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.
As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white throat, the enticing outline of her breasts straining against her bodice, and her narrow waist. Heat raced through his body.
What had Colonel Wolfe said to him the morning he first heard about Black Jack? Something about finding a lass to aid his quest, and secrets betrayed at the height of passion?
Garrett smiled thoughtfully. Perhaps this tempting wench might very well lead him to Black Jack.
If she worked as a maid in this house, he would see her often. Perhaps after a tender wooing—a few soft words, well-chosen compliments, and gentle caresses—she might prove willing and eager to warm his bed. Once he gained her trust, she might even share with him any knowledge she had about Black Jack. He was not one to wantonly mislead a woman’s affections, but time was of the essence in this mission. It was worth a—
He exhaled sharply, grunting in pain as a stinging jab in the ribs caught him by surprise. The next thing he knew the woman pushed against him and wrenched free of his arms, kicking his shin and stamping on his toes as she found her footing. Her startling blue eyes blazed as she wheeled to face him.
“H-how dare ye!” she sputtered, confusion and rage reflected in her eyes. When she stepped back and began to stagger, Garrett feared she might fall. He reached out to steady her, but she darted away.
“Easy, lassie,” he said softly. “I’m only trying to help you.”
“Dinna lassie me, ye swine! Ye filthy redcoat!”
Garrett chuckled at her heated outburst. He walked slowly toward her, his eyes raking her from head to foot.
She was truly the comeliest woman he had ever seen, with a fiery spirit to match. Yet he still feared she might collapse. Her knees appeared wobbly, and she was massaging her left temple. He had better subdue her before she brought herself to more harm.
“Tell me your name,” he insisted gently, moving closer. The woman shook her head fiercely. “Your horse ran into mine on the road. Do you remember? You took a hard fall, lass, and I think it’s best you lie down for a while.”
“Aye, I remember well enough, and I dinna need yer reminding,” she spat, retreating another few steps. “Had ye not been riding where ye’re not welcome, ‘twould not have happened.” A flicker of pain crossed her face, but she raised her chin stubbornly. “I’m fine now, as ye can see, though ‘tis no business of yers. Now get off my la—”
“Oh, but it is my business, as is everything in this valley,” Garrett interrupted, growing impatient. He looked beyond her shoulder at the first supply wagon turning into the drive. It gave him an idea. “My soldiers are arriving, lass. Come on now, I’ve no more time to argue with you.”
At these words she whirled around, and Garrett seized his opportunity. In two steps he had her in his arms. She screamed, twisting and struggling, but he held her tightly. Tossing her over his shoulder, he gritted his teeth as her doubled fists rained blows upon his neck and broad back.
For a wench who had suffered a hard fall, she was certainly putting up a good fight, he thought wryly, holding her legs away so she couldn’t kick him. Suddenly her body went limp, and she began to mumble incoherently. The strain of her recent injury had obviously proved too much for her, as he thought it might.
Garrett strode to the door and pounded on it. After a few moments he heard shuffling footsteps, then the door was opened by a frail-looking old woman. She gaped up at him, her hands flying to her throat.
“Maddie!”
“So that’s the spitfire’s name,” he said under his breath, walking into the dim hallway. He turned to face the woman. “And what is your name, dear lady?”
“Gl-Glenis,” she stammered, her dark eyes wide with shock. “Glenis Simpson.”
“Well, Glenis, this young woman had quite a nasty fall from her horse. She should be put to bed immediately, until she’s feeling more like herself. Where are the servants’ quarters?”
“Servants’ quarters?”
“Yes. If you’ll only show me the way, I’ll explain what happened. And you might summon the master of the house—”
“Sir Hugh is dead, sir. He was killed at Culloden.”
Garrett fell silent and felt awkward. He should have guessed as much. He softened his tone. “His wife, then, the Lady…”
