A Hint of Rapture by Miriam Minger

in there . . .
    She tested the latch. The door was unlocked. She leaned
against it, tripping inside the dimly lit room as the door was abruptly pulled
open from the inside.
    "Oh!" Madeleine exclaimed, knocking into
something broad and hard. A strong arm circled her waist and prevented her from
falling. Crisp curls brushed her cheek. She began to scream, but she was
silenced by a large hand pressed over her mouth. Panic rose in her throat, and
she twisted frantically, trying to free herself.
    "Easy, Mistress Fraser, easy. I'd rather you not
bring my entire corps to your rescue, so if you'll kindly refrain from
screaming, I'll remove my hand."
    Captain Marshall! Madeleine tensed at the familiar
voice, but she was grateful her captor wasn't one of those rough-looking
soldiers. She looked up, meeting his eyes, and nodded.
    She inhaled sharply as he dropped his hand, but instead
of releasing her, he drew her closer. Her breasts were pressed tightly against
him, and the warmth of his skin seemed to burn through her gown. His warm, male
scent swamped her racing senses, and a soft, startled gasp broke from her
throat as his fingers gently caressed the small of her back.
    A bewildering current of excitement shot through her,
and she flushed with embarrassment as she felt her nipples grow taut and rigid,
thrusting against her bodice. Her eyes fell to his rugged chest, sprinkled with
dark blond curls, and with a start she realized he was naked from the waist up.
Anger bubbled within her at his bold presumption, rescuing her from the
traitorous sensations flooding her body
    "Release me at once, ye filthy—"
    "Redcoat, swine, bastard?" Garrett finished
for her, painfully aware of the hardness swelling under his breeches. He
regretfully willed away his growing ardor, smiling as Madeleine clamped her
mouth shut and glared at him. "You seem to have a limited vocabulary when
it comes to English soldiers, Mistress Fraser. Perhaps you might try calling me
by my Christian name."
    "I'll do nothing of the kind," she snapped.
She braced her hands against his bare chest and pushed, but her efforts were
futile. He held her too tightly, his arms as powerfully muscled as his chest .
. . a fact which strangely excited her once more. Infuriated by her errant
feelings, she threw her head back, her eyes crackling with fire. "Let me
go!"
    "Garrett."
    Madeleine could see she had no choice in this verbal
tug-of-war. "Garrett," she muttered through clenched teeth.
    Suddenly he released her, and she felt strangely
bereft, but only for an instant. She stepped back, her temper flaring anew as
her gaze swept the large room. Garrett's personal belongings were everywhere,
his scarlet coat draped over the chair by the mahogany desk, his waistcoat and
white shirt lying on the tartan bedspread, a massive, brass-bound trunk at the
foot of the canopied bed . . .
    "What do ye think ye're doing in my father's
room?" she demanded, her fists clenched.
    Garrett sobered, the smile fading from his lips. Her
late father's room. He had guessed as much, from the masculine decor and heavy
furnishings. He had also anticipated her response to this new intrusion, but
there was no help for it. He needed the space and the privacy.
    "I have decided to use this room during my
stay," he explained. "We've run short of space for an extra bunk in
the dancing room, and the guest rooms are full."
    "Ye should have tried the stable first,"
Madeleine said bitterly. "Ye'd fit in nicely. There's plenty of room, now
that most of the stalls are empty. Yer countrymen stole our finest horses, as
well as our cattle and sheep."
    Garrett was cut by her insult, though he did not show
it. He knew there was great pain fueling her words, a sorrow that only time
would heal.
    Until trust grew between them, if it did at all, she
would likely continue to hurl such insults at him. He would simply have to
deflect them and keep his tem- per firmly in check. It would not further his
plan to ash out at her, or to