A snapping branch startled her, and she turned back to the camp. The captain had risen to his feet and was walking around the perimeter of the clearing. He seemed to be searching the darkness beyond the glow of the fire, and they ducked their heads as he passed within ten feet of them.
Madeleine held her breath, the moist ground cold against her cheek. She waited, listening, until his footsteps moved away. When she looked up he was back by the fire and shaking out a blanket, his face to her.
Unwittingly she found herself thinking he was a very handsome man. He was tall and powerfully built, his hair a burnished gold in the firelight…
She bit her lip angrily. Fool! What was coming over her? How could she consider an English soldier handsome? He was a murderer, a beast. He might even be the man who had killed her father!
Madeleine kept that thought in her mind as she watched the officer lie down on the ground, wrap himself in the blanket, and roll onto his back. She decided grimly that it would become his death shroud if he made even the slightest motion to rise.
He did not. After another ten minutes, Madeleine decided the time had come. It was finally quiet in the clearing, and the only sounds were an occasional snore, the wind whooshing through the Caledonian pines and tall oaks, and the flames crackling and hissing. She took a deep breath and raised her arm above her head.
Her eyes widened as the three guards suddenly disappeared from their posts without even a struggle, attesting to the strength and skill of her kinsmen. She only hoped the Fraser brothers had knocked their opponents unconscious instead of slitting their throats.
She rose stealthily to her feet. The two men beside her followed her cue and fanned out among the trees, circling the camp in an effort to give the impression of far greater numbers.
When she was sure all pistols were drawn and flashing dirks were at the ready, she slowly nodded her head. Treading carefully and silently over clumps of moss, damp leaves, and pine needles, they advanced upon the camp until they were almost on top of the sleeping soldiers.
Waving the others on, Madeleine halted beside a stout oak, hiding in the shadow of its lower branches. She could not afford to be recognized as a woman.
Despite her efforts to disguise her sex, her black garb could not completely hide her feminine curves. Luckily she was tall for a woman and could be mistaken for a man of slight build. Her blackened face and low-slung cap hid the softness of her facial features well.
She leveled her pistols at the prone officer, noting the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. Her expression was grim as she and her kinsmen cocked their weapons. The staccato clicks echoed about the clearing.
***
Barely asleep, Garrett awakened abruptly at the ominous sound. In one swift movement he rolled onto his side and lunged for his sword, the hair rising on the back of his neck as he heard orders barked in the King’s English with a thick Highland burr.
“Stay where ye are lads, or win a bullet between yer eyes for yer efforts!”
Garrett froze, gritting his teeth. His hand was barely on the hilt of his sword. He dared to lift his head a fraction and look wildly across the clearing. Spying at least four unrecognizable armed men in the dim light, he quickly laid his head back down and clenched his fists in frustration.
Damn! He should have known better than to camp here for the night, becoming prey to any fugitive Highlanders. Despite the complaints of his men, they should have marched on to Farraline. He had sensed something in the air, a palpable tension which had made it difficult for him to sleep, but he had shrugged it off. Why the devil hadn’t he trusted his gut instincts?
“Now ye’ll do us a favor and lie still whilst we gather yer weapons,” the menacing voice continued, cutting into his thoughts. “Remember, lads, make nary a move or ye’ll be dead before ye draw yer next breath.”
Garrett listened to the footfalls moving swiftly about the camp and the chink of weapons being thrown into a distant pile. Suddenly his blanket was wrenched from beneath him, and a pistol was held six inches from his face as his own weapons were gathered up by a masked Highlander.
“Good ev’ning to ye, captain,” said the gruff voice of an older man. “‘Twas good of ye to finally lay yerself to sleep.” He picked up Garrett’s sword. “I hope ye dinna mind if I take this. Ye’ll not be needing it tonight.”
The Highlander’s words confirmed Garrett’s earlier intuition. They must have been in the woods all along, waiting for the right moment to spring their surprise attack. God, he hated feeling so helpless! There had to be something he could do.
“Now don’t be issuing any orders ye might regret,” the man added with a low laugh, sensing his discomfort. “Just stay put along with yer soldiers, and ye’ll live to see another day.”
Garrett made no reply as the man withdrew his pistol and moved on to the next soldier. He stared up into the inky blackness overhead, dotted with glittering stars, and wondered what these Highlanders might have in store for them. Revenge for Culloden, perhaps?
A heavy silence hung over the clearing after the last of the weapons was thrown onto the pile.
“All right, lads, ye can stand up now,” the same voice commanded. “Slowly does it. Keep yer hands out where we can see them.”
Garrett sat up and twisted around, attempting to take a more complete count of the enemy. As far as he could tell, there were five altogether, including the four he had seen earlier and one other, unless there were more Highlanders lurking in the woods…
A sudden movement a short distance from the clearing caught his attention. His eyes widened in amazement at the slight figure standing well back in the shadows, dressed from head to toe in black, the firelight glinting off two leveled pistols. The scene fit Colonel Wolfe’s description exactly. Black Jack!
The irony of the situation hit Garrett hard. He had been sent out expressly to capture this elusive brigand, and now he and his soldiers had become the man’s captives.
He glanced at the line of wagons winding back along the wide path they had taken from Wade’s Road, with the horses tethered nearby. If what he had heard about Black Jack was true, these brigands were more interested in the supply wagons than in revenge. If no one provoked them, that was. They had shot men before.
“On yer feet, captain,” the nearest Highlander growled, aiming his pistol threateningly at Garrett’s chest.
