The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  There were two outbuildings, a barn and a stable. A small chicken coop pressed up to the side of the barn. On the right side of their yard was a vast vegetable garden surrounded by a wooden fence to keep the sheep from eating the crops.

  From the outside looking in, this was an ordinary croft, complete with animals and people working the land. Nothing to see here, keep it moving.

  Hidden beneath the seemingly benign wattle-and-daub house was a hoard of weapons, coin, and supplies, with new recruits sleeping above in the loft if they’d no place else to go.

  The other men—all two hundred and forty-seven of them, if these two were to be included—lived their everyday lives as though nothing was amiss. They pretended to live in accordance with the rule of their laird—Jenny’s brother—doing what they must to survive until the day she called them to arms in the name of the prince regent.

  Jenny frowned at the thought of her brother as they slowed their approach, coming just up to the stable. With the death of their father, Hamish had become chief of clan Mackintosh—and then promptly rejected the sacrifices of the generations before him who’d protected their Scottish heritage. When he’d ridden away from them, he’d left their mother sobbing on the castle steps. There’d be no turning back for him.

  “After we get the wounded one inside, fetch Annie, will ye?” she asked Dirk.

  “’Tis the middle of the night.”

  “Aye.” Jenny left it up to her cousin to figure that part out. “We’ve a wounded man who needs tending.” She was grateful her childhood friend was visiting Cnàmhan Broch from MacPherson lands. Her expert hand would aid in healing the wounded man. And by doing so, the two new recruits would be more endeared to her, seeing that she was willing to take care of her own.

  “I dinna trust that one.” Dirk nodded toward Toran as though he wasn’t sitting right behind her. The way her cousin was glaring at their new recruit, he would likely insist the men be locked away or executed in case they should decide to run off and expose the rebels to the English.

  “Have faith, Cousin.”

  “Aye, Mistress,” Dirk grumbled as he peeled away from their caravan to head toward the castle, the peaks of its roof showing just above the forest that separated them from the road.

  A rumble shook against her back, and Jenny stiffened. “What are ye laughing at?”

  “I’m hurt he doesna trust me.” The way he spoke soft and low in a teasing lilt, as though it were a secret shared between them, sent an unbidden shiver of pleasure down her spine.

  Jenny rolled her eyes, though he couldn’t see it. “Dinna pretend to be offended, wee messan.” She didn’t even care what he was laughing about anymore. It would probably only irritate her further.

  “Och, I’m no lap dog, Mistress, but if I were, I’d let ye pet me.”

  Jenny clenched her jaw, refusing to play into his insults, but the image he created in her mind—him curled up at her feet while she stroked his head—did make her want to laugh.

  Jenny swung her right leg over the front of her horse and then slid down the side of her mount instead of waiting for Toran, who didn’t seem to be in a hurry to follow.

  When she glanced back up at him, she could see a hint of surprise in his face despite the darkness and then a smirk as he carefully studied his surroundings. Too carefully. That cold knot of dread grew icy.

  “Get off the horse, afore I have him buck ye off,” she ordered.

  “Aye, Mistress, will do, Mistress.” Coming from anyone else the words might have been taken as respect, but she knew very well he was mocking her.

  Her gaze roved over to the other man, whom her guard, Mac, was carefully taking down off the horse. “He’s unconscious, Mistress.”

  Toran moved then, leaping off the horse in much the same way she’d just done, only his kilt rose when he did, showing a fair amount of his muscled upper thighs with just a hint of his arse.

  Jenny swallowed hard and jerked her gaze away, pretending she’d not just seen so much of his flesh and refusing to be impressed by the blatant show of strength.

  Toran rushed over to Mac, and she hurried after him in case he was about to attack her man. He only took his companion into his arms, giving a little shake. “Archie, wake, man.”

  Archie did not stir.

  The look of anguish on Toran’s face was palpable. But Jenny forced her emotions aside. How could she show sympathy for a man who’d only teased her since their first moments of acquaintance, a man she had no reason to trust? Well, she didn’t have to. But she could help his friend.

  “Bring him inside.” She shoved open the double wood-slatted door, heavier than most croft doors for extra protection and privacy.

  A single small candle lit the inside of the house, its dim light casting shadows on the walls, revealing the familiar furniture as black lumps.

  They cleared off a long trestle table where countless men in the same predicament had lain and placed him on it.

  When more candles were lit, she could see how badly wounded Archie was. The man was swollen, his entire body covered in dark bruises, and if she wasn’t mistaken, one of his arms was definitely broken—beneath the surface of his skin, bumps protruded that shouldn’t. There were cuts about his face that likely needed stitching.

  What she hadn’t expected to see were the similarities between Toran and Archie. They could have been brothers. Both sported dark hair, though only Toran’s seemed to glow auburn in the candlelight. Their bone structure was similar, with a wide square jaw and cheekbones sharp enough to cut. They shared the same wide brows, though one of Archie’s was split open.

  Toran held a candle over his cousin, examining his injuries as well, and when he glanced up at her, the light from the flame brightened his eyes, eyes the color of the sky where it met ice-capped mountaintops.

  “Ye’ll help him?” he asked, a desperation in his voice that slugged her in the chest.

  “Aye. We will.”

  “We will be forever in your debt.” He looked disappointed about that, his mouth a grim line.

  “I didna bring ye here to be in my debt.” Jenny jutted her chin out. “I brought ye here to fight for your country.”

  Without missing a beat, he replied, “Ye ken Archie was imprisoned for doing just that.”

  Jenny gazed down at the wounded warrior, taking in the extent of his injuries. When she looked back up at Toran, anguish had crippled his features once more before he visibly exhaled and his face was calm again.

  Guilt ate at him, that much was obvious. Did he blame himself for this man’s condition? Judging from the quick look she’d given him, Toran’s injuries were slight, just a few scratches and the awful stench. But Archie had taken a brutal beating.

  Archie was imprisoned… Was Toran not?

  “Were ye with him when he was captured? Beaten?” she asked.

  Toran grimaced. “Nay.”

  “But ye helped him escape.”

  “Aye.”

  “Were ye from the party staging a break-in? Or were ye arrested before him?”

  Toran stared hard at her, and she wondered if he would answer the question at all. His eyes gave nothing away. He unnerved her.

  “I was already there, aye.”

  His cautious answer sent a warning prickle along her spine. But before she could question him further, the door burst open, and Jenny’s childhood friend and confidante, Annie MacPherson, rushed into the croft, Dirk right behind her. Her long dark hair flew around her face in wisps that had pulled free of her braid.

  She scanned the room, her amber eyes wide, settling on Archie’s still body lying on the table behind Jenny.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “What happened? Were ye set upon?” She looked Jenny up and down, even as Jenny pushed her dear friend away.

  “Nay, nay, not us. We happened upon them on the road.” She nodded her h
ead toward Toran and Archie.

  “Who did this to him?” Annie asked as she examined his wounds. “Dragoons?”

  “Aye. The English are responsible,” Jenny said, but her own gaze had settled on Toran.

  He refused to look up, eyes on Archie. Was he afraid of giving something away? What wasn’t he telling her?

  Annie ordered everyone away from her patient and directed the men to bring her boiled water and clean linens. She’d brought a satchel full of medical supplies and the box of herbal medicines she’d created. In truth, she never went anywhere without them.

  Jenny was used to seeing Annie work, but Toran wasn’t. He started to hover, and it was only Jenny’s hand on his arm tugging him back that had him finally giving Annie some space.

  “She’ll take good care of him.” Jenny watched as her friend cut away the fabric of Archie’s torn léine and frock coat. Annie motioned for Dirk to help her, which had Toran twitching at her side. “We’ve taken care of many such as him, and in worse shape. Beaten bloody and left for dead by the English. Ye need have no fear.”

  She stared at Toran’s profile, the strength of his jaw and the line of his rather noble nose. Aye, there was a slight bump on it from having been broken. It was rare to see a warrior who didn’t have that. Faint scars on his cheeks and forehead spoke of years of training as a soldier, even participation in battles. Jenny had grown accustomed to searching out such marks. They helped her determine the level of training a recruit would need before being paired with an experienced rebel.

  Toran ran a battle-scarred hand through his shoulder-length hair and then swiped it down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose.

  “How many?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” She eyed his profile, mesmerized by his striking features and fighting herself to ignore the strong urge to run her fingers through his dark locks.

  “How many have ye treated?”

  Jenny cleared her throat. “Hard to say. These are bloody times.”

  Toran opened his mouth as though he were going to say something and then pressed his lips back into that firm, grim line, putting a stop to whatever he was going to share. He might want to go quiet, but she wasn’t going to allow it. “How many were in prison with ye?”

  “Too many.” He offered no more.

  “Even one is too many, aye?” she asked.

  He grunted and ran his hand through his hair again. A nervous habit? He flicked his blue eyes at her briefly, and she found herself momentarily stunned. “So ye’ve recruited us. Now what?”

  Jenny had never been one to go into a tizzy over a man, even when she was younger. She was pragmatic, knew her role in this world and hadn’t let anything get in the way of it. So why the bloody hell was this man unsettling the strategic foundation she’d built?

  “We need to get Archie well first, and I suspect ye’ll want to remain with him.”

  “I’m no’ a nursemaid, lass.”

  “Mistress,” she corrected him. “And no one suggested ye were. But even if I had, if that’s where ye’re needed, that’s where ye’ll be.”

  He turned to face her, those startling blue eyes locking onto her own. There was a danger that lurked in their depths that sent a shiver racing through her.

  “Are ye related?” she asked.

  “He is my cousin.”

  “Ah. How many more of your clan were there? How did ye get arrested?”

  He shook his head. “’Tis my turn to ask a question.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I invited ye to join our army. I am providing healing for your cousin, your blood. I saved ye from the redcoats. I’ll be the one to ask the questions.”

  He ignored her. “What is your real name, J?”

  “That is my real name. Again, how many more of your clan were there? How did ye get arrested?” He crossed his arms over his broad chest and eyed her through slanted lids.

  “Let me ask ye this, Mistress J. Are the men within your company dispensable?” The way he said her title was nearly a sneer.

  She wasn’t so certain she’d enjoy keeping him on, and she certainly didn’t like what he was insinuating. “Every man is important. No one is dispensable. What kind of question is that?”

  “I want to know what kind of leader ye are.”

  “So ye’d insult me to find out?” The gall of this man. But she supposed she shouldn’t be so surprised. He’d done nothing but prickle her nerves since they’d met.

  “What are ye willing to risk? How many men?”

  Jenny scowled, refusing to answer.

  “’Tis a valid question. How many men are ye willing to risk?”

  She shook her head in irritation and disbelief. “I want no one to perish.”

  “But ye see, they will.”

  They will. Not we will. He didn’t consider himself one of them.

  “If that’s your stance, then I’m happy to have ye and Archie taken back out to the woods where we found ye. For ye see, Toran, my men are no’ dispensable. But from what I’m hearing, ye dinna consider yourself to be one of them. And my enemies, well, I have no concern over whether they live or die, just as long as we win.”

  “Who are ye fighting for?”

  “The prince regent, Charles Stuart, ye ken that.”

  “Who recruited ye?”

  She narrowed her eyes, again not liking what he was insinuating. “Ye think that because I’m a woman I must be working for someone else. That I canna be in charge of this uprising.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Aye.”

  She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. The men in the room fell silent, recognizing the shift in mood. Toran noticed it too, glancing around. When his eyes alighted on hers, there was an understanding there that hadn’t been present before.

  “Who is your clan, Toran?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “A man who hides behind a veil is not one I’m certain I can trust.”

  There was a flicker of some unidentified emotion on his face. He cleared his throat, shifting his gaze back to the patient as Annie cleaned the blood from Archie’s wounds.

  “Archie and I are both…MacGillivrays.”

  That made sense. The garrison was close to MacGillivray lands, which edged her own. Many of the men in her own regiment were from the MacGillivrays. “And Chief MacGillivray?”

  “Distant relative. We are nothing.”

  “I see. Then why were ye arrested?”

  “We’re both rebel soldiers.” His chosen words were clipped, and Jenny’s gut told her he was definitely hiding something. “Dragoons are always rounding up fighting men.” His gaze slid slowly back to hers, and she suddenly felt exposed. “And what about ye, Mistress, have ye a laird?”

  Jenny was keen to avoid any of Toran’s prying questions—especially this one. She’d had a laird. But the moment her brother had betrayed them all, she’d decided he was no longer hers. That was also when she’d decided to take up this mission.

  “I follow no man but Prince Charlie.”

  “Ah, but I see ye’re a lass of many faces. We may be more alike than ye’d care to think.” And then he winked at her, flashing a conspiratorial grin.

  For the first time in her life, Jenny was struck speechless. So casual a gesture, that dip of a single lid and the flash of teeth. As though they were comrades or companions…or more. Why did that wink and smile have her belly doing flips and her mind swirling with all sorts of thoughts she’d never meant to entertain? Thoughts about desire and…kissing.

  Ballocks! That’s what this was. A big wagonful of ballocks.

  He was trying to make her uneasy. Trying to disarm her, to seduce her even. Why else would he bring out the charm while questioning her? The man was full of tricks, she could see, and now he would attempt to add seduction to the list to try to break her down. S
he wouldn’t allow that.

  She needed some air, to put distance between them.

  Dragging her gaze from Toran in a way that indicated her annoyance with him, she searched out her cousin. “Dirk, I’ve some things to attend to before I leave. Will ye please take over?”

  “Aye, Mistress.” Her cousin eyed Toran with obvious dislike.

  Toran raised a brow at her, as if he knew exactly why she was leaving, but she just glowered at him. “Dinna give my men cause to put that promised bullet in your heart.”

  “Aye, Mistress,” he said with a mocking bow. The smile on his face was anything but confirmation he would behave.

  * * *

  Doctor Annie, as the men within the croft referred to her, had finally stopped working on Archie just before dawn. One of the men had seen her back to wherever she’d come from, all of them very careful not to give away any information in front of Toran. However, he’d snuck a peek out the small window and seen the direction they’d gone.

  The men didn’t trust him, with good cause as he’d refused to answer most of their questions, though in truth they’d refused to answer his as well. Their distrust was fine because he didn’t trust them either. Jacobites were the reason his mother was dead. Every person in this room, save his cousin, was his enemy.

  He was quite certain that Dirk wanted to rip his head off and feed it to the wild boars lurking in the forest. The feeling was almost mutual.

  As the sun began to rise, men filtered upstairs to sleep, while others dispersed. Except for Dirk, who pulled up a chair in front of the door and sat in it, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Toran.

  Toran smirked at the man’s obvious intent to keep him inside. If Toran wanted to leave, he was damned well going to leave. But damnation, he needed to question Jenny, and he was furious that she’d not returned. Getting to the bottom of his mother’s murder was one priority. His other was getting back to his great-uncle’s castle and making certain his siblings weren’t ambushed by Boyd’s men. They were still too young to care for themselves, the guardianship having fallen to him on his mother’s death.

  Trying to ignore the man set on intimidating him, Toran laid on the floor beside the table where Archie slept, arms behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, at the ancient beams that looked to have been put into place in the Dark Ages. He tried to get some rest himself, but every scrape of a bootheel on the floor, every creak of a board overhead had him waking and ready to fight.