“Ah, so I do,” Garrett said softly, studying her intently. “Rosalind.” When she turned and gazed into the fire, he quickly found another page, sensing he had embarrassed her. “Here’s a line of fair Rosalind’s wit. I’ve always pitied poor Orlando when he swears he will die of love if he cannot have her, and she tartly answers: ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’ ” He feigned a woeful sigh. “Such feminine cruelty.”
“‘Tisn’t cruelty,” she responded with a small laugh, glancing back at him, “but sheer common sense. Orlando is so besotted he’s become absurd in his praise. Rosalind is merely saying if he canna have her, he would find another reason to live.”
“I don’t know, Madeleine,” Garrett countered, staring at her thoughtfully. “If I loved as deeply as Orlando, I would find it difficult to agree with your argument.”
Distracted by the intensity of his gaze, Madeleine shifted in her seat, then suddenly stood up. “The fire is very warm,” she muttered, proceeding to shove the armchair away from the hearth.
“Let me help you,” Garrett offered. He rose and lifted the chair easily, setting it back a few feet. “How’s that?”
“That’s fine, thank ye,” she said, sitting down. She watched him as he pushed his chair a bit closer to hers, thinking how beautiful his hair was in the firelight. Not fully blond nor brown, but a golden shade in between. She wondered what its texture might feel like if she were to run her fingers through it…
“I’ll tell you what I like about this comedy,” he said, his voice breaking into her errant thoughts. “Rosalind disguising herself a man.” He laughed, a rich, rumbling sound. “What an intriguing double identity. She can make fun of love and yet be a lover.”
Madeleine nearly choked. Was he baiting her? she wondered, looking at him sharply. His open smile revealed no trickery, but it did not still her thundering heart. She quickly sought to change the disturbing subject.
“Do you have other favorites among Shakespeare’s plays?” she asked lightly.
“A Midsummer Night’s DreamandThe Tempest,” he replied. “And you?”
“Aye,The Tempestis a fine play,” Madeleine agreed in a rush, “but I’ve always likedRomeo and Julietthe best.” The minute she said it, she wished she hadn’t. The way he was looking at her made her feel quite dizzy.
“Then you are a true romantic at heart,” Garrett said softly. “Not a pragmatist, like Rosalind.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me more about yourself, Maddie.”
Garrett’s use of her nickname did not unnerve her as much as his unexpected request. She had the feeling she’d revealed quite enough about herself for one night. She rose abruptly, her gaze shifting from him to the yawning archway, her means of escape, and back again.
“Ye must be tired, Garrett,” she began somewhat lamely.
“Not at all.”
“I mean it’s been a very long day. Perhaps we can talk again—”
“Tomorrow night, then,” he replied easily. “I’m looking forward to it already.” He stood and gallantly took her arm, smiling at her. “Allow me to escort you.”
Before she could think to refuse him, they were walking together from the drawing room and up the main stairs. She caught a glimpse of the guard staring after them, and she flushed to her toes. Between his bemused expression and the tingling pressure of Garrett’s hand on her arm, she felt as if she were in a daze. Before she knew it they had reached her door, and Garrett had opened it for her.
“Your charming company has been most appreciated,” he said huskily, standing so close to her that she could sense the heat emanating from his powerful body. “Good night, sweet Madeleine.” He bent and lightly kissed her cheek, then he turned and strode down the hall to his room, disappearing inside.
Madeleine stood there a long moment, not quite sure what had just transpired between them, or how she felt about it. Bewildered, she closed the door and leaned on it, caressing her cheek. Her skin seemed to burn where he had kissed her.
“Good night, Garrett,” she whispered in the dark.
***
One evening a week later, Madeleine sat on the edge of her bed, staring out the window as the mountains towering behind Mhor Manor became stark silhouettes in the gathering dusk.
“So much for taking a nap,” she muttered resignedly. She could have used it. Tonight she planned another raid, her fifth since Garrett had told her about Hawley. Only a few more and the cave would be full.
She struck a flint and lit the thick candles on her bedside table. Once again, her restless thoughts had not allowed her to sleep. Never would she have imagined the perplexing double life she had come to lead. It was like an intricate web spun with the finest gossamer, easily torn by one misplaced emotion.
The past week had flown by in a blur. During the day she had seen little of Garrett as they went their separate ways, he and his men to search the valley and question villagers, while she either rested after a raid or planned the next one with her kinsmen. Those were the times when it was easy to keep her emotions firmly in check and her mission clearly before her.
It was in the evenings that her emotions ran rampant, making her forget all else but the pleasure she found in Garrett’s company. She did not know at what point her conscious decision to seek him out had transformed itself into an inexplicable desire to be with him, but it had happened.
She was drawn to him despite herself, and despite the nagging voice which forever warned her she was acting like a fool. Knowing the dark days which lay ahead of her, perhaps she craved some happiness, and she found it with Garrett.
The light conversations they shared—discussing music, art, and literature, funny childhood stories, even hunting—somehow lessened the chilling fear she always carried with her. Thankfully he had made no mention of Black Jack, or of Hawley’s threat; she surmised he needed some respite, too, from the troubles which weighed heavily on his mind. The delight she had found in his wit and intelligence, his humor, and his warm laughter made it easy to forget she would soon become his prisoner, destined to be executed for high treason.
“Och, dinna think of what’s to come or ye’ll surely go mad,” Madeleine whispered under her breath, shuddering as she forced the bleak picture from her mind. She walked to the window and drew aside the curtain, her breath fogging the cool glass. She traced a name upon the pane. Garrett.
