He seemed stunned that she’d used his first name, or even remembered it. “My—my pleasure, Mistress Fraser,” he stuttered, smiling sheepishly. He turned around so abruptly that he stubbed a boot on a flagstone and almost tripped. He straightened his shoulders, however, and kept on walking as if nothing had happened.
At any other time, Madeleine might have laughed. On this occasion she felt only relief that another unforeseen obstacle had been overcome. She waited until the corporal had rejoined the other guards, then she caught up with the cart as it rumbled down the drive. She held on to the seat, running alongside. Her other hand clutched her muddied skirt to keep it from tangling in the wooden spokes.
“Who taught ye to tell such stories, Maddie Fraser?” Glenis scolded, feigning a reproachful tone. She glanced tenderly at Madeleine, her eyes awash with tears, then her gaze skipped back to the curved drive.
Madeleine felt hot tears streak her face, mingling with the cool rain. Her lips were quivering as she attempted a smile. “Ye did, Glenis Simpson,” she panted. “Every time…ye caught me in some scrape…ye told me I better have a good story…or else.”
Her hand fell away from the seat as the cart picked up speed at the bottom of the drive, the horse veering onto the road to Farraline. “I-I love ye, Glenis,” she gasped, not knowing if her old servant had heard her or not. But it didn’t matter. Glenis knew.
Madeleine stood there for a long time in the gentle rain, her eyes fixed on the distant lighted windows of Farraline. At last she turned back to the house and trudged up the drive. She was aware she must look a sight with her hair plastered to her head and her sodden gown dragging in the mud, but she didn’t care.
She ignored the guards’ curious stares and walked right through their midst, heading determinedly for the front door. She stepped inside, trailing rivulets of water as she climbed the stairs. Her brogues made squishing noises as she hurried to her room.
She quickly stripped out of her wet clothes and changed into the black garb she always wore for her raids, the guise that had earned her the name Black Jack. There was no need to use extra caution at this point and wait to change later, as she usually did. When it was time to go, she would simply wrap her brown linen dressing gown around herself until she was safely in the drawing room closet, then she would discard it in the tunnel.
She peered at the clock on the mantelpiece. The porcelain face was almost impossible to read in the darkness, but she didn’t want to light a candle. She looked closer, barely making out the time. It was just past nine o’clock. Two hours yet before she would leave the manor to join her kinsmen at the yew tree.
She dragged the rocking chair from the far corner of the room and set it in front of the window nearest her bed. She opened the window, the cool breeze catching the curtains and filling the room with sweet, rain-scented air.
Madeleine sat and began to braid her wet hair. The chair’s gentle rocking motion and the sound of rain droplets plunking on the leaves outside soothed her frayed emotions, and gradually she felt some of the tension easing from her body.
She was weary, but she would not allow herself to rest or even close her eyes. She laid her head back and stared out the window, envisioning the wild tumble of gray mountains soaring beyond the estate. It was a view she had known all her life, a cherished view which she doubted she would ever see again.
Fleeting memories of happier times crowded her mind. She smiled, remembering when Mhor Manor had resounded with her father’s exuberant laughter and the lively voices of his tacksmen and tenants, gathered for a twice-yearly ceilidh around a roaring peat fire on the back lawn.
Even as a child she had been allowed to join them, listening raptly while the bards spun their fantastic stories and poems of legendary deeds and epic valor. She could almost taste the heady heather ale passed around the fire; she could almost hear the stirring melodies of harp, pipes, and fiddle.
She fondly recalled the one occasion when her father had allowed her a tiny swallow of “stop-the-breath” whiskey, a dangerously potent brew. It was the only time she had ever heard Glenis reprimand her father in public, her servant’s anxious scolding rising shrilly above Madeleine’s red-faced coughing and teary gasps for breath.
Madeleine chuckled to herself and hugged her arms to her chest. She would never forget the plaintive songs sung round the blazing ceilidh fire, laments for heroes long dead, and the rousing recitations of clan battles hard fought and won.
She shivered suddenly, remembering the poignant songs of love; love’s bitter betrayal, love denied and unrequited, love tragically lost.
How many times had she seen tears glisten in her father’s eyes when he listened to the mournful verses? Her throat had always tightened, a sense of helplessness welling up inside her as she longed to comfort him, yet she knew she could not. All she could do was wish for the melancholy songs to end, hoping a smile touched her father’s face once more.
Madeleine sighed. She had never ceased to wonder why no one ever sang of love’s joy and devotion, the glorious rapture surrounding two people in love.
She vividly recalled seeing such happiness when her mother was alive. Her parents had found delight in each other’s company and their life together, enjoying joyous embraces and fervent kisses which had made her giggle when she was a child. Love could not possibly be all heartbreak and sorrow.
Madeleine ceased her gentle rocking, sitting still and silent in the chair.
She had known such rapture last night with Garrett.
Aye, she could admit it to herself now. There was no need any longer to repress her emotions or pretend her burgeoning feelings for him did not exist. The truth could no longer be denied, especially in light of her mortal danger. Her love for Garrett burned within her mind like a beacon, pure and blindingly radiant.
She had never known such joy as she felt in his arms, never known such happiness, such searing fulfillment. If that was what it felt like to love, then she loved Garrett as surely as she lived and breathed.
She had made love to him completely, without question, bestowing upon him everything she had to give, even as he met her with a passionate force that far surpassed anything she had ever dreamed possible.
Madeleine gripped the chair, an impassioned yearning bursting forth from the depths of her soul.
How she wished things were different! How she wished she could know such love forever!
If only she and Garrett had met in another place, another time, when they were not enemies, were not fettered by generations of hatred, mistrust, and cruel bloodshed. A place and time where they could have loved forever.
Madeleine’s shoulders slumped, her hands falling limply into her lap. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek, a tear for everything that might have been.
“Och, Maddie, ye’re a fool,” she murmured brokenly, wiping the tear from her face. With great effort, she forced herself to concentrate on what lay ahead.
