by Eliza Knight
“Toran, this is my mother, Lady Mackintosh.”
The lady reached across the table with her hand, and Toran stood to take it, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “A pleasure, my lady.”
“Welcome to Cnàmhan Broch. We dinna get many visitors, especially handsome ones.” The older woman winked, and a glance at Jenny showed the younger woman’s horror at the exchange.
“And I dinna often have the pleasure of dining with beautiful women.” He winked back at Lady Mackintosh and ignored the snort of disgust from Dirk. Beside him, he could sense rather than see Jenny’s spine stiffening.
“Thank ye ever so much for letting us stay with ye,” his sister said to Jenny.
Jenny pressed her lips together, and he prayed she wouldn’t shoot his sister down with that viper tongue of hers.
“Ye’re verra welcome,” Jenny managed.
Toran nodded his thanks to her. Bowls of soup were placed before them along with hunks of bread.
“The pea soup is cold,” Jenny said. “The way we like it in summer.”
“Looks delicious,” Toran said.
“’Tis.”
A large hound with graying black fur and floppy ears bounded into the room then, as if he’d only just noticed they had newcomers. He stopped behind Toran, hackles raised as he growled.
“Dom,” Jenny snapped, making a slashing movement with her hand.
The dog immediately stopped growling and sat less than two feet behind Toran, staring at him with large black eyes.
Jenny went back to her soup as the hound stood guard. Across the table, Isla and Camdyn grinned, while Dirk smirked and Simon had his eyes on Toran with a look that said he’d like to gut him. Nothing new there.
The meal concluded shortly after, with the hound still at Toran’s back, and when he tried to rise from the table, the dog let out a low growl. Evidently Dom was going to be keeping a close eye on him.
“My lady?” Toran asked with a raised brow, though he knew he could take the dog in hand with a few bits of meat.
Jenny rolled her eyes. “Dom, come.” She patted her hip as she walked toward the hearth where several chairs were grouped around a small round table topped with a chessboard. “Do ye play?” she asked Toran, indicating the board.
He did in fact play, but he’d only ever done so with none other than his uncle, the Fox, and it had been some time. “I’ve had the occasion.”
“Would ye play me now?”
Good God, would he ever… But he knew she was speaking of the game, not her body. Thrusting carnal thoughts from his mind, Toran nodded, not trusting that his voice wouldn’t rumble low with desire.
Toran held out her chair, and she took a seat, smoothing her skirts beneath her bottom. He scooted her closer to the table before taking the seat opposite her.
“I’ll allow ye to go first as my guest.” She swept her hand over the board game.
“But I must insist that a lady go first.”
She raised her brow in challenge. “So ye think me a lady?”
He grinned. “At least ye play one well.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “Ye will not be able to win me over by making me laugh.”
“I am not here to win ye over, my lady.” Those simple words reminded him exactly of why he was here. This was no flirtation at a country dance; this was a deadly game.
Around them Highlanders took up places as though they had an evening routine. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all for show, or was this natural? Dirk took up a spot against the wall near the hearth, a dagger in his hand and a partly whittled piece of wood in the other. Other men took up games of cards or bones, and Lady Mackintosh claimed a seat near Dirk, arranging herself with an embroidery frame. Simon stood on the opposite end of the hearth, eyes on Toran, a silent reminder that he was there to spy for his father.
Camdyn pulled a stool closer to the game for his sister and stood sentry behind her, just as the strange old hound now stood sentry behind Toran.
“If ye will not accept the offer, sir, then we are obliged to flip a coin for it.”
From her sleeve, she withdrew a silver coin, one he’d never seen before. Face up in the palm of her hand, it showed the royal arms of Scotland. She carefully turned it over, showing the profile of a young Prince Charles Stuart. This was one of the infamous Jacobite coins. Currency that could get one killed. Just for having it here in her hand, she could be hanged. Even his uncle who’d sworn allegiance once more to the Jacobite cause did not have the notorious coins on hand.
“Pick a side. The crown or the prince?” she said.
Was this a test? Why did everything she said feel that way? If he chose the crown, would she think he was siding with the English? If he chose the prince, then he was declaring himself a Jacobite in mixed company. There would be no easy excuse for it later.
So be it.
“The prince.”
She grinned, obviously pleased with his choice. He must have passed her test. Jenny tossed the coin into the air and caught it again, pressing it down onto the back of her hand. When she pulled away, revealing the crown, he conceded. “Ladies first.”
Jenny’s face went blank as she studied the board, and then she moved her right pawn forward two spaces, freeing her rook for movement.
Toran mimicked her move on the opposite side of the board.
She moved her pawn, third from the right. And he did the same.
After the third time he’d copied her movements, she blew out a huff and glanced up at him. “Ye propose to win by moving the same way I do?”
“Does not any good soldier follow his leader?”
One delicately arched brow lifted as she studied him. “Is that what ye are? My soldier?”
“Does everyone always do what ye tell them?” he asked, genuinely interested in her answer.
“What kind of a question is that?”
Why my mother? “An honest one.”
“The duty of a soldier is to obey orders.”
He knew it wasn’t a confession, and yet it felt that way all the same. Toran moved his knight into position. “Check.”
Jenny countered by taking his knight with her queen. “Ye see, in any game, whether on the board or on the field, a woman can take down a knight in protection of her king.”
“At the sacrifice of all those pawns in the way.” He took out one of her pawns with his bishop.
“We all make sacrifices.” She took his bishop.
“Some more than others.”
“All give some, Toran. That is what we are made for. Whether it is the knight on the field or the grieving widow at home.” She took one of his pawns, and he parried by taking her knight.
“Or the grieving parentless children. Ye’re good at this.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” She kept her eyes on his, giving away nothing. “I will not give up.”
“Neither will I. Check.”
They grew quiet then, as she moved out of his way and he continued to chase her around the board, each of them losing piece by piece. Those around them had stopped what they were doing in order to watch, gasps coming from one or another watcher when either of them made a check. Finally, Jenny had him cornered.
She was a damned good player, he’d give her that, for he’d been trained by the best. Which meant this wee chit across from him could best the Fox. Sitting beside him were two orphans, the woman responsible had him in check, and he still didn’t have the answers he sought.
“Ye’re in check. Do ye surrender?” she asked.
Toran sat back in his chair, eyeing her across from him. The light from the candelabras and the fire reflected in her emerald eyes. There was a triumphant gleam to them and a flush on her cheeks. Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile, and her breaths were coming only slightly faster than before. Was this
what she’d look like if he kissed her? Bloody hell, he was more likely to put his blade to her throat than kiss her.
“I’ve no other choice,” he mused aloud.
Her smile hitched a little higher. “Everyone has a choice. Ye could flip the table and toss all the pieces into the hearth, or ye could try one last time to best me.”
“I’m not an irrational man.”
“Good to know.”
“I surrender to ye, my lady.” But only in this game.
Those around them clapped, and someone called out, “Good game.”
“A rematch?” she asked.
“Perhaps another time.”
“I’ll accept that.” She picked up her coin from the table and slipped it back into her sleeve. “Perhaps next time ye’ll win, and this coin will be yours.”
“I didna realize we were wagering.” He went to open his sporran to pull out a coin.
“There is always a wager on a game, sir. But I dinna want your coin.”
“What, then?”
“Your surrender was all I asked for, and ye have already given it.”
The woman was sly, he’d give her that.
“I believe I surrendered to ye the night we first met.”
Her eyes widened, and he realized he probably should not have said that aloud in such a public space, but in the heat of their exchange, he’d felt as though they were quite alone. Were all in the hall privy to her nighttime dealings, or had he given her secret life away?
“When was that?” her mother asked, clearly not privy at all.
The flush in Jenny’s cheeks grew paler, but she spoke with ease. “At one of the festivals we attended with Da a few years ago.”
“Ah,” her mother sighed, and he could sense the sadness there. She’d lost her husband to this rebellion too.
Toran pushed back from his chair and stood, holding out his hand to Jenny. “My lady, if I may beg your hospitality for sleeping quarters for the four of us.”
“Of course.” She placed her hand in his—small and delicately boned and yet the palms were callused. She was not a recluse who sat in her tower all day gazing at the world working around her. But he didn’t have to touch her hands to know that already. “Isla may have a chamber above stairs, and ye men can sleep with the men in the barracks.” She glanced behind her at Dirk. “Will ye show them?”
“Aye,” Dirk grunted as he pushed off the wall, the tip of his dagger conveniently pointed at Toran as his gaze fell to where their hands clasped.
Jenny jerked away, her face coloring once more.
“Isla, if ye will, I’ll show ye upstairs. Mama, would ye care to join us? We’ll have a cup of tea before we retire.”
Toran hesitated in following Dirk. When Jenny sensed his stillness, she turned to him, seemingly reading his mind.
“Your sister will be fine,” Jenny said. “Trust me.”
Two simple words that carried with them a heavier weight than she could know.
Isla hugged him tight, smiling up at him. “I’ll be fine, Brother. Jenny is kind.”
Kind he wasn’t certain of; however, he did know that the lass had heart. And he supposed for now that was good enough. Toran nodded to Jenny and patted Isla on the back.
“Be good,” he murmured.
Isla rolled her eyes. “When have I ever misbehaved?”
Jenny’s eyes crinkled with laughter at that, a private moment shared between the two of them that mystified him.
“Fraser,” Dirk growled, yanking his attention back.
“Ye’d best go afore he bites,” Jenny cautioned, and she wasn’t talking about Dom.
Toran moved slowly toward Dirk, Simon, and Camdyn, watching the ladies as they exited through a small doorway to the right.
Out of earshot of Jenny, Dirk clapped a hand hard on Toran’s back. “One wrong move from ye, and I’ll run ye through myself.”
Toran didn’t doubt the man meant every word. “I gather one wrong move is not all it’ll take.”
Dirk grunted.
“What say ye we have a little friendly sparring match?” Toran offered, needing the distraction from thinking about Jenny undressing and climbing into a big bed all alone.
Dirk grinned and clapped him on the back again. “Kicking your arse would be a great pleasure.”
Toran grinned in return. “Likewise.”
Seven
“How old are ye, Isla?” Jenny settled into a chair in her mother’s solar with a cup of warm tea clasped between her hands.
Her mother sat to her left and Isla to her right. They’d all kicked off their shoes and tucked their feet beneath them, their shawls discarded. And if Jenny didn’t think it would offend her mother too much, she would have stripped off her gown, settling onto the chair in true comfort rather than with her back ramrod straight.
“I’m thirteen, my lady.”
“Och, ye need not be so formal in here with me.” Jenny wiggled her stockinged feet. “We’re not even wearing shoes.”
Isla giggled and sipped at her tea.
“Thirteen. I remember when I was thirteen.”
Her mother glanced up, smiling at her over the embroidery ring. “I remember too. Ye were a spitfire.”
Jenny laughed. “What about ye, Isla, did ye drive your mother to distraction?”
She shook her head sadly, settling her cup down on her lap as she looked toward the hearth. “My mother was… She was often distracted, but not by me.”
Jenny’s heart constricted; she’d not meant to upset the lass. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Jenny frowned, wondering what it was that had her mother in such a state. She wasn’t certain what she herself would have done without her own mother, and she felt extremely lucky to have her. The past couple of years since Hamish had left had been a challenge in more ways than one. “And your older brother?”
“Which one?” Isla grinned, the sparkle in her eye saying she knew which one Jenny was talking about.
“Toran.”
“Ah, he was always away, fighting in this battle or that. Mama was too.”
At this Jenny’s interest piqued, but she sipped her tea and pretended not to be as intrigued as she was. She went so far as to tug at a thread on her gown and then ball it between her forefinger and thumb. “Has your clan had much issue with the rebellion?”
They were Frasers, of course they had. Jenny knew the history of the clans, had listened to her grandfather and father tell her stories about their battles past and who was on which side. The Frasers seemed to be warring within themselves with the chief going back and forth on his allegiance, leaving his people floundering for a solid foothold in something to believe in. In fact, their double-dealing chief was not one Jenny would trust, which made it difficult for her to trust the other Frasers now.
Isla met her gaze, a seriousness in her young eyes that belied her age. “Have not we all?”
There was so much sadness in her tone, so much gravity, that Jenny’s heart ached for the lass. “Aye, ye speak the truth.”
“What was your mother’s name?” Lady Mackintosh asked, taking a sip of her tea.
“Moire MacGillivray.”
Lady Mackintosh looked thoughtful for a moment but said nothing. Jenny, however, was more than a little startled. She knew the name. She knew it well. Her hand shook, causing the liquid in her cup to swirl up and over the sides. A droplet of warm tea cascaded over the back of her hand and down her forearm. Jenny set down the cup, licked her lips, prepared to ask Isla to say the name of her mother once more, but found the words stalling in her throat. Could it be that her mother had been…the Moire, who had been a staple member of their rebellion until her life had been brutally ripped from her?
The lass let out a yawn. “My ladies, I am so tired…”
“Of course.” Jenny stood up so quickly she
wavered on her feet, feeling a little dizzy at the movement. “I’ll show ye to your room.”
Down the hall she opened the chamber across from her own. A small fire had been lit in the hearth, and the washbasin was filled.
“Ye’ve water for washing, and it looks like someone brought up your bag. ’Tis rather small. Do ye have a nightdress in there?”
“Aye. Thank ye. We didna have much time to pack.” Isla laughed shortly and then unbuckled the bag. “But ’tis not as if I owned much besides a couple of gowns.” She pulled out a wrinkled white chemise. Was anything else in there that might give Jenny a clue as to why they were on the run? What they knew?
Though she shouldn’t be, Jenny found herself even more intrigued by this family.
“Shall I brush your hair out for ye?”
“Thank ye. Ye’re so nice.”
Jenny laughed. “Dinna tell Toran.”
“I will no’.” Isla grinned wide and then pinched her lips closed with her fingers as if holding in the secret.
Isla started to work herself out of her gown, filthy from their ride, undoing the ties at the front of her bodice. Jenny helped with the unlacing until the lass was down to her shift, and she passed her a clean night rail.
“I’ll hang up what ye do have while ye wash and put on the clean shift,” Jenny offered, opening the bag once more.
Isla didn’t argue, and Jenny sifted through the meager contents, pulling out one gown, two shifts, and a balled-up pair of hose. There were a few hairpins, a worn book of fables, and a pair of slippers. She even slipped open the tiny book looking for an inscription or handwritten notes that might be a code but found nothing.
Perhaps if she could get her hands on Toran’s satchel she might find something more useful.
Isla finished dressing and sat on a bench before the hearth. Jenny brushed out the lass’s hair until it crackled. All the while Jenny brushed, Isla gripped her hands tightly in her lap.
“Am I hurting ye?” Jenny asked.
“Nay.” Isla laughed tensely. “Just a little…nervous is all.”
“Ye’ll be safe here.”
“I know.” She nodded, smoothing her fingers over her brows. “I can tell. We didna feel so safe at our great-uncle’s castle.”
