A Hint of Rapture (7 page)

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 outlaw.

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.