A Hint of Rapture (10 page)

She took a white china plate from the cupboard, placed
two golden-brown scones on it, then handed the plate to Madeleine. "I
understand yer worries for Meg and Kitty. Yet I dinna think ye should be
botherin' yerself with house chores. If I know ye as well as I think I do, ye'll
be out on a raid before another week is past."

Before Madeleine could reply, Glenis gestured to the
table. "Go on, lass. I'll fetch the tea."

Madeleine obliged her and sat down while Glenis
followed with a delicate china teapot. She set it on the embroidered runner and
leaned against the table.

"Let Meg stay on, Maddie. She's a good head on her
shoulders and she works hard. Kitty's impetuous and far too pretty for her own
good." Glenis paused, her gnarled hand smoothing the runner. She sighed
sadly. "There's few young men left in the valley to court her now, and she
might easily be swayed by smooth words, even from a redcoat. The girls know
nothing of yer raids, to be sure, but I'd trust Meg over Kitty to keep quiet if
she saw anything she shouldna."

Madeleine was silent for several moments, mulling over
the request. Glenis was right, she decided. The girls were both sixteen, but
Meg was far more mature. She could be trusted. And Glenis could certainly use
the help.

"Very well, ye win," she said at last. "Meg
may stay on. But if I see the soldiers giving her a rough time of it, she'll
have to go. Agreed?"

"Aye, ye know best," Glenis replied. She sat
down across from Madeleine and poured them both a cup of hot, strong tea.
"I've made barley soup for supper, if ye've a mind to taste it," she
offered.

"The scones will be enough for me," Madeleine
said, breaking one apart. Steam drifted up from the crumbly surface, melting
the sweet butter she had slathered on it. She took a bite, enjoying the melded
flavors of spices and molasses.

A companionable silence fell over the kitchen.
Madeleine ate quickly while Glenis sipped her tea. She was anxious to retire to
her bedchamber.

It was her plan to wait until the house grew quiet,
then creep down the side stairs and into the drawing room. If she could make it
that far without being detected by any guards, she could surely make it to
Farraline. The trap door leading to the secret tunnel was hidden in the drawing
room closet.

When her great-grandfather had built Mhor Manor a
hundred years ago, he had dug a tunnel beneath it in case the family should
ever need an escape route in time of war. It ran from the closet, the trap door
concealed in the intricate floor planking, to a copse of ancient fir trees some
forty yards beyond the house. As far as Madeleine knew, the tunnel had only
been used once for its intended purpose.

Madeleine finished the last of her tea and set the cup
down with a clatter. "Ye make the best scones, Glenis," she said,
rising from her chair and planting a kiss on her forehead.

"Are ye sure 'tis enough to hold ye, lass?"

"Aye, 'tis plenty. Sleep well tonight, and dinna
worry for me." She opened the kitchen door. "Och, I almost forgot. If
Captain Marshall should come looking for me, tell him I've retired early. He
mentioned some nonsense about one of his soldiers being a fair cook and asked
that I join him for supper. Can ye imagine? I told him the food would grow cold
and rot before I'd ever sup with him."

She began to close the door, then glanced back over her
shoulder, smiling wickedly. "Better still, I know what ye can say, Glenis.
Tell him I'm a delicate lass. The excitement of the day was simply too much for
me."

"A delicate lass indeed," she heard Glenis
mutter as she shut the door. "As daring as any man, she is, and with
enough spirit to prove it!"

Madeleine walked through the dining room and up the
stairs. The hall was nearly pitch dark, but she could see well enough. She
strolled toward her room, humming a lilting Scottish air.

She stopped suddenly, her blood pounding loudly in her
ears. She stared wide-eyed at the faint sliver of light shining from beneath
the door to her father's bedchamber. Visions of phantoms and ghosts leaped in
her mind. Could it be that her father's restless spirit had come to haunt Mhor
Manor?

She quickly dispelled the thought, scolding herself for
her fears. It was obvious she had been listening far too much to Glenis's
superstitious rambling. There was a logical explanation for the light. There
had to be. Glens or one of the girls had left a lamp burning while cleaning the
room, or someone else was in there . . .

She tested the latch. The door was unlocked. She leaned
against it, tripping inside the dimly lit room as the door was abruptly pulled
open from the inside.

"Oh!" Madeleine exclaimed, knocking into
something broad and hard. A strong arm circled her waist and prevented her from
falling. Crisp curls brushed her cheek. She began to scream, but she was
silenced by a large hand pressed over her mouth. Panic rose in her throat, and
she twisted frantically, trying to free herself.

"Easy, Mistress Fraser, easy. I'd rather you not
bring my entire corps to your rescue, so if you'll kindly refrain from
screaming, I'll remove my hand."

Captain Marshall! Madeleine tensed at the familiar
voice, but she was grateful her captor wasn't one of those rough-looking
soldiers. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and nodded.

She inhaled sharply as he dropped his hand, but instead
of releasing her, he drew her closer. Her breasts were pressed tightly against
him, and the warmth of his skin seemed to burn through her gown. His warm, male
scent swamped her racing senses, and a soft, startled gasp broke from her
throat as his fingers gently caressed the small of her back.

A bewildering current of excitement shot through her,
and she flushed with embarrassment as she felt her nipples grow taut and rigid,
thrusting against her bodice. Her eyes fell to his rugged chest, sprinkled with
dark blond curls, and with a start she realized he was naked from the waist up.
Anger bubbled within her at his bold presumption, rescuing her from the
traitorous sensations flooding her body

"Release me at once, ye filthy—"

"Redcoat, swine, bastard?" Garrett finished
for her, painfully aware of the hardness swelling under his breeches. He
regretfully willed away his growing ardor, smiling as Madeleine clamped her
mouth shut and glared at him. "You seem to have a limited vocabulary when
it comes to English soldiers, Mistress Fraser. Perhaps you might try calling me
by my Christian name."

"I'll do nothing of the kind," she snapped.
She braced her hands against his bare chest and pushed, but her efforts were
futile. He held her too tightly, his arms as powerfully muscled as his chest .
. . a fact which strangely excited her once more. Infuriated by her errant
feelings, she threw her head back, her eyes crackling with fire. "Let me
go!"

"Garrett."

Madeleine could see she had no choice in this verbal
tug-of-war. "Garrett," she muttered through clenched teeth.

Suddenly he released her, and she felt strangely
bereft, but only for an instant. She stepped back, her temper flaring anew as
her gaze swept the large room. Garrett's personal belongings were everywhere,
his scarlet coat draped over the chair by the mahogany desk, his waistcoat and
white shirt lying on the tartan bedspread, a massive, brass-bound trunk at the
foot of the canopied bed . . .

"What do ye think ye're doing in my father's
room?" she demanded, her fists clenched.

Garrett sobered, the smile fading from his lips. Her
late father's room. He had guessed as much, from the masculine decor and heavy
furnishings. He had also anticipated her response to this new intrusion, but
there was no help for it. He needed the space and the privacy.

"I have decided to use this room during my
stay," he explained. "We've run short of space for an extra bunk in
the dancing room, and the guest rooms are full."

"Ye should have tried the stable first,"
Madeleine said bitterly. "Ye'd fit in nicely. There's plenty of room, now
that most of the stalls are empty. Yer countrymen stole our finest horses, as
well as our cattle and sheep."

Garrett was cut by her insult, though he did not show
it. He knew there was great pain fueling her words, a sorrow that only time
would heal.

Until trust grew between them, if it did at all, she
would likely continue to hurl such insults at him. He would simply have to
deflect them and keep his tem- per firmly in check. It would not further his
plan to ash out at her, or to demand her compliance as one of the conquered.

If he stayed his course, perhaps he could crack her
defiant exterior and expose the passionate woman beneath, a woman who might be
willing to help him . . . and thereby help her people. These past few moments
had already granted him a fleeting glimpse of desire burning in those
incredible blue eyes. It seemed his effect on her was much the same as hers on
him—a most intriguing discovery.

"I'm sure you can understand the stable would not
be suitable," Garrett said, smiling faintly. "If there was another
acceptable chamber on this floor, I would certainly—"

"There is, just down the hall," Madeleine
interjected. "It's next to mine . . ." Her voice trailed off, and she
flushed warmly, which only unnerved her further. She had never blushed so much
before this man had entered her life.

She didn't want him to think she was suggesting
anything, she thought, chagrined. She only wanted him to leave this room for
another.

"What I meant to say," she began, groping for
words, "is that there's a room . . . on the same side of the hall as my
own."

"I know what you meant, and I already considered
it," Garrett said gently, touched by her obvious embarrassment.
"Unfortunately, that room faces the mountains," he continued.
"Though it is a magnificent view, I prefer to stay here. These windows
face the road and Farraline. As a commander, I must consider the safety of my
men and our position. I'm sure you understand."

"Aye, I understand," Madeleine said hotly,
"and I'll have ye understand this, Captain Marshall. Yer being in this
room is an affront to my father's memory. Ye disgrace it with yer
presence."

Garrett remained unperturbed. "I'm sorry you feel
that way," he said. "I consider it an honor. Your father must have
been a very brave and good man to earn such loyalty from his daughter."
His voice fell. "I envy you. My late father and I were never very
close."

Sudden tears glistened in Madeleine's eyes. "Aye,
my da was a fine man," she barely managed, her throat tightening,
"and I'd rather ye not speak of him. 'Tis an insult as well. He might
still be alive if not for the treachery of yer kind."

Her words stung, and Garrett flinched imperceptibly.
How he longed to take her in his arms again, to smooth back her hair and stroke
her cheek and tell her that he deeply regretted the massacre at Culloden . . .
that he had had no part in it.

The senseless slaughter was an act of inhumanity he
would relive until his dying day. He carried a deep sense of shame within him,
not only for the men who had committed the atrocities, but because he and a few
other officers who felt the same had been powerless to stop it.

He took a step toward her, then restrained himself. No,
this was not the time. She would spit the words back in his face and call him a
liar. How could he blame her? She had never seen English soldiers behave in any
manner other than abhorrently, like maddened beasts.

Have patience, man, he warned himself. You might have a
chance with her, but only if you're patient. He turned and walked over to the
washstand, where he picked up a thick bar of soap.

"I was just about to wash up for dinner," he
said, changing the painful subject. "My cook, Jeremy Witt, has concocted a
decent chicken stew in the kitchen tent he set up behind the house. He has also
baked some of his famous pan bread. I'd be honored if you would reconsider my
offer and join me. Perhaps we could eat in the dining room. My men won't bother
us there. They seem to prefer eating under the stars, swapping stories in front
of a blazing fire."

Madeleine stared at him as if he were insane. She
blinked back her tears, her ire surging once more. "I dinna care about yer
cook's chicken stew, nor his pan bread, and I hope yer men choke on their food!
I told ye before, I'll never sup with the likes of ye."

Garrett smiled as he dipped the rough cloth into the
basin of sudsy water. "You don't have to eat, then. Just sit with
me," he said, scrubbing his face. "My Scots grandmother told me many
stories about the Highlands, and I'm curious to hear more."

Madeleine gaped at him. If he'd suddenly grown horns
and a forked tail, she couldn't have been more stunned. "Yer grandmother
was a Highlander?" she asked, her voice almost a whisper. "Ye've
Scots blood in ye?"

"Aye, that I do," Garrett said playfully,
attempting a Scottish burr. He toweled himself dry. "She grew up in
Edinburgh, but her people were one of the clans in the north.'

Now you've done it, he thought, watching her expression
cloud and darken. It was obvious his rash tongue had only made things worse.

"What clan might that be?" Madeleine asked,
though she already sensed his answer. Many of the clans in the northern
Highlands had fought under King George's banners at Culloden, traitors against
their own people.

Garrett threw the towel on the stand. He sighed
heavily. "Clan Sutherland."

Madeleine's tone was scathing. "So, now I not only
have a horde of redcoats under my roof, but their fine commander's Scots blood
is traitorous to boot. To think ye'll be sleeping in my father's bed. I hope he
comes back to haunt Mhor Manor, and I hope he runs his sword right through yer
black traitor's heart!"

"Madeleine . . ."