Chapter 31
It was near nightfall when Garrett settled one of the last stones on the newly thatched roof, then climbed down the rough-hewn ladder.
“That’s it, Fletcher,” he shouted, rubbing his chafed hands together as he surveyed the two cottages they had finished that day. “Call off the men. It’s growing too dark to continue, and too cold, for that matter.”
“I’ll agree with you there, major,” Sergeant Fletcher replied heartily from the other roof, his breath hanging like a mist upon the brisk air. “I hope Jeremy has a nice hot supper waiting for us.”
“I’m sure he does,” Garrett said, thinking about his own supper.
He only hoped some of Kitty’s wonderful cooking would soothe his foul mood, along with a snifter of good brandy and Madeleine’s company.
During the past few days her behavior had somehow softened toward him, which was more than he could say for these stubborn villagers.
He glanced at a group of men gathered up the street.
They stared back at him sullenly, then turned and walked into the nearest cottage, but it was not one that he had built.
Those cottages were still standing silent and empty, as if they were tainted with the plague.
As these two would no doubt stand empty, he thought grimly, their efforts wasted once again.
Garrett was frowning as he sought out Corporal Sims in the gathering dusk.
“Sims, ride over and tell the men clearing the eastern fields that we’re finished for the day.”
“Yes, sir, Major Marshall.”
As the young man rode away, Garrett untethered his dappled stallion. “Let’s ride by the church first, Fletcher, then make our way back to Mhor Manor. I want to see if anything’s been taken from the wagons today.”
He mounted, grimacing at the soreness in his limbs, and noted how Sergeant Fletcher was hauling himself into the saddle. The older man caught his look and grinned tiredly.
“Building that last wall today really took the wind out of me. Those damn stones seem to get heavier all the time.”
“I know what you mean,” Garrett said dryly, urging his stallion into a trot as the sergeant rode alongside him and the rest of his weary soldiers brought up the rear.
“I’m beginning to wonder what the devil we’re trying to prove in the first place.
” He glanced at the grizzled soldier, noting the deep lines in his face.
“What I’m trying to prove,” he amended, his tone laced with bitterness.
“You’re just following my orders, and very well, I might add. ”
“I didn’t mean the work was bothering me, major,” Sergeant Fletcher replied. “It’s just we’ve been pushing so hard. We’ve done a lot since we got here, and the men haven’t complained, but they need a break. A day’s rest would suffice.”
Garrett sighed heavily, knowing the sergeant was right. “Granted, Fletcher. Tell them they’ve earned my highest compliments for their efforts and a well-deserved day off. You might also say they’ll receive an extra reward when their pay arrives from Fort Augustus.”
“That’s not necessary, Major Marshall,” the sergeant insisted gruffly. “We’re here to follow your orders. You don’t need to compensate us for doing our duty, especially from your own pocket.”
“Enough said, Fletcher. It’s what I want to do.
I’m sure the men have wondered often enough why they’re building cottages and clearing fields, which is not your typical military duty.
Yet they haven’t questioned my orders once.
I’ve you to thank for that. Perhaps sometime I’ll offer all of you an explanation. ”
“You don’t have to explain your motives to me, sir,” Sergeant Fletcher said, lowering his voice.
“I can well imagine the task you’ve set for yourself.
I only wish these Highlanders might show some appreciation for what you’re doing for them.
I get the strong impression they don’t want our help.
Don’t even want us around, for that matter. ”
“So do I, Fletcher. So do I,” Garrett said, watching as suspicious faces appeared behind cracked doors or peered out at them from windows as he and his men rode along the main street.
He drew up on the reins when they reached the reconstructed church, his mood darkening even more. The fully loaded wagons he had left there days ago were still untouched, further proof that his plan was failing miserably.
He shot a glance over at Angus Ramsay’s cottage across the street. His worst moment had come yesterday when Angus turned his back on him, refusing even to speak with him. Whatever inroads he thought he had made with the burly Highlander had vanished.
Thoroughly disgruntled, Garrett was about to veer his horse around when he spied movement beneath the protective covering on one of the wagons.
He dismounted quickly, leaving Sergeant Fletcher and his soldiers staring after him.
He strode over to the wagon and threw back the canvas, starting in surprise when a small red-haired boy jumped up and scrambled over the side.
“Hold on there,” Garrett said, catching the boy by the collar of his jacket.
“Let me go!” the boy cried desperately, his short legs pumping uselessly. “Let me go!”
Garrett grabbed the child’s narrow shoulders and turned him around gently. “It’s all right, boy. I’m not going to hurt you. Tell me your name.”
“Neil, Neil Chrystie,” the boy stammered, looking up at him with wide, frightened eyes.
“Well, Neil Chrystie, my name is Garrett Marsh—”
“I know who ye are,” the youngster blurted with astounding bravado, his fear clearly forgotten. “Ye married our Maddie!”
“So I did,” Garrett said, somewhat nonplussed. “Tell me Neil. What were you doing in the wagon? Choosing something for your mother, I hope. Do you need some help?”
Neil shook his head vigorously, shrugging away from Garrett’s loosened grasp. “There’s nothing my mama would want from those wagons!” he shouted, clenching his small fists and shaking them at Garrett. “We Frasers dinna want a thing from King Geordie’s spy!”
Completely stunned by this belligerent outburst, Garrett caught the boy’s sleeve. “Spy? Where did you hear such nonsense, Neil?” he asked tightly, but before the child could answer another voice sounded behind him.
“Let the boy go, if ye will, Major Marshall.”
Garrett released him and spun around to find Angus Ramsay staring at him stonily, the man’s huge arms crossed over his chest.
“Angus,” he said in a greeting as he straightened up, but he received no response.
“Go on home with ye, Neil,” Angus commanded the astonished boy, who was looking from Garrett back to his towering kinsman. “Dinna be playing ‘round the wagons anymore, do ye hear?”
“Aye!” Neil took off like a frightened rabbit and didn’t look back.
“A good ev’ning to ye, then, Major Marshall,” Angus muttered with the slightest nod.
Garrett said nothing as Angus turned abruptly and strode back to his cottage, the door held open for him by a strapping dark-haired man Garrett had never seen before.
Then the door slammed shut, leaving Garrett to his simmering fury, young Neil Chrystie’s words ringing in his ears.
Suddenly everything was clear to him, painfully clear.
Spy! So that was it. The villagers truly believed he was a spy for King George.
That would explain everything: the spurned cottages, household goods, and cattle, and Angus’s surly behavior yesterday and just now.
Somehow they must have gotten the word from Madeleine, even though she had never left Mhor Manor since returning from Edinburgh. Somehow…
It must have been through Meg and Kitty, Garrett surmised grimly, walking back to his stallion.
Madeleine must have filled their ears with every manner of accusation—probably the same farfetched story she had flung at him at Edinburgh Castle—and told them to pass it along to the villagers in Farraline.
Perhaps she had even done so that morning the two young women had come to help her with the cleaning, he thought incredulously, amazed that he hadn’t considered the possibility sooner.
They had suddenly disappeared to go—bramble picking!
On top of her betrayal, Madeleine had lied to him.
How many more of her lies had he unwittingly swallowed?
Such anger burned inside him, his hands were shaking as he seized the reins and hoisted himself into the saddle. Yet it was nothing compared to the fierce resolve burning in his heart.
Dammit, he had taken enough abuse! Madeleine had obviously turned her kin against him, so his plan had been doomed from the start. Well, the devil take his plan and the hell with patience!
“I’ll see you at the house,” he said tersely, veering his stallion sharply around. Sergeant Fletcher’s words were lost to him as he set out at a full gallop through the village and onto the road to Mhor Manor. The wind whistled wildly around him, fueling his racing thoughts.
It was time Madeleine knew exactly how he felt about her, whether she wanted to hear it or not. He would not keep his feelings to himself any longer, nor would he tolerate any more of her irrational lies and accusations. She would know the truth behind King George’s pardon once and for all!
Vibrant memories crowded in upon him as he sped toward the manor house. He could remember so clearly that sunny afternoon when he first set eyes on the mistress of Farraline, Madeleine Fraser, the fairest woman he had ever seen. It could have been yesterday, the recollection was so vivid.
Yet it was hard to believe that just over two months had elapsed since that day. It felt as if he had lived a lifetime since then, as if he had exhausted a lifetime of emotion ranging from the sweetest joy to the most heartrending despair. All condensed into nine turbulent weeks.