Chapter 13 #2
Madeleine was pleased to see the vast number of rickety carts and lumbering wagons vying for space with pedestrians carrying bundles and baskets.
A sleek black carriage drawn by four elegantly matched horses clattered by, the liveried driver paying little heed to the common folk scurrying out of harm’s way.
Madeleine caught a glimpse of the carriage’s rich, well-dressed occupants, and her mood darkened considerably.
Probably some of fat King Geordie’s loyal Scotsmen—the vile traitors, she thought bitterly. She vehemently hoped the carriage would lose a wheel while crossing the humpbacked bridge up ahead and tumble straight into the loch.
It didn’t. The carriage proceeded safely, much to her disappointment. It followed Wade’s Road to the left while she and Garrett reined their horses into a walk along a narrow dirt road. Foyer’s Falls were straight ahead, only a short distance away.
Madeleine’s resentment was tempered by a rush of excitement, and she forgot the carriage.
She could hear the majestic roar of the falls growing louder and louder.
She inhaled the damp air, laden with moisture; it was becoming cooler as they neared the steep, rocky gorge.
Then suddenly they were upon it, one of the most magnificent sights imaginable. It took her breath away.
One spectacular waterfall thundered into another and another, forming tiers of foaming white water. Mist soared high into the air, a rainbow arcing within the infinite sparkling droplets. The falls merged and melded, the water cascading into the turbulent River Foyers at the bottom of the gorge.
Madeleine stroked the mare’s smooth neck, attempting to calm her. The horse was snorting and stamping her hooves on the ground, clearly terrified by the deafening roar. Madeleine turned to Garrett, who was intently watching the falls. She had to shout to be heard.
“Would ye mind if we rode down closer to the river? Otherwise I might find myself taking a dive into the falls!”
He nodded, noting the tight grip she had on the reins, and quickly took the lead.
As they moved away from the precipitous gorge overlooking Loch Ness, the mare quieted considerably.
Several hundred feet farther and the falls were a dull thunder in the distance, though still visible.
Garrett halted his bay and twisted in the saddle to face her.
“We could stop here if you’d like,” he offered, indicating a gentle hill that sloped gradually into the River Foyers. A thick beech wood ran the length of the green hillside, promising welcome shade.
“Aye, ‘tis a fine spot,” she agreed tersely and dismounted. She saw Garrett grimace as he eased himself from the saddle, and she guessed he was still suffering from his illness. A pang of guilt tweaked her conscience, but she shrugged it off. He was feeling better, wasn’t he?
He was certainly well enough to renew his single-minded search for Black Jack!
Almost angrily she strode down the hill and tethered her mare to a tree. She plopped on the grass, watching as Garrett did the same. She made no effort to help him as he spread out a woolen blanket beside her.
He knelt and dumped out the contents of his saddlebag: a loaf of thick-crusted bread, a small wheel of cheese, and some rosy apples. It was simple fare, but Madeleine’s mouth watered. She’d had no breakfast, and the long ride had fueled her appetite.
She immediately tore off a chunk of bread, ignoring his chuckle at her haste. She split the cheese in thirds, offering him two pieces and keeping one wedge for herself. She took a bite, savoring the aged cheddar flavor. It was an English cheese, but she had to admit it was quite good.
“Here. You must be thirsty,” Garrett said as he poured a cup of red wine from a wineskin and handed it to her.
“Thank ye,” she said. She took a long draft, her eyes widening in surprise.
The smooth wine was hardly what she had expected.
It was a French vintage which she had no trouble stomaching; the French hated the English almost as much as the Highlanders.
Yet how had Garrett come by such a wine?
French imports were prohibited in England, since the two countries were forever at war, or taxed so highly they were well out of reach to all but the rich.
“Do you like it?” Garrett asked, noting her stunned reaction.
She lowered her cup, licking her lips self-consciously. “Aye, ‘tis very good. I’ve always liked French wines.”
“Ah, so you’re familiar with foreign vintages.”
His casual comment pricked her temper. “We’re not savages here as ye might have supposed, Garrett, though yer kind treat us as such,” she spouted hotly.
“My da taught me a great deal about fine wines, and dancing, and proper table manners. He saw to it I was well educated, just as my mother had been. Ye might be interested to know I can read and write as well as any of yer aristocratic lady friends!”
“Better, I’d warrant,” he said under his breath, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
When she looked at him quizzically, he sobered.
“I did not mean what I said as an insult, Madeleine. Forgive me if it seemed so. And it has not escaped my attention that you possess many exquisite qualities.” His voice became husky, his eyes blazing into hers with a strange but compelling fire.
“A man would easily become the envy of any court with a woman such as you by his side.”
Madeleine stared at him, surprised by his candor, her heart thumping wildly. She thought to take a sip of wine, but her hands were trembling so badly she dared not attempt it. She did not want him to see how much his words had affected her.
“Did yer brother, Gordon, give ye the wine as a parting gift?” she asked with feigned flippancy, desperately hoping to veer their conversation from its unsettling course.
“It’s my own private stock,” he replied tightly, a scowl appearing on his handsome face. “I brought a cask with me from England. My life as a soldier would truly be desolate without such small pleasures, and fortunately I’ve the means to provide myself with some comforts, Gordon be damned.”
Madeleine sensed his anger and said no more.
Obviously there was a deep rift between the two brothers, a rift she did not wish to explore.
It was also clear Garrett had some wealth of his own to afford such wine, making him one of the luckier younger sons of the nobility.
She hastily decided it was none of her business to pry any further into his personal affairs.
She looked on silently as Garrett lifted his cup and drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He gazed out over the rumbling river for a very long moment, as if composing his thoughts, then back at her. His eyes caught and held hers.
“Tell me, Madeleine. Do you recall our discussion the day my soldiers and I commandeered Mhor Manor? About troublemakers and brigands?”
Madeleine fought the swell of apprehension rising in her heart. “Aye,” she said, gripping the cup tightly. “I asked ye if there were brigands in Strathherrick.” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “Ye wouldna answer.”
Garrett sighed, his gaze never leaving her face. His expression was hard and grim. It frightened her.
“You must listen carefully to me, Madeleine. I must ask you to trust me, as I’m about to trust you.”
Madeleine stared at him, incredulous. “I trust no Englishmen,” she declared emphatically, setting down her half-empty cup. “Ye’re mad to even think—”
“In this case you must,” he said, cutting her off impatiently. “Please hear me out, Madeleine. That’s all I ask.”
She said nothing, eyeing him sullenly. He interpreted her silence as an assent and rushed on.
“I was sent to Strathherrick to search for an brigand. We call him Black Jack.”
She flinched inwardly. “Black Jack? ‘Tis a clever name.”
“Yes. A clever name for a very dangerous man. He’s been raiding English supply trains for about three months now, from Inverness Firth to Loch Lochy. Several English soldiers have been shot either by him or by his men. One almost died.”
There, he’d said it, she thought with relief. A very dangerous man. He had no idea his notorious Black Jack was sitting right across from him. She wondered fleetingly if he referred to the man she had shot.
“I must find Black Jack within three weeks, Madeleine. I thought you might be able to help me. Do you know anything at all about this brigand? Anything.”
She could not believe her ears. Did he truly think she would help him?
He must, or he wouldn’t be looking at her so expectantly.
How utterly absurd. Little did he know that if she helped him, she’d be settling a hangman’s noose about her own neck!
She shuddered at the dreadful thought, her anger piqued once again by his presumption.
“I know nothing of yer brigand, Garrett, and ye’re a fool if ye think I’d ever help ye, even if I did.”
Suddenly his hands gripped her arms cruelly, and he pulled her against him, his face within inches of her own.
She tried to wrench free, but he held her fast. His breath was warm on her skin and fragrant with wine; his eyes had darkened to the color of slate.
“Would you say the same thing, Mistress Madeleine Fraser,” he asked, his voice low and intense, “if you knew that within three weeks the Highlanders of Strathherrick would suffer more deeply than ever before?”
Madeleine gasped, her throat tightening painfully. “What do ye mean?” she whispered hoarsely.
“I believe I mentioned my chief commander’s name to you, General Henry Hawley, the duke of Cumberland’s half brother. The general has a remarkable talent for brutality. I have no doubt you’ve heard of some of his recent exploits.”
She bobbed her head. “Aye.”