She spied the manor house through the spreading fir trees, standing stark and silent against the backdrop of soaring mountains. Even from this distance she could see several windows had been shattered on the first floor, the empty window frames like black holes gaping from the whitewashed exterior. Yet the house itself appeared intact, with no evidence of fire.
She anxiously flicked the reins across the mare’s rump. The startled animal surged forward, outdistancing Garrett’s stallion and cantering at a breakneck speed down the last stretch of road and into the drive. She drew up the reins sharply and slid off the lathered horse a few feet from the front door.
Without waiting for Garrett, Madeleine rushed inside. She stopped abruptly in the main hallway, her eyes widening, her heart sinking into her boots. She felt as if she was reliving the first time the soldiers had ravaged her home.
She turned around slowly, looking first at the dining room; the polished table was split down the center as if it had been hewn in two, wine stains were splashed on the walls, chairs were overturned. She held her breath as she glanced into the drawing room. The furniture was intact, but the glass from her mother’s cabinet lay shattered on the floor, and the brocade padding on the armchairs was slashed and mutilated.
She walked into the room, staring numbly at the closet door, nearly ripped off its hinges. There was nothing left of the planked floor inside the closet, the entrance to the secret tunnel clearly revealed. Angus had told her that Garrett had said something to General Hawley about the tunnel, yet she couldn’t imagine how he had found it.
“It looks like the celebration continued long after I left Mhor Manor,” Garrett said behind her, cutting into her thoughts.
Madeleine turned to face him. “Celebration?”
He nodded. “Black Jack’s capture.” He quickly changed the subject. “Do you want to look upstairs?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.” She walked past him and into the dining room, aware that he was following her.
She righted a chair near one of the shattered windows, staring dazedly at the water-damaged sill and the mildewed rug beneath her feet. Rain must have poured in through the empty frames during numerous thunderstorms like the ones she had imagined from her prison cell.
“I’ll board up these windows until we can have new glass brought from Inverness,” Garrett said quietly. “If there’s anything else you want replaced immediately, Madeleine, you must let me know.”
She didn’t answer him but moved toward the door leading into the kitchen. Her nostrils flared, and her stomach flipflopped. There was a putrid stench coming from the kitchen. She paled, afraid to think of what she might find.
“Don’t, Madeleine. Wait here,” Garrett bid her, catching her arm. He pulled his cravat from around his neck and covered his mouth with it, then opened the door and disappeared into the kitchen.
She heard him cough and curse loudly, then listened to the outer kitchen door opening and closing and the long shut windows squeaking in protest as they were hastily raised. Finally Garrett strode back into the dining room and slammed the door behind him.
“You don’t want to go in there for a while, not until the place airs out,” Garrett said, his eyes watering.
“What was it?”
Garrett grimaced, slightly pale himself. “Hawley’s cooks left a sheep’s carcass to rot on the kitchen table. I’ll have it buried right away and the kitchen scrubbed down.” He shuddered visibly. “I think it will be a long time before I’m able to eat lamb again.” He took her arm and escorted her back toward the main hallway. “The upstairs is probably much the same as down here. Would you rather we ride into Farraline?”
Madeleine started, his question piercing the dazed fog that had settled over her. “Why do ye want to go into Farraline?” she asked suspiciously, jerking her arm away.
Garrett sighed heavily. “I’d like to see the extent of the damage, if you don’t mind, Madeleine. As soon as my own soldiers arrive from Fort Augustus, we’re going to help rebuild the village. We’ll have to work fast if we’re to beat the snow.”
Stunned, Madeleine turned on him, his words confirming what she had thought all along. “Part of yer grand plan, aye, Garrett?” she accused loudly, her voice reverberating throughout the silent house. “Well, I’ll tell ye this. I’ll not be a part of it!”
“Maddie—”
“No, ye’ll hear me out,” she silenced him. “If ye think to use me to sway my kin to yer favor, or to influence them in any way, perhaps to accept the tyranny of King Geordie, ye’re wrong. I’m yer wife by law, I canna deny it. But I winna play the wife, Garrett, nor support yer actions. Ye’ll soon find out the Frasers of Strathherrick want none of yer help, nor will they want an English spy in their midst, once they discover yer true purpose.”
Garrett stared at her, his eyes darkening though his expression was inscrutable. “It’s not my plan to use you, Madeleine, as you so put it,” he said grimly, “or to act as a spy, as you so firmly believe. I only seek to right some of the damage done.” He strode to the door, calling out over his shoulder. “Either come with me or stay here. It’s up to you.”
Madeleine was tempted to tell him exactly where he should go and slam the door in his face, but she wanted desperately to see for herself how the villagers were faring. She swallowed a good part of her ire, knowing she didn’t want to wait and hear the news secondhand from Garrett. She ran out the door and quickly mounted her mare, cursing again the skirt that so constricted her movement.
Neither of them spoke as they rode toward Farraline, the strained silence that was becoming so familiar settling between them once more.
Madeleine felt her throat tighten as they drew closer, fearing the worst, yet she could already see white smoke curling into the air just beyond the low rise, a very good sign. She nearly shouted for joy as the entire village came into view.
Many of the cottages had already been rebuilt on the scorched earth where they had stood before, the same stones, now blackened with soot, forming the low walls. She was pleased to see even their small church had been rebuilt.
Yet it was clear there was still much work to be done. Nothing was left of those poorer cottages built entirely of turf walls and thatched heather roofs. Makeshift hovels abounded where the cottages had once stood, some propped up by charred tree trunks while others leaned against the sturdier stone cottages.
Madeleine took heart in the amount of activity in the village—children were playing, men were clambering atop newly thatched roofs and weighting them with stones to fend off the wind, women were busily sweeping streets or laboring over communal black pots set upon tripods.
She inhaled deeply of the aroma of food cooking in the air. She heard laughter and friendly shouting, calls for more stones to finish a wall or more turnips for the stew. She even heard Flora Chrystie calling for her boy Neil somewhere in the village. Her kinswoman’s voice carried to her like the sweetest music.
