Garrett cursed under his breath as the figure dashed into another copse of trees just ahead of him, no more than ten feet away. He did not slow down. He was so close, and he had to catch the bastard!
His lungs were on fire and his thighs were pumping hard, but his footfalls made little sound. He headed straight for the trees, knocking the branches out of the way as he plunged into the wooded grove. The figure was only an arm's length away now.
Garrett reached out and lunged, catching a handful of thick fabric. He yanked hard, and the figure fell in front of him, tripping him.
Garrett lurched forward, the momentum of his body toppling him over and over as he rolled on the ground. He hit the tree trunk so hard it knocked the breath from his body. He lay there on his stomach, stunned, his mouth full of dirt.
Then he felt a heavy branch striking him on the side of the head. He yelled out in pain, saw blinding streaks of light bursting in front of his eyes, then nothing . . .
***
Madeleine dropped the branch and stepped back, her chest heaving furiously. She massaged her aching shoulder, which she had bruised in her fall.
Damn, just when everything had gone so smoothly, this had to happen. The soldier's cry still rang in her ears, still echoed about the fir grove. She had to get out of there fast, in case any guards had also heard his cry.
She didn't bother to turn the soldier over to see if he was still breathing. There was no time, and she would discover soon enough if he lived or died.
She found the bundle of clothing she had dropped when she was tackled and ran swiftly toward the center of the grove where the tallest fir tree stood. She stooped under the low-lying branches, sifting her hands through the tall grasses for the loose square of sod. She found the concealed trap door and lifted it. Taking one last deep breath of fresh air, she clambered down the ladder, pulling the door down over her.
Again she was showered by dirt and debris. She coughed 'and wheezed, fumbling in the dark for the candle and tinderbox. She hurriedly lit the candle, her fear easing as golden light flooded her end of the tunnel. She dripped some wax on one of the rungs and twisted the candle into it.
Madeleine shook out the bundle of her gown and shawl and quickly changed out of her black garb.
At least she would be wearing proper clothes if she were caught in the drawing room. She could easily explain that she had been awakened by the cry in the woods and had dashed down the stairs to find out what had happened. If they found her near the closet, or even inside it, she could say she was looking for lamp oil. The closet was stocked with oil, candles, and many other household items.
She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, broke off the candle, and hurried through the tunnel. The shadowed passage didn't bother her as much this time. Her mind was too preoccupied, and her thoughts were spinning.
She had never had such a close call before. That soldier, whoever he was, had almost caught her. She had only heard him running up behind her at the last moment, right before he grabbed her jacket. Thankfully he had stumbled over her and rolled away, instead of coming down on top of her. Otherwise she might never have escaped.
Madeleine fingered the sprig of yew tucked in the bodice of her gown. Once again it had granted her good fortune. She swore that from that moment on she would never go out on a raid without her clan badge.
She reached the other end of the tunnel and doused the light, threw her black clothes in a corner, then climbed the ladder and fumbled for the wooden handle. The trap door practically flew open on its hinges. She crawled out, heaving a great sigh of relief. From what she could hear inside the closet, the house was quiet.
Madeleine rose to her feet and shut the trap door firmly. Until next time, she thought, straightening her gown and smoothing the top of her hair. She pushed open the closet door and stepped into the drawing room, holding her breath. The soldier in the hallway was awake. She could hear him pacing. She was tip-toeing toward the side stairs when the front door suddenly crashed open and a soldier yelled, "It's Captain Marshall. He's been hurt!"
Madeleine gasped. Garrett—hurt? Dear God, he had been the one who had grabbed her in the fir grove!
There was instant commotion in the hallway; men's voices, raised and shouting, a chair scraping out of the way, and then from the right wing of the house, the sounds of running feet and more shouts.
Madeleine flew up the stairs, heading straight for her room. She stared wide-eyed at her door, stunned that it was open. She thought back uneasily. She had left the door closed, hadn't she? Yes, she had, she could swear it. Someone must have been in her room while she was gone.
She felt sick, her stomach lurching. She closed the door and bolted it from the inside. As she quickly lit the candle on the table by her bed, her gaze swept the room. Everything was the same as she had left it. She looked at her bed. The coverlet was still pulled over the two pillows she had heaped beneath the sheets, and it lay undisturbed.
A sudden breeze blew in the window, stirring the curtains. Maybe it had been the wind, she reasoned, watching the embroidered gauze billow and curl. The breeze could have been strong enough to force open the door if she hadn't latched it properly.
Madeleine started as footsteps and anxious voices sounded down the hall, Sergeant Fletcher's voice booming above the rest.
"Easy now, lads, that's it. Let's get him into the room and lay him down on the bed. Watch it, you fool! Good, now hold his shoulders fast while we get him through the door . . ." His voice trailed off as the men moved into her father's room.
Exhausted and spent, Madeleine sank down on the edge of the bed, twisting her hands nervously.
It was so dark in those woods, it had been virtually impossible to make out the identity of the soldier who had attacked her. And even if she had known it was Garrett she doubted she would have done anything differently. Her survival had been at stake. Hers and the people she served. If she had been caught, everything would have been lost.
Yet even as she reasoned with herself, she felt a poignant pain, a tumble of mixed emotions that both confused and angered her.
How badly was he hurt? She hadn't hit him that hard, or had she? What if he should die?
She felt another stab of pain. What was the matter with her? She didn't care in the least if he lived or died. He meant nothing to her, absolutely nothing. He was a murdering and lying redcoat.
Yet she knew that was not the truth. Garrett Marshall was a redcoat on the surface, but he was altogether different from what she had imagined an Englishman to be like. He had shown himself to be a man of honor and integrity, not at all coarse or crude, a man of humor, a fair man . . . a man who could send her senses reeling with his slightest touch.
Madeleine put her trembling fingers to her temples. Her head felt as if it were about to explode. She almost screamed at the sudden loud banging on her door.
"Who's there?" she said, forcing her voice to remain calm and steady.
"Sergeant Fletcher, Mistress Fraser. I must speak with you at once."
"Just a moment." Madeleine crossed to her wardrobe and whisked off her gown and boots, replacing it with her white bedgown and cambric robe. She quickly unbraided her hair and ran a brush through the tangles to remove bits of grass and twigs. Then she rushed to open the door.
"Forgive me, Mistress Fraser," the sergeant began, his eyes moving over her appraisingly. He cleared his throat when he saw her sudden frown, and rushed on. "Captain Marshall has been injured in a mysterious accident. Would your housekeeper . . . uh . . ."
"Glenis."
"Yes, Glenis. Would she have any medicine? We're looking for our medical supplies, but they've been misplaced somewhere. It's urgent, I'm afraid. We've stopped the bleeding, but he's weak—"
"Of course, Sergeant Fletcher," Madeleine said, frightened at this news. "If ye'll follow me, we'll fetch Glenis. She is well versed in treating many ills."
Aye, Glenis would help Garrett, she thought, walking swiftly down the stairs with th
e sergeant close behind her. Unwittingly, she said a silent prayer for the injured man who lay in her father's bed.
Glenis would know what to do.
Chapter 11
Glenis dipped the linen cloth into the basin and wrung it out. She laid it across Garrett's fore- head, carefully covering the bruised, swollen knot above his right temple. She touched his stubbly cheek and found that his skin was cool. He was sleeping peacefully. After four long days and nights, his fever had finally broken.
She smoothed the blanket and tucked it beneath his wide shoulders. Then she rose wearily from the chair and turned around.
"He's seen the worst of it, Sergeant Fletcher," she said quietly. "The fever's gone, ye'll be glad to know. As soon as we can get some nourishment into him, he'll be as good as new."
The stocky soldier nodded gratefully, a look of admiration for the stooped old woman showing on his face. "We can't thank you enough, ma'am. You've saved his life . . . you and Mistress Fraser."
Glenis smiled faintly. She picked up the basin and moved to the door. "I've some beef broth simmering in the kitchen, and good hot tea in the kettle. Ye must let me know when he wakes, and I'll bring up a tray. He'll be thirsty, but dinna let him drink too much water. He needs the broth first, for strength."
"Yes, of course," Sergeant Fletcher agreed. "Whatever you think is best." He sat down by the bed as Glenis left the room.
She walked stiffly down the hall, stopping at Madeleine's door. She peeked in and shook her head in exasperation.
Madeleine was curled up on her bed with the tartan blanket thrown carelessly over her. Rain was pouring in through the open windows, the drenched curtains hanging like sodden rags from the wooden rods.
"Och, that child," Glenis muttered. She set down the basin and crossed to each window in turn, closing them firmly. The last one slipped and crashed down with a loud thud.
Madeleine stirred beneath the blanket. "Glenis?"
"Aye, Maddie. 'Tis me. Go back to sleep."
She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "No, no. I've slept enough. How is he, Glenis?"
Glenis sighed and sat down on the bed beside her mistress. "The fever's broken, thanks to yer fine care during the night, Maddie. Ye know, I could have stayed up with him—"
" 'Twas no matter," Madeleine interrupted her gently. She yawned widely and stretched. "I dinna mind, and ye needed yer sleep. We canna have ye taking sick, Glenis. The household would be a shambles without ye."
She swung her legs to the floor and patted her servant's thin shoulder. "Ye've a kind heart, Glenis Simpson. Ye cared for the captain like he was yer own kin, redcoat or no." She glanced at the clock and saw the hands just touching noon. "Ye've been with him all morning. Now it's my turn. And it's time for ye to have another rest."
"Aye, I do feel a bit tired."
"Then it's settled. Come on, I'll walk with ye to yer room."
Madeleine took her servant's arm and helped her to her feet. While they walked downstairs and into the kitchen Glenis told her what she had advised the sergeant.
"Not too much broth, mind ye," Glenis instructed, stopping by the hearth, to give the pot's bubbling contents a quick stir. "Give him a wee taste and see if it stays in his stomach. Then give him a bit more. And see that he drinks a full cup of my special tea."
"Aye, Glenis, dinna worry," Madeleine said. She pushed open the door to Glenis's room, just off the kitchen. "Go on with ye. And dinna mind about supper. I can see to myself."
"Ye're a good lass, Maddie Fraser."
Madeleine smiled and closed the door quietly. She turned around just as the sergeant strode into the kitchen.
"Oh . . . Mistress Fraser," he said. "I was looking for your housekeeper, Glenis. The captain is awake—"
"She's resting, sergeant. I'll see to the tray for Captain Marshall."
Madeleine quickly ladled some steaming meat broth into a bowl and poured a cup of tea. When the tray was ready, she followed the sergeant back up the stairs. Her mind was racing as she walked slowly down the dim hallway, careful lest she spill anything.
Garrett was awake at last. She could hardly believe it. He was going to live . . .
When she had first seen him lying on her father's bed so ashen and still, with a bloodied gash in his forehead, she had thought he would die for certain. She had tried not to blame herself, knowing in her heart she had done what she needed to survive, yet she had felt responsible nonetheless.
Perhaps that was why she had worked side by side with Glenis and Sergeant Fletcher, fighting to save Garrett's life. If not for the loss of blood, he might have been up on his feet the next day. But a burning fever had set in. Never before had she seen such agony and such thrashing as his body was wracked by chills and then fiery heat.
The nights she had sat by his bed were a blur of changing sweaty sheets, cooling his face and feverish body with wet cloths, administering Glenis's healing potions, and enjoying occasional respites when he slept fitfully. During the days she napped and took turns at his bedside with Glenis or Sergeant Fletcher.
The second night had been the worst. Garrett's tormented cries had chilled her to the bone. He had shouted out names—Celinda, Gordon—accompanied by wild oaths. Who were these people, and why would he curse them so?
His strong body had shaken with tremors at one point, and he had become delirious. She could not forget his words, which had driven into her heart like piercing arrows.
"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 Garret
t 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!
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