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 in 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 a brigand, and she was that brigand. 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 brigands 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 Garrett 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!
“I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such fine treatment,” Garrett said with a thin smile. “I only wish I had done it sooner.”
Madeleine couldn’t tell if he was jesting or not, and she certainly wasn’t about to tell him the truth behind her presence in his room. She chose to ignore his statement and glanced over at the sergeant.
