Chapter 4 #2
When he reached the outskirts of Farraline, Garrett pulled up on the reins. His massive bay gelding snorted and pawed restlessly at the heath. “Easy, Samson, easy,” he murmured, untying his cravat and wiping the dust and sweat from his face.
He squinted against the midday sunlight, looking down the narrow road that wound ahead of them through the rugged Highland landscape.
Like the other roads they had traveled since abandoning the paved efficiency of Wade’s highway, it was no more than two rutted, dirt tracks with a grassy strip in the center. He and his men had been forced to stop twice already and replace broken wagon wheels.
At least we’re almost there, Garrett thought. In the near distance he could see whitewashed walls and a black slate roof framed by a backdrop of fir trees and jagged gray mountains. The large manor house Colonel Wolfe had suggested to him lay just ahead.
He twisted in his saddle and surveyed the rumbling line of supply wagons drawn by exhausted horses. Two soldiers marched between each wagon, their loaded muskets held crosswise in front of them. The wagon drivers had loaded weapons beneath their seats as an added security measure.
The rigorous strain of the long march showed in the soldiers’ tired faces.
Garrett had pushed them hard. They had not slept since leaving Fort Augustus and had paused only briefly for quick meals of salted beef, hard biscuits, and warm ale.
They had followed a different route this time, staying well on Wade’s Road until the last possible moment.
He had taken every precaution to prevent another encounter with Black Jack.
He grimaced, recalling the reprimand he had received after his unexpected return to Fort Augustus, thankfully clothed.
General Hawley’s incensed ranting still rang in his ears.
Only Colonel Wolfe’s intervention had spared him twenty lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails, and the colonel’s persuasive arguments had convinced Hawley to grant him one more chance to capture the brigand.
Yet such a lashing could not have intensified his burning commitment to bring Black Jack to justice.
He had a personal score to settle for the humiliation he and his men had suffered, as well as for the injury inflicted on his former sergeant.
They had barely reached Fort Augustus in time and the man had nearly died from his wound. Dammit, he would find the bastard!
“Sergeant Fletcher!” he shouted as he stuffed his soiled cravat in the side pocket of his coat.
A stout soldier stepped out from the line, slinging his musket over his shoulder. “Captain?”
“I’m going to ride ahead. See that the men keep moving. The manor house is just beyond that copse of trees.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Garrett dug his boots into the horse’s sides and took off at a gallop, the sergeant’s terse command cut through the air. “You heard the captain, lads. Keep up the pace. There’ll be a swig of brandy awaiting each of you when we get to our new quarters.”
Racing along the road, Garrett reveled in the great strength of the animal beneath him.
It was exhilarating to allow the bay such freedom after holding him tightly in check for most of the journey.
The landscape they passed blurred, melding into streaks of vibrant color: dark green heather, brown earth, blue sky.
The white manor house with its two adjoining wings drew closer and closer…
Suddenly he veered sharply to the right as another horse appeared on the left racing onto the road from a narrow path hidden between two large trees, and bumped into his bay.
Garrett swore loudly and firmly grasped the reins, his experience and the muscled power of his thighs enabling him to stay in the saddle.
The other rider was not so lucky. He heard a short high-pitched scream and the smaller horse whinnying in fright, then a crash as the rider, a slim young woman, pitched headlong into a row of unkempt box hedges at the foot of the drive leading to the manor house.
“Whoa, Samson, steady now!” he yelled, pulling the bay hard about.
The startled animal reared and bucked, fighting him, but it gradually calmed enough to allow Garrett to jump to the ground.
He ran over to the hedges, dreading what he might find.
It would be a miracle if the wench survived such a fall.
Garrett spied a pair of leather shoes, snagged white stockings, and the torn hem of a plain brown skirt poking out from the dense thicket.
He leaped over the hedges to the other side and knelt beside the woman.
Her face was turned away from him. Relief poured through him when he saw her fingers move and heard a low moan breaking from her throat.
With great care he took her by the shoulders and pulled her slowly from the bushes, then rolled her onto her back. Her rich chestnut hair, glinting with strands of gold in the bright sunlight, fell across her face and obscured her features.
Garrett quickly felt her slender limbs for broken bones.
There fortunately didn’t seem to be any.
Her breathing appeared normal, her chest rising and falling evenly.
He leaned over her and gently moved her hair away from her face, his hand grazing her soft cheek. He felt a sudden catch in his throat.
If anyone had been blessed with the legendary Scots beauty he had heard so much about, it was this woman.
She was stunning. This was not the porcelain perfection he had seen during a brief stay in Edinburgh, where the damsels mimicked Londoners in their use of rouge and lip stain.
This woman possessed a beauty kissed by nature, breathtaking and unspoiled, like the wild Highlands about her.
Garrett could not resist tracing his finger along the high curve of her cheekbone.
He marveled at the silken texture of her skin and its fresh hues of sun-warmed rose and cream.
Her forehead was shapely, and slim brows arched above closed eyelids fringed with lush, dark lashes.
Her nose was straight, almost patrician.
Her lips were full, delicately curved, and as red as ripe berries above her soft and rounded chin.
He had a strong urge to press his mouth against hers and taste the inviting warmth of her lips, but he did not.
Another soft moan forced his errant thoughts back to the matter at hand.
The woman had not yet regained consciousness and needed care.
She would do far better lying in a bed than on the hard ground.
Perhaps he should take her to the manor house, Garrett thought. She had been riding in that direction; she probably worked there as a maidservant. Her simple, frayed gown and her scuffed shoes certainly attested to such a post.
He bent down and scooped her into his arms, then rose easily to his feet.
He stepped over the hedges and turned onto the dirt drive, striding toward the manor house.
He could hear jingling harnesses and creaking wagon wheels, indicating his men were not far away.
He walked faster. He was anxious to be done with this chore before they arrived.
He was not in the mood for any coarse jests.
As he neared the front door, Garrett glanced once more at the woman. His gaze traveled over her white throat, the enticing outline of her breasts straining against her bodice, and her narrow waist. Heat raced through his body.
What had Colonel Wolfe said to him the morning he first heard about Black Jack? Something about finding a lass to aid his quest, and secrets betrayed at the height of passion?