A Hint of Rapture (17 page)

"No, stop them. We've got to stop them! They're
wounded men . . . my God, stop the killing! Damn Cumberland! Damn Cumberland to
hell! Here . . . drink this . . . it will help the pain . . . No, don't shoot,
he's dying, can't you see . . . No, I won't stand away . . . Don't shoot him .
. . No! God help us, have they all gone mad?"

She shuddered as she remembered his face twisting grief
and the tears staining his cheeks. She had felt tears sting her own eyes, and
she had been unable to swallow. Could he be speaking of Culloden? Surely he had
been there. Had he witnessed the slaughter? Had he tried to stop the senseless
killing?

He had slept then, exhausted, his face pale and
deathlike, only to awaken an hour later, calling her name. She had been alone
with him because Glenis had gone to fetch some fresh water. He had tried to sit
up and she had forced him back down, stroking his hair and soothing him while
he whispered her name again and again.

Another name had come to his lips, an odd name, a
nickname. Black Jack. He said it several times, murmuring to himself.
I will find you. I will find you, Black
Jack.

She had sensed at once who he meant. Black Jack. That
must be the name the English soldiers had given her. It fit perfectly. She
dressed in black and raided only at night.

His vehement words finally confirmed her suspicions and
gut intuition. Captain Garrett Marshall had been sent to look for an outlaw,
and she was that outlaw. She was Black Jack.

While sitting beside him, watching him drift into
another restless sleep, Madeleine had suddenly remembered something else he had
said to her the first day they met.

It is the
innocent people who will suffer and bear the blame if these outlaws are not
stopped.

An ominous chill had gripped her. What had he meant?
Was it a threat, a hint of violence to come if his search for her proved
unsuccessful?

"Would you like me to carry the tray, Mistress
Fraser?" Sergeant Fletcher asked, his voice jarring her back to reality.

He was staring at her, a puzzled expression on his
face, and with a start Madeleine realized that she had stopped in the middle of
the hallway. Her hands were trembling slightly, rattling the china teacup in
its saucer.

"No. I'm fine, sergeant," she said, her calm
tone masking her agitation. She could swear her heart was thumping loudly
enough to be heard in Farraline!

She held the tray firmly and walked toward the master
bedchamber. The sergeant opened the door for her, and she stepped inside the
candlelit room. Her gaze flew to the wide, canopied bed. The green velvet bed
curtains were drawn back and tied with a fringed cord, revealing Garrett
propped up against three plump pillows, his head back and his eyes closed.

He was such a handsome man, Madeleine found herself thinking,
despite the gauntness of his face. She had come to know his features intimately
during the past few days, and now it seemed she always carried a vivid picture
of him in her mind.

His dark blond hair reminded her of autumn grain
rippling in the sun. His brows were a darker color, straight and thick over
deep-set eyes, and his forehead was strong, marred only by the nasty gash she
had given him.

His nose was straight, his mouth sensuous and pleasing,
and his jaw square-cut and shadowed with dark whiskers. The rugged planes
beneath his cheekbones were hollow, but that was to be expected after what he
had suffered. He had not eaten in days.

She was glad to see his color was better. He was
wearing a clean white bedshirt that buttoned down the front, and silken blond
curls showed at the neckline. She looked away as a blush crept across her skin,
and then walked to the bedside table where she set down the tray.

She stirred a spoonful of heather honey into the tea
along with a bit of cream and then poured in a dram of whiskey. She was unaware
that Garrett had opened his eyes and was watching her until she heard his deep
voice.

"You're doing this for me, Mistress Fraser?"

She jumped, dropping the spoon with a clatter. She met
his gaze. His eyes were as warm and smiling as she remembered, and their vivid
gray-green depths seemed to hold her captive. He was studying her face
intently, as if he were seeing her for the first time. She felt a flush of heat
at his admiring perusal.

"Mistress Fraser and her housekeeper, Glenis, have
been caring for you from the start, captain," Sergeant Fletcher revealed
before she could reply. "They've been here night and day—along with
myself, of course."

"Is this true?" he asked quietly.

"Aye," Madeleine said simply, trying to ignore
the shivers racing along her spine. If only he would stop looking at her so!

"I wonder what I've done to deserve such fine
treatment," Garrett said with a thin smile. "I only wish I had done
it sooner."

Madeleine couldn't tell if he was jesting or not, and
she certainly wasn't about to tell him the truth behind her presence in his
room. She chose to ignore his statement and glanced over at the sergeant.

"Could ye kindly push that chair closer to the
bed?"

Sergeant Fletcher nodded and quickly did as she asked.
She sat down and cradled the bowl of broth in her hands.

"That's enough talk for now, captain—"

"Please," he cut her off, his expression
sobering, his eyes serious. "Garrett. And I'd be honored if you would
allow me to call you Madeleine."

Madeleine stared at him and then shrugged. 'Twas no
harm in it, she decided. She would humor him, for now.

"Very well, Garrett. Glenis's orders were for ye
to eat this broth, but only a little at a time." Ignoring his unsettling
gaze, she concentrated on holding the spoon to his mouth and tilting it. He
swallowed weakly and smiled again.

"That's good. More, please . . . Madeleine."

She almost laughed out loud in spite of herself.
"I told ye, Glenis said slowly."

His hunger was a good sign, she thought as she fed him more.
She blushed anew when she spilled some broth on his upper chest, the liquid
disappearing beneath his bedshirt.

"I-I'm sorry," she said uncomfortably,
setting down the bowl. " 'Twas so clumsy of me." She undid the
buttons and wiped his chest and tautly muscled abdomen with a linen napkin, not
daring to look at his face. Her fingers shook as she refastened his shirt, and
she fumbled with the last few buttons.

"It's no matter, Madeleine," Garrett said
softly, bringing his hands up to cover her own. She started, meeting his eyes,
and for an instant she was lost, aware of nothing but his touch and the heated
expression in his gaze.

Sergeant Fletcher's embarrassed cough finally broke the
spell between them. Madeleine's heart thundered as she slid her hands from
beneath Garrett's and reached for the cup of tea. "Glenis said ye're to
drink this down. It's her special remedy."

"What's in it?" Garrett asked with a smile.
He sniffed the dark, clouded liquid and eyed her skeptically.

"Never ye mind. Now drink. 'Tis no longer hot, so
it winna burn yer throat."

He took a sip and grimaced. "I'd say there's a bit
of Scots whiskey in this tea." He wheezed, his eyes smarting. He took a
longer draft. "I'd swear to it." He lifted the cup and gamely
finished it off, presenting it to her with a small flourish. "You must
tell Glenis I enjoyed the broth and the tea very much. And I especially enjoyed
your kind assistance, Madeleine."

Flustered by the quiet intensity in his voice,
Madeleine rose to her feet. "Ye must rest, Garrett. Could ye ease up a bit
so I might fix yer pillows?"

Garrett leaned on one elbow as she plumped the pillows.
Suddenly he winced in pain, his hand flying to the knot on his head. He touched
it gingerly.

"That's where the bloke hit you, captain, whoever he
was," Sergeant Fletcher said, looking at his commanding officer with
concern. "We searched the entire area around the house, but there was no
trace of him, not even footprints. It's like he was swallowed up by the
moor."

Madeleine's eyes widened. If the sergeant only knew how
close he was to the truth. She bent over Garrett and tucked the tartan
bedspread around his lean waist, very much aware that he was watching her. She
felt a shiver and stepped away from the bed. "There now, Garrett. Ye can
lie back."

He did so, exhaling sharply, and it was clear to
Madeleine that his small movement had taxed him greatly. He would no doubt
remain bedridden for several days, which was fine with her. While Garrett was
recuperating she could resume her raids without fear (This personal
intervention.

Now that he was feeling better, her conscience was
soothed. Well, only somewhat, she admitted to herself. Yet Glenis and Sergeant
Fletcher would have to see to Garrett without her now. She had to plan her
raids. Just last night Ewen had sent word to her through Duncan, who had passed
himself off as a blacksmith looking for work, asking when they would ride
again. She would no longer make her kinsmen wait.

She picked up the tray and turned to leave but stopped
when Garrett gently touched her arm.

"Would you sit here with me awhile,
Madeleine?" he asked quietly, staring into her eyes. "Please. I'd
appreciate your company. Fletcher will take the tray back to the kitchen, won't
you, sergeant?"

Before Madeleine could refuse, the sergeant walked over
and took the tray from her. "It will give me a chance to fetch some lunch
for myself, if you don't mind, Mistress Fraser," he said. He moved briskly
to the door. "I'll be back shortly." Then he was gone, leaving Madeleine
standing awkwardly beside the bed.

"Please . . . sit down," Garrett bade her.

Madeleine sighed softly, then sat, deciding there was
no harm in lingering for a little while. She stared at her folded hands, not
knowing quite what to say. She hadn't expected this at all.

"Sergeant Fletcher told me I've been out for four
days," he said, breaking the silence. "I can hardly believe it. That
must have been some bump on the head."

Madeleine winced. She coughed slightly and raised her
head. "Aye, ye gave us quite a scare . . ." She faltered, her cheeks
suddenly very warm. "I mean yer men, they've been worried sick for ye, and
Sergeant Fletcher—well, Glenis and I thought for sure he'd fall ill himself
when ye became delirious. He was so upset that we had to send him outside for
fresh air."

He chuckled, and she smiled. His face looked so
boyishly handsome when he laughed, so honest and open. If not for the fact that
he was a redcoat, she might have liked this man.

Madeleine looked away, disturbed by her thoughts.

"I suppose I filled your ears with a lot of
nonsense," Garrett said, startling her. "I've seen people with fevers
before. My father had one just before he died, as did my grandmother. It's like
listening to someone's nightmare."

She stared at him, wondering if he was well enough for
her to ask him about Culloden. She quickly decided against it when he grimaced
and his hand strayed to his bruised forehead. His memories were obviously
painful, perhaps too painful to discuss right now. In a few days she would ask
him, when he was more fully recovered.

"Ye did mumble a bit," Madeleine allowed.
"Well, it was more swearing, really."

"Swearing?"

"Aye. Ye dinna have kind words to say for Gordon,
or Celinda."

Garrett seemed stunned for a moment then laughed
softly, but Madeleine sensed there was no humor in it.

"Gordon, the earl of Kemsley, is my older
brother," he replied, his tone edged with bitterness. "It's because
of him I'm in the military. He bought a commission for me as a token of his
high esteem and affection," he added sarcastically.

"Ye were forced?" Madeleine asked, confused.

Garrett smiled wryly. "In a way. I could have
turned it down, but our family honor demanded I accept. I've one year left,
then I'm a free man."

Madeleine's mind raced. So Garrett was an aristocrat.
That explained his gentlemanly ways and refined speech. She knew the English
army was a common refuge for younger sons of the nobility, who usually
possessed no estate of their own.

Perhaps the earl had been thinking of Garrett's welfare
and provided him with a profession, at least for a few years. Yet it was clear
Garrett resented what had happened to him. Had he been forced to leave a woman
behind, a mistress, a betrothed? Celinda?

Garrett's fingers lightly touched her arm, dispelling
her thoughts but not the twinge of jealousy that pricked her.

"Now I believe I should thank Gordon," he
said, staring at her intently. "This is the most pleasant assignment I've
ever had, because I met you." Madeleine's eyes stared into his, and her
skin tingled from his featherlight touch. Perplexed, she shifted uncomfortably
in her chair and drew her arm away.

"And who is Celinda?" she asked, trying to
keep her voice nonchalant. As Garrett looked at her curiously, she had the
strangest feeling he could sense how furiously her heart was pounding.

"Celinda is Gordon's wife," he replied.
"We courted for a time, but she opted for my brother's title."

"I'm—I'm sorry," Madeleine stammered,
surmising she had touched a raw nerve. No wonder he had cursed Celinda's name.
To be so slighted, and for his own brother! How terrible. Garrett must have
truly loved Celinda to express such emotion in his delirium.

Discomforted by that thought, she rose from the chair.
"Forgive me for prying, Garrett. Ye really should rest now."
 
She gasped as he caught her hand.

"Celinda was a youthful fancy, nothing more,
Madeleine," he said, stroking her trembling fingers with his thumb.

"Ye dinna have to explain—"

"There's no one else," he insisted, leaning
up on his elbow.