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…”
“Dinna Madeleine me. Ye’ve no right, same as ye’ve no right to be staying in this room and no right to be here in my house!”
She turned and fled down the hallway, ignoring his calls for her to stop. Once in her room, she slammed the door shut behind her and locked it. She heard his footsteps approaching and her breath caught in her throat.
“Ye better not think to enter my room by force, ye devil,” Madeleine mumbled, her back to the door. She pulled up her skirt and reached for the dirk she always wore strapped to her right thigh, ever since the day the soldiers had plundered her home.
It was the last gift her father had given her, smaller than most such weapons, with a silver hilt especially made to fit her hand. She held the razor-sharp blade against her breast and waited in the darkness of her room, listening.
She exhaled as his footsteps stopped abruptly and retreated back down the hallway. She waited a short while longer, then sheathed the dirk. She walked over to the bedside table, struck a flint, and lit a thick, tallow candle. As golden light filled the room, she noticed her fingers were shaking.
Bastard! she fumed, moving to her wardrobe. She changed quickly into a dark gray gown of coarse wool, suitable for her furtive outing. Then she sat on the bed and deftly braided her hair, securing it with a black ribbon. She flung the braid over her shoulder and fell back on the mattress, pounding it in annoyance.
If only she could leave for Farraline now! She couldn’t wait to talk to her kinsmen, and she knew exactly what she was going to say. No more indecision wracked her.
She would do everything in her power to persuade them to continue the raids, whatever the danger. She was not going to allow this English dog, this…this Captain Garrett Marshall, to deter her from aiding her people.
Madeleine sat up and blew out the candle, then settled herself on the mattress again. She reached over and pulled a soft pillow under her head, closing her eyes.
A vision of Garrett appeared unbidden before her, just as she had seen him only moments before: his long, lean form bent over the washstand, his strong profile etched in the lamplight, water dripping from his tanned face and down his broad chest, over glistening blond curls. She saw his flashing smile, his startling gray-green eyes studying her, unnerving her, as if he could guess what she was thinking and feeling…
Madeleine punched her pillow angrily, forcing the disturbing image from her mind. It was not so easy to dispel the memory of his powerful embrace. Wholly frustrated, she grabbed the tartan blanket folded neatly at the end of the bed and covered herself, then rolled over onto her side.
Aye, she would go on with her raids right under his nose, she thought defiantly, tucking her legs beneath her. And she would relish every minute of it!
She yawned, growing drowsy. After a short nap she would set out through that secret tunnel, her mission clearly before her. Her decision had been made. There would be no turning back.
Chapter 7
Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows, blinding Madeleine as she opened her eyes. She pulled the blanket over her face and yawned. She could hear birds chirping outside and squirrels busily chattering along with the gently rustling leaves and creaking branches stirred by a soft breeze. They were such lovely sounds, she thought drowsily. She loved summer mornings…
Summer mornings! Suddenly Madeleine threw back the blanket and sat up, squinting against the brightness.
