The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  Every question, whether prying or casually disguised, went unanswered. The men were more tightly sealed than Boyd’s treasure. Giving up his interrogation, Toran had concentrated on sleep, but that hadn’t worked either. By midafternoon, he gave up on rest and checked on Archie, pressing a damp cloth to his cousin’s forehead and giving him sips of a bowl of broth that had been pressed into his hands by a small woman who had come by to serve the men.

  Archie did not push the broth away but didn’t finish it either.

  Toran wanted to warn the woman away, to tell her that to remain at the rebel croft would only mean her death. The men jested with her, thanked her for the food, seemed to actually care about this woman. But Toran knew better.

  There was no sign of Mistress J, and when the sun started to set again, Dirk, who had not slept at all, was replaced by two Highlanders standing in front of the door, arms crossed over their chests as they stared at him.

  Was he a prisoner, as she had suggested? Because it damn well felt like it.

  Toran wanted to ask where Jenny was. To demand she return and give him some answers. But he already knew his words would fall on deaf ears. He also understood there would be no escape. They’d not let him past the doors, and if he tried to climb out the window, they’d stop him from doing that too.

  What was completely obvious to him and anyone else who might be looking in was that these men were loyal to her and to their cause. They would not betray her and would definitely not do him any favors.

  It was all rather fascinating—and damned confounding. He was fairly certain he knew who she was, what she was doing, and the crimes she’d committed. Mistress J was a moniker well known on both sides of the war. Loyalists whispered of her misdeeds in dread or with a vow of vengeance; rebels would sing her praises, as though she were a modern-day female Robin Hood. The latter, he couldn’t understand. How was it that the rebels could all follow her when it would mean certain death?

  As the evening turned into night, still he waited for her to return. By day, she no doubt had to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. Was she married? Did she have children? For she couldn’t be Mistress J all the time. He wasn’t lying when he’d said they all wore many faces.

  Toran prayed Mistress J never saw any more than what he was willing to show. Giving his mother’s name, MacGillivray, he’d hoped to see some sort of reaction, recognition, worry—but there had been none. Well, soon enough, he’d be free and able to tell Mistress J exactly what he knew of the crimes she’d committed and how he was going to punish her for them.

  “Toran.” Archie’s hoarse voice called from across the croft.

  He approached his cousin with caution, the guards at the entrance watching him with suspicion.

  “I’m here, Cousin.”

  Archie beckoned him to lean down. “What are ye still doing here?” he growled. “Dinna think I’ve forgiven ye for what ye did.”

  “Saving ye?”

  “Nay. Killing them all.”

  The muscle in Toran’s jaw flexed. “Whether or not ye believe me, that was not supposed to happen.”

  “What in bloody hell did ye think was going to happen? That they’d all be asked to tea?”

  “I expected they’d be imprisoned, and I didna expect ye to be a part of them. That I’d get to question them about…my mother.”

  Archie quieted then, the fight going out of his face. “Is that what it was about?”

  “Uncle has done nothing to find her murderers.”

  Archie shook his head. “Uncle plays both sides, ye know that. But he’s already told us what happened.”

  Toran and Archie were both great-nephews of the chief of clan Fraser, who once was the most illustrious spy in Scotland—the Fox. The man had gone back and forth between the highest bidder for decades and right now claimed to be back on the side of the Jacobites, though the English had yet to receive that missive.

  Toran didn’t respond, not wanting to confess that he too had played the Jacobites in order to gain information. “I want justice.”

  “This is not the place ye’re going to find it.”

  “’Tis a start.”

  “Have caution, Toran. For they will find out why ye were at the garrison, though not from me, ye have my word on that.”

  Toran straightened, a pounding headache starting at the base of his skull. He nodded curtly and turned to one of the guards. “My cousin is in need of whisky.” Then he turned back to Archie. “Drink and sleep. Ye’re going to need your rest.”

  It didn’t do yet to tell Archie that after he gained the information he needed, Toran was going to plan their escape.

  * * *

  “Why are ye sitting here in the dark?” Annie slipped into Jenny’s chamber at Cnàmhan Broch as easily as they’d done as children and sat down beside her on the floor before the hearth.

  Jenny avoided the question, mostly because she didn’t want to put voice to her thoughts. “Why are ye not asleep?”

  Annie shrugged. “I was working on a new salve. Your turn.” She bumped her shoulder against Jenny’s, which brought a smile to her face.

  “Ye always did know when something was on my mind.”

  “Aye, what kind of friend would I be if I couldna tell?”

  “Not such a nosy one?” Jenny laughed despite the subtle insult, and Annie joined her, comfortable in their friendship.

  “Now tell me, else I’ll be forced to guess, and ye know how vivid my imagination is.”

  “How is your patient?” Jenny asked.

  “Avoiding the topic, I see.” Annie sighed with dramatic flair. “All right, I’ll play along. Archie was awake and eating. The swelling in his face has gone down, and he claims the pain has as well.”

  Jenny cleared her throat, pretending to pick at something on her nail, but given it was dark, the move was silly. “And his cousin?”

  “His cousin?” Annie asked with nonchalance.

  “Toran.”

  “Ah, that cousin. I had no idea who ye referred to.” The sarcasm in her dear friend’s tone was not lost on Jenny. “Only minor scratches.”

  “I meant his mood?”

  “Oh.” Annie cocked her head, studying Jenny in a way that made her want to squirm. “He didna talk much. But he did ask when ye’d be by. How often ye came by. And how long ye’d leave them there.”

  Jenny pressed her hands to the floor to steady herself. Why did the man have so many questions? “And what did ye tell him?”

  Annie snorted. “That I wasna your keeper.”

  Jenny grinned.

  “He’s different, aye?” Annie scrutinized Jenny’s face, and she worked to keep her feelings inside. She still hadn’t fully figured out how she felt about the man.

  “He’s dangerous.” That was the truth.

  “Dangerously handsome.” Annie giggled.

  “I had not noticed.”

  Annie laughed. “One day, ye’ll not be so immune to a handsome face, mark my words.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Impossible. No man, no matter how bonnie, will get in the way of my mission for the prince.” She let out a frustrated groan. “He’s avoided all questions and acted on edge, according to Dirk. How can I trust him?”

  “Ye’ll get nowhere sitting here in the dark. Go and talk to him.”

  She wished she could use the excuse that it was late, but, quite honestly, that wasn’t excuse enough given she did most of her work in the dead of night.

  “Why is this man causing such a stir? How many recruits do ye have now—hundreds?”

  “Aye. I dinna know. ’Tis driving me mad.” A flash of ice-blue eyes came across her mind as she thought of Toran MacGillivray. She wondered if he would recognize any of their MacGillivray recruits.

  Annie hopped to her feet and held her hands down to Jenny. “Come on. I’ll go with ye.
Like old times.”

  Jenny smiled, picturing how in their youth whenever their clans had met to discuss plans for the rebels the two of them and Fiona, the third link in their trio, had raced through the woods, pretending to fight off enemy dragoons.

  MacPherson lands bordered Mackintosh lands to the south. Annie, Jenny, and Fiona MacBean, from another neighboring clan, had been inseparable since they had been barely tall enough to see over the table. When their clans suffered extensively at the hands of the English, they’d made a childhood pact to honor their fathers’ devotion to the Scottish king—even if it meant an early grave. The three of them had kept to that promise, each sacrificing pieces of themselves in an effort to put Prince Charlie where he belonged. On the throne.

  “All right,” Jenny agreed.

  They sneaked into the secret passageway built into the stone wall of Jenny’s father’s study. Light from their candles illuminated the passage. Jenny stripped out of her gown and into her trews, léine, and waistcoat. She twisted her hair up into a knot and topped her head with the cap.

  “Ye make a pretty man,” Annie teased.

  Jenny snorted. Despite her attempts, she knew she didn’t resemble a man, but it was enough to make people look twice before deciding. She blew out the little flame and took Annie’s hand in hers as they made their way through the tunnel in the dark.

  Stealing out of the castle was necessary in order to avoid anyone asking where they were going. Most of her brother’s men—who she considered to be hers, thank you—were Jacobites, but there were a few who were still staunch supporters of her brother, and some she suspected might even be spies. Her mother could not know about what she was doing, of course, or she’d suffer a heart affliction. Her mother had not been the same since Hamish had left them to fend for themselves, spending most of her time alone in her room.

  Hamish’s hasty departure and subsequent drain on the clan—with his endless demands for supplies for the government armies—and Lady Mackintosh’s withdrawal had left their problems in Jenny’s hands. To pick up the pieces. To take care of the people, her clan. It was a responsibility she did not take lightly.

  At least Jenny had no worries that her mother would betray her to Hamish. The woman was heartbroken that her only son would go to such lengths, when every one of their kin had fought so hard to keep Scottish roots Scottish.

  The first time Jenny had gone out in search of Jacobite help, she’d been alone. Though terrifying, it had also been informative. She’d walked to a local tavern that night, just after her mother went to bed. Disguised as a wayward traveler, she’d only listened, getting a feel for what the people were saying about her brother and where their loyalties lay. She was surprised and delighted that there appeared to be significant resistance against his allegiance to King George.

  Dirk had caught her returning in the wee hours. But instead of ratting her out to her brother, her cousin had said he’d join her—though she still suspected he had only taken the position to make certain she didn’t get herself killed. Jenny could handle herself in any skirmish, any raid, even in battle. She’d been training with her brother since she was a wee lass, as her father had thought it important for her to learn the basics to protect herself. Still, Dirk insisted on going with her, and he always brought at least two other Mackintosh warriors who could be trusted to guard her.

  Traversing the path to the croft a few miles away without Dirk with them was probably dangerous given the redcoats swarming the Highlands, but Jenny didn’t dwell on the concern. She had a sgian dubh in each boot, another dagger strapped to her thigh, and yet another strapped to her left arm beneath her sleeve. Annie was equally armed. Tucked into the waistband of her trews and beneath her waistcoat, Jenny had hidden a pistol. Aye, there was only a single shot, but she had deadly aim.

  Jenny could make this journey with her eyes closed. She knew that for a fact, because she’d done it more than once with her eyes bound by a strip of cloth to practice the walk for nights when the moon would be covered by clouds. She made note each day of where newly fallen trees had been downed and where weather might have otherwise changed the vegetation. She was nothing if not prepared.

  Their journey was short, and she gave the bird of prey signal as the shadows of the croft drew into view. Moments later, they were inside.

  A tall figure stood at the rear of the croft, arms crossed over his chest as he stared right at her.

  “Toran,” she said by way of greeting. “How is Archie?”

  “Awake. Moving around.” His voice was low, laced with irritation.

  “He is doing much better, then.”

  “Aye. He’s a Highlander, trained as a soldier.”

  Jenny knew what this answer meant. Men, warriors, did not complain about ailments. They could be dying and still try to force themselves out of bed.

  “Impressive all the same.”

  “Perhaps to a woman.” His tone was combative, and the energy in the room seemed to match his mood.

  Jenny narrowed her eyes but grinned instead of lashing out. He was trying to rile her up, that much was evident. “It bothers ye that I am in charge, does it not?”

  He studied her a long moment before answering. “Nay.”

  She didn’t believe him. But before she could drill him some more, Archie limped inside, his arm bound in a sling and a guard behind him.

  “Ah, my lady.” A lock of dark hair fell over his striking face, only slightly less hard than that of his cousin.

  “Mistress J,” Toran corrected his cousin but eyed her mockingly. “She’s in charge.”

  Jenny forced herself not to roll her head toward him and skewer him with a glower. If he wanted to challenge her, why not just say so? She wouldn’t back down.

  Archie ignored his cousin and stepped forward, holding out his hand to her. Jenny paused a moment, worried that he would try to kiss her hand, a show of chivalry she wasn’t interested in. But when she grasped his hand, he only squeezed it in a show of mutual respect.

  “My gratitude for taking us into your fold, Mistress. Would ye happen to be the Mistress J?” Archie smiled, the expression giving him a somewhat boyish look.

  She found herself smiling back. “The one and only.”

  Toran snorted so low it was barely audible, but she caught it. She was too aware of everything he did, every sound he made. Arse.

  “Glad I am that ye found us upon the road, not only because ye saved our lives”—Archie passed Toran a look she found quite curious—“but because if there’s any way I can get involved with kicking English arse, I’m more than happy to do my part.”

  “Well, then I only await your cousin’s refusal.”

  Toran let out a great sigh. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, Mistress.”

  It was the first time he’d said it without sounding like he was mocking her.

  * * *

  Toran shouldn’t have been surprised that it was the dead of night when Mistress J returned. Jenny was her true name; he’d overheard her high-handed henchman Dirk use it when he spoke with another of the Highlanders, Mac. The two of them thought he was asleep. Toran would sleep when he was dead.

  Whenever he’d closed his eyes, the faces of the Frasers he’d condemned to die flashed before his eyes, haunting him. They weren’t supposed to die. Their deaths were on his hands, as though he’d been the one to tie the nooses around their necks.

  At least now he could be distracted from his guilt by the lass. He had to find out the extent of her involvement in his mother’s death. She’d always been on the side of the English government, so it had been a surprise to Toran to learn that she had defected to the Jacobite cause and a bitter draught to swallow to find out they’d killed her.

  Despite the hour, Jenny looked bright and fresh, and her eyes found his quickly. She was there with her healing friend, Annie, who whispered something to
Jenny before trotting to the other side of the croft.

  Toran resolved to pretend to get into her good graces, for the best way to gain information was to ingratiate oneself.

  “Let us start over,” he drawled. “Mistress J.” After having spoken his words of a truce, he bowed low before her.

  “Toran.” His name lingered in the air between them, said with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

  “Might I have a word?” He glanced at his cousin, who took the hint and got up. “In private?”

  “Aye.” Her gaze roved slowly over him, as though she didn’t quite recognize him. And he supposed she wouldn’t, since the last time they’d spoken he’d not been so accommodating.

  He flashed her a grin in hopes of disarming her a bit more and then spoke the words he’d been practicing for when they met next. “We’re eager, Archie and I, to rejoin the cause. I beg your apology for my hesitation previously.” He ran a hand through his hair, having learned along the way that to incorporate various banal gestures while talking could distract an enemy from any hint of subterfuge. He slowly locked his eyes back on hers. “We were tense from our escape, from near death, and I was finding it hard to…manage. But given the care of my cousin and the safety we’ve felt here…” He let the words fade, taking in her expression, which did not give away much.

  “I understand.” Her voice was softer than it had been before, a sign of a weakening resolve. “My invitation to join us still stands. We’re well represented by MacGillivrays. Perhaps ye might even know some already.”

  “Aye, I’m certain to. Thank ye. We’ll not let ye down, Mistress.” He dropped his gaze and then peered up at her, keeping his expression soft, imploring. Lord, but he was almost disgusted with himself for the tactic he was using. He pressed his hand to his heart. “As a sign of my fealty, I’ve drawn something for ye. A map of the garrison.”