Her soiled face was haunting in its calm repose, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. She was so beautiful, this defiant, courageous, and passionate woman who had so captured his heart. And she was his notorious Black Jack. But no matter who she was or what she had done, his love for her had not changed. Yet an aching desperation gnawed at him, tearing his secret dream into tattered shreds.
How was he possibly going to save her? Garrett raged silently. Apprehending her—and ambushing her hot-tempered kinsmen, for that matter—had been nothing compared to the dangers that loomed ahead. The biggest danger was General Hangman Hawley, the one brutal man who held the power of life and death over every Highlander. If he had his way, Madeleine would become the gallows’ bride instead of Garrett’s. Hawley had shown little mercy to Highland women before. Why should he now?
Garrett’s tortured thoughts were interrupted by a shocked gasp from Madeleine. For a moment he imagined she was looking at Loch Mhor as they skirted its northern bank, perhaps admiring its shimmering beauty in the moonlight. It was indeed a bewitching sight, the placid black water mirroring the night sky.
“Och, no, please, it canna be,” Madeleine breathed, her frantic whisper rising to a cry of terrible pain. “No, no!” She was gazing in horror toward Farraline, great sobs wracking her shoulders.
“What is it, Maddie—” Then he saw it, his voice strangling in his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief as furious anger seized him.
A bright orange glow rose above Farraline, lighting the sky like an aura of destruction. Towering flames shot up from thatched roofs while distant screams pierced the evening stillness.
“Liar!” Madeleine screamed at him, hitting him with her clenched hands. “Ye lied to me. Ye said if I gave m’self up, this wouldna happen!” She hit him again, this time with every ounce of her strength. “I hate ye! Ye lied, ye blackhearted bastard! Ye lied!”
Suddenly she violently kicked the sides of her horse. “On with ye! Go!” she yelled. The startled animal lurched forward, the reins snapping out of Garrett’s hands.
Madeleine grabbed the pommel and held on tightly, leaning low in the saddle. Her thighs gripped the horse’s heaving sides, the pressure of her knees keeping the terrified animal on course. In an instant she had flown past the astonished soldiers, the horse galloping at a breakneck pace along the dirt road to Farraline.
She did not hear Garrett’s massive steed thundering behind her. She did not hear his desperate shouts for her to stop.
All she heard was the blood roaring in her ears, the anguished cries tearing from her throat, and the terrible litany pounding in her brain, rising to a manic pitch.
She should never have trusted a redcoat! She should never have trusted a redcoat!
Chapter 22
Madeleine raced into Farraline, her sweat-lathered horse almost crashing into a large group of English soldiers standing in formation near the intersection of the road and the village’s main street. She frantically dodged the outstretched hands attempting to yank her from the saddle and kicked her horse onward.
They careened along the main street, surrounded on every side by chaotic confusion. Everywhere Madeleine looked people were running. Soldiers waved lighted torches above their heads, and men, women, and children bolted from their smoke-filled cottages. Terrified screams, shrieks, and raucous laughter rent the air.
Finally Madeleine’s horse would go no further, rearing in fright and wildly flailing its hooves despite Madeleine’s frenzied urging. She clutched at the horse’s coarse mane until she could slide off the saddle, then began to run dazedly through the village.
She coughed and wheezed, her lungs burning from the acrid smoke, her chest heaving painfully. Her eyes stung and tears spilled down her cheeks. She stumbled and fell heavily to her knees but dragged herself back up and ran on, her stricken mind barely comprehending the devastation before her.
The cottages at the south end of Farraline were completely engulfed, rolling orange flames pouring from every blackened window and yawning door. Several dozen English soldiers were methodically setting fire to the thatched roofs of another row of cottages while officers on horseback guided their progress.
Once again screams filled the air as villagers abandoned their homes at the last possible moment, forced out by the soldiers’ warning shouts and the thick, billowing smoke. Madeleine spied Flora Chrystie, her tiny daughter in her arms, and her three boys fleeing to the safety of the moor with their neighbors.
“Stop it, I tell ye!” Madeleine yelled hoarsely, overcome by blind rage. “Stop!” She dashed toward the nearest mounted redcoat, catching him from behind. Before the startled officer knew what had hit him, she had grabbed his wide belt and pulled him with all her might from his horse. She bent over and wrenched his pistol from his belt, clutching it with her tied hands.
“Ye devil!” she cried, pointing the muzzle shakily at his ashen face. Her finger grazed the trigger, and she closed her eyes.
“Madeleine, you can’t stop it this way!”
Garrett’s anxious voice seared into her consciousness, and she whirled around just as he dismounted from his heaving horse a few feet away from her. His eyes were the color of slate, boring into hers as if demanding she acknowledge the desperate plea written there.
“Put down the pistol, Madeleine,” he said urgently. “I’ll never be able to help you if you shoot someone.”
“No,” Madeleine said numbly, shaking her head. She took a step toward him. “Ye lied, Garrett. I believed ye, trusted ye—”
“You can still trust me, Maddie,” he interjected, holding out his hands. “Everything I told you was the truth. I knew nothing of this. You must believe me.”
“No,” she breathed fiercely, aiming the muzzle at his chest. “I thought ye were different, Garrett, but ye’re the same as the rest of yer kind—”
Suddenly she felt a sharp, sickening blow to the back of her head, and her words died on her lips. She staggered, blackness washing over her. The last thing she saw before crumpling to the ground was Garrett rushing toward her.
“That’ll teach the bastard,” the young lieutenant grunted, patting the polished butt of his musket. He prodded Madeleine’s prone body with his toe. “He’s lucky I didn’t put a ball right between his shoulder blades instead. He surely deserved it, pointing a gun in my face—”
“Get away from her!” Garrett snarled, falling to his knees. He pushed off her black cap and cradled her head gently, relieved to see there was no swelling or bleeding. Her breathing was shallow but even, another good sign. At worst when she woke up she’d have a terrible headache.
