“Thank you, corporal,” Colonel Wolfe said, nodding a curt dismissal. “Come in, Captain Marshall.”
Garrett stepped forward until he stood at the opposite end of the table, his gaze fixed on a distant point above the portly general’s head. “Sir, Captain Garrett Marshall of Wolfe’s Regiment, Fourth Company of Foot!” he said briskly.
“And, if I am not mistaken, the younger brother of the Earl of Kemsley, court minister to King George?” General Hawley inquired, leaning forward.
Garrett dropped his gaze in surprise, meeting the general’s shrewd and cunning eyes, which resembled those of his half brother. He shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, Lord Kemsley is my brother.”
“Pray sit down, captain,” Colonel Wolfe invited, motioning to a nearby chair.
Garrett swept off his hat and sat, perplexed by the direction of the conversation. He felt a sense of relief, however, that this meeting apparently had nothing to do with his men’s behavior.
“Your family has a very interesting history,” General Hawley continued. “Colonel Wolfe tells me you possess a bit of Scots blood, on your mother’s side?”
Startled by this question, Garrett looked from the general to his commander, whose nod was barely perceptible then back again. “My grandmother was born in Edinburgh, sir, though her family came from Sutherland in the north, a clan loyal to the Crown,” he stressed pointedly. “She married John Ross, an English merchant, and afterward lived much of her life in London, as did my mother until she married my late father, Geoffrey Marshall, the sixth earl of Kemsley.”
“Colonel Wolfe also tells me you are familiar with the Highlanders and their ways.”
Garrett’s brow lifted. One night over several tankards of strong ale, he had mentioned his Scots heritage to the good colonel, who had become almost like a father to him. He’d spoken in confidence, but obviously that confidence had been breached. “May I be so bold, general, as to inquire why you ask this of me?”
“In due time, captain,” Colonel Wolfe interrupted, his voice tinged with caution. “Please answer.”
Garrett leaned back in his chair and stared stonily at the general. “When I was a child, my grandmother told me stories of the Highlands, sir, stories of her clan ancestors. I was born and bred in England, but if such lore makes me more familiar with the Highlanders than most Britons, then yes, I know something of their ways.”
“Good.” General Hawley turned to Colonel Wolfe. “I am satisfied, commander. You may proceed with the plan we have already discussed. See that Captain Marshall and a third of his men, the ones who prove best in the saddle, leave the fort by noon tomorrow.” He rose from his chair, and the two officers followed suit. “Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I intend to catch another hour’s rest before breakfast.”
General Hawley strode toward the door, then stopped and glanced at Colonel Wolfe, his expression grim. “Commander, remember that if your humanitarian plan fails, I will send an entire regiment to sweep through those blasted mountains. We’ll find that bastard Black Jack if I have to burn every lice-ridden hovel to the ground!”
The door slammed shut behind him, and a heavy silence descended on the room. It didn’t last long.
“What the devil—”
“Wait!” Colonel Wolfe hissed, squelching Garrett’s outburst with a wave of his hand until the sound of the general’s ponderous footsteps gradually faded. Then he smiled wryly. “I don’t know which one is worse for ill temper, the duke or Hawley. They’re both cut from the same cloth, it seems.” He laughed shortly, walking over and taking the seat next to Garrett’s. “Which, of course, they are. One above the royal sheets and the other below.”
At any other time Garrett might have been amused by his commander’s veiled reference to King George’s mistresses, but he hadn’t relished the general’s personal questions. He was a private man who trusted few with details of his life. And the reference to his brother, Gordon, who at thirty-four was six years his senior, had rubbed salt in an open wound.
It was Gordon who had bought him the costly military commission Garrett had been honor-bound to fulfill. Garrett had no doubt his brother had hoped he would be killed in some foreign battle. Gordon would then inherit Rosemoor, the beautiful country estate their mother had left to Garrett.
It had been the countess’s right to bequeath her own property to whomever she wished. She had chosen her favorite younger son, forever sealing Gordon’s deep-seated resentment of Garrett and fueling his determination to claim Garrett’s inheritance, using whatever means he could.
It wasn’t enough that Gordon possessed all of their father’s holdings, including the entailed family estate, Kemsley Grove, and the stately town house in London’s most fashionable neighborhood. It wasn’t enough that he had married the woman Garrett had long courted, Lady Celinda Gray. Gordon’s greed to possess Rosemoor, the richest estate in Sussex, knew no bounds.
However, Garrett was equally determined to thwart him. Only their family honor had compelled him to fulfill his military commitment, not fear of his brother. Next time the matter would be settled in a duel, and honor be damned. He would suffer no more of Gordon’s vengeful schemes or any further disruption of his life.
At least he was well over Celinda’s slight by now, Garrett thought dryly. He wished he could say the same for his three-year commission.
He still had another year of service remaining before he could be free of this wretched army. After what he had seen during the past few months under the Duke of Cumberland, beginning with the massacre at Culloden in which he had refused to play any part, and followed by the ruthless persecution of the Highlanders, he had more than his fill of butchery!
Colonel Wolfe’s gravelly voice broke into Garrett’s thoughts. “I know you’re wondering what’s afoot, Garrett, and I’ll get right to the point. First I must apologize for betraying a confidence, but in this case I felt it necessary and justified.”
Garrett merely nodded and sat down, tossing his hat upon the table.
“I received a dispatch less than an hour ago. Another of our supply wagons bound for the fort along General Wade’s Road has been plundered, the third in two weeks,” Colonel Wolfe continued. “Hawley’s damn upset about it, especially since this load was carrying not only grain, but also some casks of wine he had ordered from London. The thought of this Black Jack fellow, a Jacobite sympathizer, swilling his vintage wine doesn’t set well with him in the least.”
“Who is Black Jack?” Garrett asked, his interest piqued by the unusual nickname.
Colonel Wolfe snorted derisively. “That’s what the soldiers call the leader of the renegade band of thieves, because the scoundrel always appears in black clothing, with his face blackened to disguise his features. He hides well in the shadows while his men do the stealing, and he never says a word, although he always keeps two pistols cocked and ready. His men work swiftly, usually tying up the soldiers and throwing their weapons into Loch Ness or taking them along.”
“Loch Ness? Have most of the raids been along Wade’s Road?”
