A Hint of Rapture (32 page)

She should never have trusted a redcoat! She should
never have trusted a redcoat!

Chapter 22

Madeleine raced into Farraline, her sweat-lathered
horse almost crashing into a large group of English soldiers standing in
formation near the intersection of the road and the village's main street. She
frantically dodged the outstretched hands attempting to yank her from the
saddle and kicked her horse onward.

They careened along the main street, surrounded on
every side by chaotic confusion. Everywhere Madeleine looked people were
running. Soldiers waved lighted torches above their heads, and men, women, and
children bolted from their smoke-filled cottages. Terrified screams, shrieks,
and raucous laughter rent the air.

Finally Madeleine's horse would go no further, rearing
in fright and wildly flailing its hooves despite Madeleine's frenzied urging.
She clutched at the horse's coarse mane until she could slide off the saddle,
then began to run dazedly through the village.

She coughed and wheezed, her lungs burning from the
acrid smoke, her chest heaving
 
painfully. Her eyes stung and tears spilled down her cheeks. She
stumbled and fell heavily to her knees but dragged herself back up and ran on,
her stricken mind barely comprehending the devastation before her.

The cottages at the south end of Farraline were
completely engulfed, rolling orange flames pouring from every blackened window
and yawning door. Several dozen English soldiers were methodically setting fire
to the thatched roofs of another row of cottages while officers on horseback
guided their progress.

Once again screams filled the air as villagers
abandoned their homes at the last possible moment, forced out by the soldiers'
warning shouts and the thick, billowing smoke. Madeleine spied Flora Chrystie,
her tiny daughter in her arms, and her three boys fleeing to the safety of the
moor with their neighbors.

"Stop it, I tell ye!" Madeleine yelled
hoarsely, overcome by blind rage. "Stop!" She dashed toward the
nearest mounted redcoat, catching him from behind. Before the startled officer
knew what had hit him, she had grabbed his wide belt and pulled him with all
her might from his horse. She bent over and wrenched his pistol from his belt, clutching
it with her tied hands.

"Ye devil!" she cried, pointing the muzzle
shakily at his ashen face. Her finger grazed the trigger, and she closed her
eyes.

"Madeleine, you can't stop it this way!"

Garrett's anxious voice seared into her consciousness, and
she whirled around just as he dismounted from his heaving horse a few feet away
from her. His eyes were the color of slate, boring into hers as if demanding
she acknowledge the desperate plea written there.

"Put down the pistol, Madeleine," he said urgently.
"I'll never be able to help you if you shoot someone."

"No," Madeleine said numbly, shaking her
head. She took a step toward him. "Ye lied, Garrett. I believed ye,
trusted ye—"

"You can still trust me, Maddie," he interjected,
holding out his hands. "Everything I told you was the truth. I knew
nothing of this. You must believe me."

"No," she breathed fiercely, aiming the
muzzle at his chest. "I thought ye were different, Garrett, but ye're the
same as the rest of yer kind—"

Suddenly she felt a sharp, sickening blow to the back
of her head, and her words died on her lips. She staggered, blackness washing
over her. The last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground was Garrett
rushing toward her.

"That'll teach the bastard," the young
lieutenant grunted, patting the polished butt of his musket. He prodded
Madeleine's prone body with his toe. "He's lucky I didn't put a ball right
between his shoulder blades instead. He surely deserved it, pointing a gun in
my face—"

"Get away from her!" Garrett snarled, falling
to his knees. He pushed off her black cap and cradled her head gently, relieved
to see there was no swelling or bleeding. Her breathing was shallow but even,
another good sign. At worst when she woke up she'd have a terrible headache.

Garrett gathered Madeleine into his arms and stood up
quickly, his eyes ablaze. "I'm Captain Marshall, assigned to this valley
by General Henry Hawley. Who's in command here? Who gave you the order to burn
this village?"

"Why, General Hawley," the officer blurted,
stunned. "He's personally leading our regiment." He peered at
Madeleine's face, streaked with tears and soot. "If I'd known she was a
woman, captain, I wouldn't have hit her so hard."

Garrett ignored the man's curious stare, his jaw
tightening. He recalled the terse message he had received the day before from
Colonel Wolfe and cursed his own carelessness in not taking the warning more
seriously.

It was clear General Hawley had made good on his threat
to take immediate action, far sooner than Garrett would ever have expected.
Colonel Wolfe must have told Hawley that he suspected Black Jack's activities
were centered around Farraline. Garrett had told his colonel as much in a
message he had sent to Fort Augustus several weeks ago.

"Where's the general?" Garrett asked gruffly

"Right over there, captain, near that stone
church," the lieutenant replied, pointing toward the north end of
Farraline.

Garrett grimaced. He must have ridden right past Hawley
in his haste to overtake Madeleine. He would have caught up with her sooner if
not for Hawley's blasted soldiers blocking the road. At least it would have
spared her the cruel blow to her head.

He glanced down at Madeleine's face, so pale beneath
what little black soot remained. Once again she had thought nothing for her own
safety, trying in vain to stop what was happening to Farraline. Garrett had to
get to General Hawley at once if he was to save the rest of the village from
the torch. He looked steadily at the lieutenant.

"Tell your men, and those of the other officers as
well, to stay their torches until further orders are received from General
Hawley," he commanded.

"I can't do that, Captain Marshall," the
lieutenant objected. "Our orders are to keep going until there's nothing
left standing—"

"I said stay your torches," Garrett said
ominously. "I've news for the general that will undoubtedly reverse his
orders. If one more cottage is burned, lieutenant, I'll hold you personally
responsible."

The young officer swallowed hard, clearly daunted by
Garrett's murderous expression. He nodded.

"Good. Get on with it." Garrett watched as
the lieutenant hurried over to the other mounted officers, who each in turn
glanced guardedly at him. They began to call off their men.

Garrett waited no longer. He turned and strode toward
the church, hugging Madeleine to his chest.

Each step was excruciating as his mind waged a final
battle with his raging emotions, his soul demanding that he find a way to hold
on to his dream. How he longed at that moment simply to ride out of Farraline
with Madeleine safe in his arms, leaving this horrible dilemma far behind them.

Yet Garrett knew he could not. If there was one thing
he understood about Mistress Madeleine Fraser, however painful for him, it was
that she would sacrifice everything, even her life, for her kinsmen.

By turning Madeleine over to General Hawley as Black
Jack, Garrett would be helping her people. To do otherwise would only earn him
her hatred. It was bad enough she already believed he had lied to her. Her
screams still echoed in his ears, her words twisted cruelly into his heart . .
.
I hate ye
. . .
I hate ye
. . .

God, he could not think of it! He had to believe there
was another way he could save Madeleine from Hawley's wrath. He had to believe
he had not lost his dream forever—

"Welcome, Captain Marshall," a loud voice
rang out, shattering his tormented thoughts. "So now I see how you've been
wasting your time. A wench in trousers, no less."

Garrett's eyes narrowed at his supreme commander, who
was sitting astride a gleaming white stallion that seemed dwarfed by the man's
ponderous weight. Illuminated by the towering flames, Hawley's massive bulk
cast a grotesque shadow on the church's stone walls.

"General Hawley," Garrett said curtly,
stopping in front of the general and his plumed retinue of high-ranking
officers.

A quick glance told him his only ally, Colonel Wolfe,
was not among them. He would have to fight this out alone. He drew a deep
breath and was about to speak when Sergeant Fletcher suddenly rode up to the
church, followed by the rest of his soldiers and their sullen prisoners.

Sergeant Fletcher dismounted and rushed over to his
side. "You caught her, captain," he blurted with relief.

"Caught whom?" General Hawley inquired, his shrewd,
heavy-lidded eyes swiftly assessing the scene before him.

"Black Jack," Garrett stated clearly. He
nodded toward the trussed Highlanders flanked by his soldiers. "And the
five men who've been riding with her."

General Hawley quickly masked his astonishment and
adopted a look of studied amusement. "Surely, you jest, Captain
Marshall." He pointed to Madeleine with the feathered end of his
horsewhip. "Are you telling me that this woman is the outlaw who's been
attacking my supply trains?"

"Yes, I am, general," Garrett replied evenly.
"We captured Black Jack and her kinsmen an hour ago, after discovering the
location of their meeting place. They would have been in your custody by
tomorrow night.

He paused, glancing pointedly over his shoulder.
"This matter could have been resolved peacefully, as we had planned."

"Do I detect a hint of criticism in your tone,
captain?" General Hawley asked sharply, anger shaking his voice. "If
so, you'd do well to keep it to yourself. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Garrett said.

General Hawley snorted with derision. "Your
humanitarian effort has cost the Crown a great deal of money replacing the food
supplies continually stolen by this blackguard." He waved his horsewhip
toward the burning cottages. "If I'd done this a month ago as I had
planned—before Colonel Wolfe interfered, Black Jack and her men" —he spat—
"would have hanged by and saved us quite a bit of trouble." He leaned
forward in his saddle. "Not to mention the soldiers who've been shot by
these six bastards. I should have swept through this valley with fire and
bayonet until these Highlanders served up Black Jack on a silver platter!"

Garrett had no response to this long tirade, which
seemed to irritate General Hawley all the more.

"Does this woman . . . this Black Jack, have a
name?" he asked, staring at Madeleine with evident distaste.

"Madeleine Fraser, mistress of Farraline," he
answered. "Her father was a baronet, Sir Hugh Fraser, who died at
Culloden."

"How fascinating," General Hawley said.
"A baronet's daughter. Then she must have lands, an estate nearby? They
will be forfeited to the Crown, of course, for her vicious acts of treason.
That should put some gold coin back into the king's coffers."

Garrett bit his tongue. It enraged him to hear General
Hawley accuse Madeleine of vicious acts! "Yes," he replied. "She
has an estate, Mhor Manor, where my men and I have been billeting since our
arrival in Strathherrick."

There was an ominous silence, broken only by the
crackling flames in the distance. When General Hawley finally spoke, his fleshy
face was bright red with anger.

"Do you mean to say, Captain Marshall, that while
you were quartered under her roof, Mistress Fraser continued to carry out her
raids with no interference from you or your men?"

Garrett stared back at him stonily. "Certainly we
would have captured her sooner, general, if we had detected her
activities." He chose his next words with care, aware that Madeleine's
kinsmen were within earshot. Madeleine would learn of Glenis's assistance from
his lips alone. "I have discovered there is a secret tunnel beneath Mhor
Manor. That was how Mistress Fraser was able to pass unnoticed from the house
and continue her raids despite our presence."

"A secret tunnel!" General Hawley snorted.
"These Highlanders are the craftiest lot." He flicked his horsewhip
impatiently. "I would see this Mhor Manor," he stated. "I assume
it will adequately accommodate my commanding officers and myself? Most of the
manor houses still standing in the Highlands are hollow shells, not fit for
beasts."

Garrett felt bile rising in his throat. To think that
Hawley might sleep in the bed where only last night he and Madeleine had slept.
"The house is well appointed," he heard himself answer woodenly.

"Good. I assume there is a stable where the
prisoners may be housed?"

Garrett stared at him incredulously. He glanced at
Madeleine, still unconscious in his arms, and back to the general.
"Mistress Fraser has been injured," he said. "She needs care, as
does one of her kinsmen, who was shot during the ambush. The stable is drafty
and it leaks, hardly the place—"

"Captain Marshall!" General Hawley roared,
cutting him off. "If I did not know better, I might accuse you of
harboring some affection for these Jacobite dogs. Surely you don't expect me to
sleep under the same roof with them." He abruptly turned his attention to
the stiffly erect soldier at Garrett's side. "Your name, sergeant,"
he demanded.

"Sergeant Fletcher, sir!" he answered
briskly.

"Well, Sergeant Fletcher. Take this prisoner from Captain
Marshall and see that she and her surly kinsmen are locked up in the stable
under full guard," he commanded, then added dryly, "I'll have one of
my surgeons sent over to attend to their wounds. I'd like a full complement of
criminals to face the king's justice, if possible." His eyes shifted to
Garrett. "Meanwhile, the good captain will kindly accompany my officers
and myself to Mhor Manor where we'll discuss his notable accomplishment over a
glass of wine or two."