A Hint of Rapture (3 page)

Madeleine let the curtain drop, her tears drying on her
cheeks. A determined resolve flared brightly within her breast, and a bold plan
took shape in her mind.

"Aye, something has to be done, Maddie Fraser, and
ye're the one to do it," she vowed fiercely.

God help her, somehow she would see that the Frasers of
Strathherrick would survive these awful times and live to prosper once again in
the Highlands they loved so dearly!

Then come, thou fairest of the fair,

Those wonted smiles, O, let me share,

And by thy beauteous self I swear

No love but thine my heart shall know!

Robert Burns

Chapter 1

Fort Augustus Inverness-shire

July 1746

Captain Garrett Marshall stirred on his narrow cot,
awakened by slow, cautious footfalls across the planked floor. Instantly alert,
he tensed. He reached for the knife beneath his thin mattress, then rolled over
without making a sound.

A flickering light drew his attention to the entrance
of the officers' bunkhouse, and he eased himself up on one elbow, his keen gaze
piercing the darkness. He immediately recognized the intruder and relaxed. It
was one of General Hawley's aides, a young corporal.

What could he want at this early hour? Garrett thought
irritably, watching as the soldier quietly made his way down the long row of
wooden cots, holding his sputtering candle high. The corporal stopped
occasionally to lift the edge of a coarse blanket and peer into the face of a
sleeping officer, then moved on. It was clear he was searching for someone.

Suddenly the soldier tripped over a pair of boots
standing beside a cot, his whispered oath eliciting groans from several men. He
froze, the candlelight bobbing as his hand shook, until the groans lapsed once
again into loud snoring. Only then did he resume his search, moving gingerly
down the narrow center aisle.

Garrett smiled grimly. Whatever the corporal's purpose,
he obviously did not want to wake anyone needlessly and receive a sharp cuff on
the ear for his trouble. Yet his method was most unwise. Perhaps Garrett should
teach this lad a lesson that might one day save his life.

He lay back down and pulled the blanket well over his
shoulder, shadowing his face. He waited, listening, until the corporal was
standing over him. In one sudden movement, Garrett threw off the blanket and
jumped up from the cot, seizing the unsuspecting soldier by the throat.

"It's dangerous to creep so among armed men,
corporal," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Better to announce
your presence, and wake us, than be mistaken for the enemy. We have been
tricked before by a Highlander wearing the king's colors."

The soldier nodded vigorously, gulping at the deadly
weight of a knife pressed against his belly. Sweat broke out on his brow as he
stared up into vivid gray-green eyes. "Y-yes, sir, C-Captain
Marshall!" he finally managed to stutter.

Satisfied, Garrett released him. He slipped the knife
back beneath his mattress, then straightened and ran his hands through his dark
blond hair. "What are you doing here?"

With a start the flustered soldier remembered his
mission. "Wh-why, looking for you, sir," he blurted out, though not
too loudly. "General Hawley has requested your presence at his quarters
immediately. Your commander, Colonel Wolfe, was summoned earlier and awaits you
there."

"Very well. Any idea what this is all about?"
Garrett asked, pulling on his breeches and reaching for the white shirt which
hung from a peg wedged into the stone wall. He glanced out the small window
high above his cot and that it was still dark, perhaps an hour yet before dawn.

"No, sir, though a messenger and escort were
admitted through the gates no more than a half hour past. An important dispatch,
I'd guess, because he made straight for the general's quarters." The
corporal shrugged. "I cannot say for sure if this dispatch concerns you,
captain, or if it's some other matter."

Garrett quickly drew on his red waistcoat, fastened the
buttons, and expertly tied his white cravat. He mulled over the corporal's
words as he pulled on his black boots, buckled his sword belt about his lean
waist, and donned the long red coat that reached just to his knees.

Why would General Hawley have summoned him so early in
the morning? If he had been a higher ranking officer, it would have made sense.
But he commanded a company of one hundred foot soldiers, nothing more, nothing
less. It was hardly worth singling him out—

Garrett's jaw tensed, and his eyes narrowed. Perhaps he
was being summoned to discuss some disciplinary action against one of his men.
Dammit all, that was the last thing he needed for morale!

General Henry Hawley, a bastard son of George II and
half brother to the duke of Cumberland, had not earned the nickname Hangman due
to his generosity and friendly rapport with his troops. He ruled his forces
with an iron hand, hanging any man who disobeyed him or displayed the least bit
of cowardice in battle. Fort Augustus had recently been given over to his command,
after the duke had returned to London last week. If one of Garrett's men had
already earned the general's displeasure, Garrett could do little to save him.

After tying his hair back with a ribbon, Garrett lifted
his black tricorn hat from another peg and set it atop his head. He followed
the corporal from the bunkhouse, although he took the lead when they approached
the imposing fieldstone building in the center of the fort. A mist hung in the
cool air, and Garrett inhaled deeply, bracing himself for whatever might lie
ahead.

The sentinels standing guard allowed them entrance, and
the corporal followed him through a heavy oak door, down a dark corridor, and
into a well-lit room. Garrett halted and stood at stiff attention at the first
sight of General Hawley. He was seated at one end of a long table with Colonel
Thomas Wolfe at his left.

"Thank you, corporal," Colonel Wolfe said,
nodding a curt dismissal. "Come in, Captain Marshall."

Garrett stepped forward until he stood at the opposite
end of the table, his gaze fixed on a distant point above the portly general's
head. "Sir, Captain Garrett Marshall of Wolfe's Regiment, Fourth Company
of Foot!" he said briskly.

"And, if I am not mistaken, the younger brother of
the earl of Kemsley, court minister to King George?" General Hawley
inquired, leaning forward.

Garrett dropped his gaze in surprise, meeting the
general's shrewd and cunning eyes, which resembled those of his half brother.
He shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, Lord Kemsley is my brother."

"Pray sit down, captain," Colonel Wolfe
invited, motioning to a nearby chair.

Garrett swept off his hat and sat, perplexed by the
direction of the conversation. He felt a sense of relief, however, that this
meeting apparently had nothing to do with his men's behavior.

"Your family has a very interesting history,"
General Hawley continued. "Colonel Wolfe tells me you possess a bit of
Scots blood, on your mother's side?"

Startled by this question, Garrett looked from the
general to his commander, whose nod was barely perceptible then back again.
"My grandmother was born in Edinburgh, sir, though her family came from
Sutherland in the north, a clan loyal to the Crown," he stressed
pointedly. "She married John Ross, an English merchant, and afterward
lived much of her life in London, as did my mother until she married my late
father, Geoffrey Marshall, the sixth earl of Kemsley."

"Colonel Wolfe also tells me you are familiar with
the Highlanders and their ways."

Garrett's brow lifted. One night over several tankards of
strong ale, he had mentioned his Scots heritage to the good colonel, who had
become almost like a father to him. He'd spoken in confidence, but obviously
that confidence had been breached. "May I be so bold, general, as to
inquire why you ask this of me?"

"In due time, captain," Colonel Wolfe
interrupted, his voice tinged with caution. "Please answer."

Garrett leaned back in his chair and stared stonily at
the general. "When I was a child, my grandmother told me stories of the
Highlands, sir, stories of her clan ancestors. I was born and bred in England,
but if such lore makes me more familiar with the Highlanders than most Britons,
then yes, I know something of their ways."

"Good." General Hawley turned to Colonel
Wolfe. "I am satisfied, commander. You may proceed with the plan we have
already discussed. See that Captain Marshall and a third of his men, the ones
who prove best in the saddle, leave the fort by noon tomorrow." He rose
from his chair, and the two officers followed suit. "Now if you will excuse
me, gentlemen, I intend to catch another hour's rest before breakfast."

General Hawley strode toward the door, then stopped and
glanced at Colonel Wolfe, his expression grim. "Commander, remember that
if your humanitarian plan fails, I will send an entire regiment to sweep
through those blasted mountains. We'll find that bastard Black Jack if I have
to burn every lice-ridden hovel to the ground!"

The door slammed shut behind him, and a heavy silence
descended on the room. It didn't last long.

"What the devil—"

"Wait!" Colonel Wolfe hissed, squelching
Garrett's outburst with a wave of his hand until the sound of the general's
ponderous footsteps gradually faded. Then he smiled wryly. "I don't know
which one is worse for ill temper, the duke or Hawley. They're both cut from
the same cloth, it seems." He laughed shortly, walking over and taking the
seat next to Garrett's. "Which, of course, they are. One above the royal
sheets and the other below."

At any other time Garrett might have been amused by his
commander's veiled reference to King George's mistresses, but he hadn't
relished the general's personal questions. He was a private man who trusted few
with details of his life. And the reference to his brother, Gordon, who at
thirty-four was six years his senior, had rubbed salt in an open wound.

It was Gordon who had bought him the costly military
commission Garrett had been honor-bound to fulfill. Garrett had no doubt his
brother had hoped he would be killed in some foreign battle. Gordon would then
inherit Rosemoor, the beautiful country estate their mother had left to
Garrett.

It had been the countess's right to bequeath her own
property to whomever she wished. She had chosen her favorite younger son,
forever sealing Gordon's deep-seated resentment of Garrett and fueling his
determination to claim Garrett's inheritance, using whatever means he could.

It wasn't enough that Gordon possessed all of their
father's holdings, including the entailed family estate, Kemsley Grove, and the
stately town house in London's most fashionable neighborhood. It wasn't enough
that he had married the woman Garrett had long courted, Lady Celinda Gray.
Gordon's greed to possess Rosemoor, the richest estate in Sussex, knew no
bounds.

However, Garrett was equally determined to thwart him.
Only their family honor had compelled him to fulfill his military commitment,
not fear of his brother. Next time the matter would be settled in a duel, and
honor be damned. He would suffer no more of Gordon's vengeful schemes or any
further disruption of his life.

At least he was well over Celinda's slight by now,
Garrett thought dryly. He wished he could say the same for his three-year
commission.

He still had another year of service remaining before
he could be free of this wretched army. After what he had seen during the past
few months under the duke of Cumberland, beginning with the massacre at
Culloden in which he had refused to play any part, and followed by the ruthless
persecution of the Highlanders, he had more than his fill of butchery!

Colonel Wolfe's gravelly voice broke into Garrett's
thoughts. "I know you're wondering what's afoot, Garrett, and I'll get
right to the point. First I must apologize for betraying a confidence, but in
this case I felt it necessary and justified."

Garrett merely nodded and sat down, tossing his hat
upon the table.

"I received a dispatch less than an hour ago.
Another of our supply wagons bound for the fort along General Wade's Road has
been plundered, the third in two weeks," Colonel Wolfe continued.
"Hawley's damn upset about it, especially since this load was carrying not
only grain, but also some casks of wine he had ordered from London. The thought
of this Black Jack fellow, a Jacobite sympathizer, swilling his vintage wine
doesn't set well with him in the least."

"Who is Black Jack?" Garrett asked, his
interest piqued by the unusual nickname.

Colonel Wolfe snorted derisively. "That's what the
soldiers call the leader of the renegade band of thieves, because the scoundrel
always appears in black clothing, with his face blackened to disguise his
features. He hides well in the shadows while his men do the stealing, and he
never says a word, although he always keeps two pistols cocked and ready. His
men work swiftly, usually tying up the soldiers and throwing their weapons into
Loch Ness or taking them along."

"Loch Ness? Have most of the raids been along
Wade's Road?"

"Yes, those involving supply wagons. But ships
docked along Inverness Firth have apparently also lost cargo to this thief, and
cattle have been stolen up and down Glenmore as far south as Loch Lochy."

Garrett's expression grew thoughtful. "Have any
soldiers been killed during these raids?"

"Surprisingly, no. A few men have been wounded,
but nothing serious. It seems Black Jack's only interest is theft. As soon as
he's stolen what he wants, he and his men disappear into the night."

"An interesting story, colonel, but what has this
to do with me?" Garrett asked.