleine took her servant's arm and helped her to her
feet. While they walked downstairs and into the kitchen Glenis told her what
she had advised the sergeant.

"Not too much broth, mind ye," Glenis
instructed, stopping by the hearth, to give the pot's bubbling contents a quick
stir. "Give him a wee taste and see if it stays in his stomach. Then give
him a bit more. And see that he drinks a full cup of my special tea."

"Aye, Glenis, dinna worry," Madeleine said.
She pushed open the door to Glenis's room, just off the kitchen. "Go on
with ye. And dinna mind about supper. I can see to myself."

"Ye're a good lass, Maddie Fraser."

Madeleine smiled and closed the door quietly. She
turned around just as the sergeant strode into the kitchen.

"Oh . . . Mistress Fraser," he said. "I
was looking for your housekeeper, Glenis. The captain is awake—"

"She's resting, sergeant. I'll see to the tray for
Captain Marshall."

Madeleine quickly ladled some steaming meat broth into
a bowl and poured a cup of tea. When the tray was ready, she followed the
sergeant back up the stairs. Her mind was racing as she walked slowly down the
dim hallway, careful lest she spill anything.

Garrett was awake at last. She could hardly believe it.
He was going to live . . .

When she had first seen him lying on her father's bed
so ashen and still, with a bloodied gash in his forehead, she had thought he
would die for certain. She had tried not to blame herself, knowing in her heart
she had done what she needed to survive, yet she had felt responsible
nonetheless.

Perhaps that was why she had worked side by side with
Glenis and Sergeant Fletcher, fighting to save Garrett's life. If not for the
loss of blood, he might have been up on his feet the next day. But a burning
fever had set in. Never before had she seen such agony and such thrashing as
his body was wracked by chills and then fiery heat.

The nights she had sat by his bed were a blur of
changing sweaty sheets, cooling his face and feverish body with wet cloths,
administering Glenis's healing potions, and enjoying occasional respites when
he slept fitfully. During the days she napped and took turns at his bedside
with Glenis or Sergeant Fletcher.

The second night had been the worst. Garrett's
tormented cries had chilled her to the bone. He had shouted out names—Celinda,
Gordon—accompanied by wild oaths. Who were these people, and why would he curse
them so?

His strong body had shaken with tremors at one point,
and he had become delirious. She could not forget his words, which had driven
into her heart like piercing arrows.