“Wh-what?” she choked, her eyes wide with fright.
“You must come with me, Mistress Fraser,” the guard muttered, grabbing her arm. When she recoiled, he gave her a hard push and she stumbled forward, almost falling. He caught her in time, but she yanked away from him.
“Where—where are ye taking me?” she stammered, seeking refuge in a corner. She gasped when another guard entered the cell. Her eyes darted desperately from one man to the other. She felt trapped, like a hunted animal, as they advanced upon her, seizing her arms. “No!” she cried, her feet slipping on the stone floor as they propelled her toward the door. “No!”
Outside in the dim corridor, she found herself surrounded by guards, two in front and two in back of her, besides the soldiers gripping her arms. The presence of so many guards checked her futile cries, and she fell silent, overcome with dread.
This was not how she had planned to act at all, Madeleine thought wildly, limping between her captors as they hurried her along the corridor and up a long flight of winding stairs. Where had her courage flown? Her resolve to face her death bravely? She was so frightened she feared she might wet her clothes and humiliate herself before these English soldiers. She could never have anticipated the stark terror gripping her now.
Madeleine panted, fast losing her battle to retain any semblance of reason and her ability to place one foot before the other. If not for the guards supporting her arms and forcing her along, she would have collapsed altogether. They walked through an empty room, then a wide studded door swung open and they were outside in a square courtyard flanked on all sides by two-story buildings.
Madeleine blinked, shielding her eyes. Despite the dense clouds, the daylight was much more intense than anything she had experienced for five days. She hazarded a glance around her, fearing to find a wagon which would carry her to the execution site.
There was no wagon, and as the guards marched across the courtyard, she thought fleetingly that they were going to make her walk the entire way. She could not have been more stunned when they entered another building and proceeded down a wide hallway, stopping abruptly before an ornately carved door. The guard on her left knocked loudly, then lifted the brass latch and pushed open the door.
Madeleine was ushered into a large room spartanly furnished with a long, polished table at one end and a single upholstered chair in the center of the floor. While the four guards who had flanked her waited by the door, the two men holding her arms pushed her forward and shoved her into the chair, snapping to attention as a side door creaked open.
Breathless and totally bewildered, Madeleine gasped as General Hawley lumbered into the room, scarcely acknowledging her presence. He was followed by the prison sheriff and the judge who had tried and pronounced sentence on her and her kinsmen the day after they had arrived at Edinburgh Castle.
What was going on? she wondered crazily, not even venturing to guess why she had been brought to this room. She was so intent on watching them take their places at the table that she did not notice the last man enter and remain standing near the wall. She only glanced at him when she heard his boots scraping on the wooden floor. Her heart stopped.
Garrett.
She was so stunned that the earth could have dropped from beneath her and she would never have known it. She stared at him and he stared back, his eyes filled with familiar warmth.
All she could think was that he was surely a phantom; her mind must be playing tricks. She had gone mad; the terrible strain had broken her at last. She probably would have fainted if General Hawley’s booming voice had not shattered the room’s silence. Blood rushed to her face as he addressed her.
“Mistress Madeleine Fraser, if you would kindly direct your attention this way,” he commanded, pounding his huge fist on the table.
She jumped, her gaze riveted on the corpulent general, certain if she looked back at the wall, Garrett would be gone.
Unwittingly, her eyes darted back. He was still there, the faintest smile on his lips. How strange such a phantom had been sent to her, the image of a man she had thought she would never see again. She glanced back at General Hawley, who was scowling, his face a mottled shade of red.
“Mistress Fraser, I shall be brief,” he began, shooting a furious look at Garrett. He took a rolled parchment from the somber-faced judge and held it in his hand, pointing it at her as he spoke. “His Majesty King George has seen fit to take a personal interest in your situation and has offered you the chance of a pardon, upon certain conditions to which you must agree.”
Madeleine was not sure she had heard him correctly. For an instant she thought she might be dreaming, and she sank her thumbnail into her palm. She blinked at the stinging pain, but the room did not disappear. It was real, God help her. Then Garrett must be real.
“A-a pardon?” she asked.
“That’s exactly what I said, wench,” General Hawley spat. He leaned forward, the chair creaking ominously under his weight. “I’ll tell you this, Mistress Fraser. Your pardon has come as a total surprise to me, brought forward only within the last hour by Major Marshall here. I would like nothing more than to see you hang, along with your Jacobite friends, but I am compelled to offer you a chance to redeem your miserable life.” He sat back, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. “Upon certain conditions, of course.”
General Hawley’s words were slowly sinking into Madeleine’s brain. Garrett had brought a pardon from King George himself. She felt a tiny glimmer of hope flare within her, and she glanced at him, but he was staring at the rolled parchment in the general’s hand.
“What conditions?” she inquired, the timbre of her voice gaining strength. Aye, she would gladly agree to give up her raiding, she found herself thinking, if that was the condition. She would swear to it!
“Tell her, Major Marshall,” General Hawley demanded heatedly, “as it seems this is your personal quest as well. But pray keep it short.”
Madeleine slowly drew in her breath as Garrett took a few steps toward her.
“Madeleine, you must listen carefully,” he began, his familiar deep voice sending a shiver coursing through her. “You will only be pardoned from your crime of treason, and the sentence of death, if you agree to a certain proposal.”
She nodded her understanding.
“Get on with it, man, we haven’t got all afternoon!” General Hawley shouted impatiently. Suddenly he changed his mind. “Back off, major. I’ll tell the wench the choice she must make.”
Madeleine watched silently as Garrett’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, acquiescing to his commander.
“The conditions are these, Mistress Fraser,” General Hawley muttered, clutching the document. “To receive his majesty’s pardon, you must agree to marry Major Garrett Marshall, who shall then become the sole proprietor of the estate known as Mhor Manor in Strathherrick, Inverness-shire.”
