Chapter 1
Captain Garrett Marshall stirred on his narrow cot, awakened by slow, cautious footfalls across the planked floor. Instantly alert, he tensed. He reached for the knife beneath his thin mattress, then rolled over without making a sound.
A flickering light drew his attention to the entrance of the officers’ bunkhouse, and he eased himself up on one elbow, his keen gaze piercing the darkness. He immediately recognized the intruder and relaxed. It was one of General Hawley’s aides, a young corporal.
What could he want at this early hour? Garrett thought irritably, watching as the soldier quietly made his way down the long row of wooden cots, holding his sputtering candle high.
The corporal stopped occasionally to lift the edge of a coarse blanket and peer into the face of a sleeping officer, then moved on.
It was clear he was searching for someone.
Suddenly the soldier tripped over a pair of boots standing beside a cot, his whispered oath eliciting groans from several men.
He froze, the candlelight bobbing as his hand shook, until the groans lapsed once again into loud snoring.
Only then did he resume his search, moving gingerly down the narrow center aisle.
Garrett smiled grimly. Whatever the corporal’s purpose, he obviously did not want to wake anyone needlessly and receive a sharp cuff on the ear for his trouble. Yet his method was most unwise. Perhaps Garrett should teach this lad a lesson that might one day save his life.
He lay back down and pulled the blanket well over his shoulder, shadowing his face. He waited, listening, until the corporal was standing over him. In one sudden movement, Garrett threw off the blanket and jumped up from the cot, seizing the unsuspecting soldier by the throat.
“It’s dangerous to creep so among armed men, corporal,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Better to announce your presence, and wake us, than be mistaken for the enemy. We have been tricked before by a Highlander wearing the king’s colors.”
The soldier nodded vigorously, gulping at the deadly weight of a knife pressed against his belly. Sweat broke out on his brow as he stared up into vivid gray-green eyes. “Y-yes, sir, C-Captain Marshall!” he finally managed to stutter.
Satisfied, Garrett released him. He slipped the knife back beneath his mattress, then straightened and ran his hands through his dark blond hair. “What are you doing here?”
With a start the flustered soldier remembered his mission. “Wh-why, looking for you, sir,” he blurted out, though not too loudly. “General Hawley has requested your presence at his quarters immediately. Your commander, Colonel Wolfe, was summoned earlier and awaits you there.”
“Very well. Any idea what this is all about?” Garrett asked, pulling on his breeches and reaching for the white shirt which hung from a peg wedged into the stone wall. He glanced out the small window high above his cot and saw that it was still dark, perhaps an hour yet before dawn.
“No, sir, though a messenger and escort were admitted through the gates no more than a half hour past. An important dispatch, I’d guess, because he made straight for the general’s quarters.
” The corporal shrugged. “I cannot say for sure if this dispatch concerns you, captain, or if it’s some other matter. ”
Garrett quickly drew on his red waistcoat, fastened the buttons, and expertly tied his white cravat. He mulled over the corporal’s words as he pulled on his black boots, buckled his sword belt about his lean waist, and donned the long red coat that reached just to his knees.
Why would General Hawley have summoned him so early in the morning? If he had been a higher ranking officer, it would have made sense. But he commanded a company of one hundred foot soldiers, nothing more, nothing less. It was hardly worth singling him out—
Garrett’s jaw tensed, and his eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was being summoned to discuss some disciplinary action against one of his men. Dammit all, that was the last thing he needed for morale!
General Henry Hawley, a bastard son of George II and half brother to the Duke of Cumberland, had not earned the nickname Hangman due to his generosity and friendly rapport with his troops.
He ruled his forces with an iron hand, hanging any man who disobeyed him or displayed the least bit of cowardice in battle.
Fort Augustus had recently been given over to his command, after the duke had returned to London last week.
If one of Garrett’s men had already earned the general’s displeasure, Garrett could do little to save him.
After tying his hair back with a ribbon, Garrett lifted his black tricorn hat from another peg and set it atop his head.
He followed the corporal from the bunkhouse, although he took the lead when they approached the imposing fieldstone building in the center of the fort.
A mist hung in the cool air, and Garrett inhaled deeply, bracing himself for whatever might lie ahead.
The sentinels standing guard allowed them entrance, and the corporal followed him through a heavy oak door, down a dark corridor, and into a well-lit room.
Garrett halted and stood at stiff attention at the first sight of General Hawley.
He was seated at one end of a long table with Colonel Thomas Wolfe at his left.
“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.