“Ye have my thanks, sir,” Madeleine said.
“You might wish to save your gratitude,” he replied cryptically. “There is one order I cannot change.” He turned abruptly in his saddle and addressed his soldiers. “Strip everything of value from the house!”
A great cheer went up from the soldiers, and the colonel had to shout above them. “Hear me well, lads. If any of you should take it in your heads to harm this lady or her servants, I’ll hang you this very day. Now get on with it. We have the entire valley to cover before sunset.”
“No!” Madeleine gasped in disbelief as the soldiers dropped their torches and rushed toward the house. Fighting and kicking, she was swept into the house by the human tide until a burly soldier plucked her to safety and deposited her in a dining room chair.
Madeleine tried to stand up, but the soldier held her firmly by the shoulders, forcing her to remain seated. All she could do was stare wide-eyed while the redcoats swarmed into the adjoining rooms and up the center flight of stairs, leaving a path of wanton destruction in their wake.
“No, keep yer filthy hands from that vase!” she heard Glenis scream from the drawing room. There was a crash of china, then a loud wail as the old woman was carried into the dining room and dumped unceremoniously in another chair. Glenis began to cry piteously.
Madeleine had no words of comfort to offer her. She watched in impotent fury as her mother’s sterling silver was snatched from its cabinet, polished furniture was hacked to bits, portraits were slashed and gilt frames were carried off, rugs were soiled by muddy boot prints, and family heirlooms were stolen. She remained silent through it all, unshed tears brimming in her eyes, while her captor’s callused fingers stroked her neck.
Ten minutes later the rampage was over. The soldier released her, but not before he pulled her head back roughly and kissed her full on the lips. His fetid breath made her gag, and she wrenched her mouth away.
“Devil!” she spat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He merely grinned at her, his laughter echoing in the hallway as he followed the last of his triumphant companions from the house.
Madeleine started when the colonel suddenly strode through the open door. He glanced first in the drawing room, then where she and Glenis sat in the dining room, as if to ensure his orders had been carried out. He did not meet her eyes. Then he was gone, his horse’s hooves pounding along the drive as he rode away. She listened dully as the soldiers withdrew, the sound of their marching feet fading into the distance.
A hush like the silence in a tomb settled over the house. Madeleine could not find the strength to rise for a long time. She felt numb, but Glenis’s sobbing finally spurred her into action. She had to escape it or crumble herself.
She stood up and walked slowly into the entryway, stepping over bits of furniture and a smashed mantel clock, and shut the front door. Then she made her way in a daze to the drawing room.
She needed to be alone. She would survey the damage later, but not now. Not now.
Madeleine closed the door behind her, righted an overturned armchair, and slumped down on the soiled brocade. Her thoughts began to roil and pitch, heated outrage gradually sweeping away the numbness.
Why had this happened? Why? Had the Highlands not suffered enough? Would the horrors that had begun a month ago never cease?
She leaned her head back on the padded cushion, recalling Glenis’s sorrowful words that wretched day in April.
“Come away from the window, hinny. Ye know yer da winna be comin’ home. Come away, Maddie. ‘Tis a hopeless thing ye’re doin’.”
Yer da winna be comin’ home… Her father…
Madeleine’s hands clenched into tight fists as fresh pain assaulted her, a jagged ache centered just over her heart. Her palms stung where her nails bit into the smooth flesh. Tears glistened from spiky dark lashes and spilled down her cheeks, staining the bodice of her gown.
She didn’t care. She surrendered to the grief, anger and frustration tormenting her, in this silent room where no one would see her cry.
Yer da winna be comin’ home…
The haunting words were so vivid, it could have been yesterday when Glenis bid her to stand away from the tall window. But today was the sixteenth of May, one month to the day since the Battle of Culloden was fought on rain-swept Drummossie Moor, a scarce twenty miles from the valley of Strathherrick. One month since she had learned from a kinsman that her father had fallen in the bloody mire, never to rise again. One month since she had run to the window in anguished disbelief, searching the muddy road that wound past the estate for any sign of her father among the retreating Highlanders.
Madeleine sighed raggedly, her blurred gaze staring straight ahead. Out of the many bold, strong lads who had rallied to the Jacobite cause, fewer than half of her kinsmen had survived the merciless slaughter at Culloden.
The fiery cross—the ancient signal to rally clansmen for battle, formed by two yew branches that were first set alight, then doused in goat’s blood—had been carried to Strathherrick on a gray, misty morning last autumn. It was the call of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat and the chief of Clan Fraser. He had finally decided to come out for Bonnie Prince Charlie in the young Stuart’s bid to regain the throne of England, Scotland, and Ireland for his father, the exiled King James III.
Her father, baronet Sir Hugh Fraser of Farraline and cousin to Lord Lovat, had immediately taken up the call, summoning his tacksmen and tenants from their warm hearth fires. The entire valley had participated in a frenzied flurry of activity as the clansmen wholeheartedly prepared to join the Jacobite prince and his burgeoning forces.
Madeleine smiled faintly and wiped the hot tears from her face, tasting salt on her lips. She recalled the brave sight of the Frasers of Strathherrick as they readied to march, wearing the clan badge of freshly cut sprigs of yew in their bonnets. Her handsome father had been resplendent in his kilt and tartan plaid of red and forest green, a bonnet sporting a white cockade, the symbol of the Jacobite cause, atop his shining auburn hair.
How proud her dear mother, the bonnie Lady Jean, would have been if she had lived to see that day. How fervently Madeleine had wished at that moment that she had been born a son. She had cursed her sex and the skirts she wore which forced her to remain behind in Farraline with the rest of the women, instead of riding into battle at her father’s side. Only his last words to her had helped soothe her angry frustration.
“Ye’re the mistress of Farraline now, Maddie, whilst I’m gone to war. Tend to the needs of yer people in my stead. The women, wee bairns, and men too old for battle depend upon yer care and good judgment. Now give me a kiss and one of yer bonnie smiles, lass. We’re off to fight for the Stuarts!”
Enveloped in her father’s fierce embrace, Madeleine had never felt so honored or so trusted. Mistress of Farraline! Aye, she would make her father proud, and more than live up to his faith in her.
Her slim shoulders were squared, her back was straight, and her chin was held high as Sir Hugh Fraser walked proudly to the head of his men and mounted his fine roan gelding. The skirl of bagpipes soared on the whistling wind and resounded from the Monadhliath Mountains flanking the broad valley, stirring the blood of all who heard it, as the men of Clan Fraser began their long march toward Edinburgh.
