by Eliza Knight
“’Tis nothing, my lady. I’ve a lot of work to do today.”
“All the same, no one likes to wake afore ’tis time.”
“What has ye waking so early?” Sarah asked.
A certain Highlander. But she wasn’t willing to tell her maid the truth. “My brother’s wagons.”
“All loosened.”
Jenny pressed a hand to her stomach and inhaled deeply. “Thank ye. Do ye think ’tis too much to hope that fashion will change in the coming weeks?”
“Perhaps ye’ll set a trend.” Sarah smiled.
“I wish I could.”
As Jenny stepped into the corridor, the rustling of skirts could be heard on the stairs. A moment later, her friend Fiona rounded the corner, flaming-red hair flying in wild wisps around her heart-shaped face.
“Fiona!” Jenny said a little too loudly, before pulling her friend into her bedchamber and shutting the door. “What are ye doing here? Were ye followed? Is aught amiss?”
Fiona hugged her tightly and then walked over to Jenny’s newly made bed and collapsed onto it, the skirts of her riding habit tangling in her legs. “I’ve a message for ye.” She tugged a letter from her sleeve and held it out to Jenny, who eagerly snatched the paper.
Jenny flopped down beside her friend. “Ye look exhausted. Have ye many more letters to deliver?”
“Yours was the last.” Fiona’s voice trailed off, her eyes closing. Despite everything she had the face of an innocent, with a smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
Riding like the wind at all hours of the night to deliver messages and packages to rebel leaders took so much out of Fiona. “I’ll leave ye to sleep then.”
“I was hoping ye’d say that.”
“Aye. Rest.”
Fiona’s eyes popped open, reddened from exhaustion, but she lifted up on her elbow anyway to look at Jenny. “Not until ye tell me what’s in the message.”
Jenny looked at the back of the folded missive, stamped in a familiar seal. A. M.
She pulled her sgian dubh from her boot, the one unfashionable thing she wasn’t willing to give up, and slipped it under the wax to keep the seal intact.
Mistress J,
How are you, my dear friend? I am so very excited to report that I have finally gained approval from the powers that be to throw a party—and there will be a special guest of honor I’m certain you’ll want to meet. The ship of my youth will soon sail, my friend, I think very soon, in fact. Perhaps on my birthday—the fifth of July. But in any case, I should very much like for you to celebrate with me.
Gather your flowers, have your gown made, don a new pair of slippers, and plan for an exhilarating celebration. An invitation will be sent shortly with details. I do so very much hope you’ll be there to welcome me into a new realm of maturity. Pardon the dramatics, old friend, but you know me. I’ve often felt in exile in this dusty old place with only the birds and frogs for friends. I think I shall decorate with thistles and heather. What say you? Will you come?
Your devoted friend,
A. M.
Jenny grinned. The coded message from her anonymous informant, who had an inside contact in the prince’s party, could not have been clearer. To any redcoat who might have intercepted it the note would read like a silly lass preparing for a coming-out party, but to Jenny it dripped with insider political information. Prince Charles was setting sail from France on the fifth of July to come to Scotland. At last.
“What does it say?” Fiona asked.
“He comes.” Jenny beamed at her friend, who suddenly looked more awake. “We must double our efforts. If he is to land in two weeks’ time, then we’d best be prepared to provide him with all that we’ve amassed.”
Fiona’s violet-blue eyes gleamed. “Can ye imagine a Scotland without the English in it?”
“’Tis hard to believe that over a hundred years ago our Scottish king united the two realms, and here we are fighting a foreign enemy all over again. Fighting men that should be our people. The hate never dies.”
Jenny nodded solemnly. So many lost lives over a crown. “We’re doing the right thing. Charles Stuart is the true heir to the throne.”
“Aye. Of course we are.” Fiona flopped back down on the bed, her eyes growing heavy once more.
“I’ll leave ye to rest.” Jenny stood up, went to the candle on the mantel of her hearth, and held the paper over the flame until it caught. The orange flames licked at the paper, devouring it. She tossed it into the banked hearth, watching as the coals slowly turned the paper brown and then burst into flames.
* * *
The unfamiliar lass who’d snuck into the keep in the wee hours of the morning was clever, Toran would give her that. Had he not been awake watching for any signs of Jenny leaving, he would not have noticed the other girl. She’d rushed along the side of the castle like a wraith, slipping silently into a side door.
Who had let her in the gate? Had she climbed the wall? Was there a secret entrance he didn’t know about?
Before the rest of the men roused, Toran took off at a run along the wall surrounding the castle, checking for any signs of a secret entrance. But he found none. The guard at the postern gate denied having let anyone in, and the men at the front gate stared at him as though he’d grown two heads.
“Ye must have spied our Green Lady,” they teased. “Our ghost who lives in the tower.”
Toran rolled his eyes at them, turning his gaze toward the tower of the castle, the top easily two floors above Jenny’s chamber. What a bunch of storytellers.
As he headed back to the barracks to wake his brother, he spied Jenny exiting the castle. She didn’t see him or at least pretended not to see him as she checked the wagons and spoke with the guards on the wall.
The gown she wore today was simpler than the one she’d worn the day before, more appropriate for working, which only had him more curious about her plans. He was about to approach her when Dirk loomed in front of him, his face looking as bruised as Toran’s felt.
“Ye’re coming with me,” the man said, his voice a near growl.
Toran bristled, wanting to shove the brawny bugger out of his way. “Where are we going?”
“Riding the perimeter.”
Dirk was taking him away from Jenny, away from the castle—and away from witnesses. Either he wanted to kill him or he was going to encourage him to run and then kill him anyway.
“And my brother?”
“He’ll stay behind and work with the rest of the men. Archie will look after him and put your other blasted cousin to work. There’s training and other chores to be done.”
Toran nodded slowly. Denying Dirk now would only start a fight. He could handle himself. If Dirk planned to take him out to the woods and do away with him, he could fight back and win. But hopefully he’d not have to.
“We’re leaving now.” There was no room to argue in Dirk’s tone. “Get into plain clothes.”
Rather than pick a fight, Toran relented. There was no easier way to get Dirk on his side than to let him think he was in charge, and Toran could damn well use some allies. He went back into the barracks and changed into buckskin trews and a clean linen léine, the same getup Dirk had been wearing. Nothing identifiable about him.
“Where are ye going?” Simon rasped.
“Dirk has requested I ride the perimeter.”
Simon sat up, shaking his head. “Nay. Not without me.”
Toran whirled on his cousin, just about to punch him on the jaw, which he deserved, when Archie’s voice called out. “Simon, Camdyn, let’s go.”
Simon rose slowly, his face only inches from Toran’s. “Ye’re getting off easy today, but ye’ll not be able to shake me so well next time.”
“Aye, because it’s me who runs things around here.”
Simon growled and should
ered past him, and again Toran had to use great restraint not to attack the bloody traitor from behind. His only consolation was that Archie could handle him.
Toran followed at a distance behind his kin to the bailey. Horses were already saddled for them when they arrived at the stable. Dirk swung up on his and nodded to Toran.
“We’re to go alone?”
“Aye.”
So it was to be an execution. Well, that was a bloody shame. But at a nod from Dirk, two lads handed Toran the weapons that he’d left in the barracks. That was odd. Why would Dirk arm him if he planned to kill him? Was he wrong about the purpose of this trip? Toran raised a brow as he strapped on his gear, and Dirk rolled his eyes.
“We’re at war,” Dirk was saying. “Why the hell were ye walking around without your weapons?”
“I was taking a piss,” he lied. He’d left them behind on purpose before, afraid they’d make too much noise as he was sneaking around.
Dirk grunted. “Dinna flatter yourself that the piddly worm between your legs doubles as a sword.”
Toran grinned. “Facts are facts.”
“Ye wish.”
“I’m happy to provide references.”
Dirk groaned and urged his horse forward. “Ye’re a bastard.”
“I’m glad we’re friends,” Toran taunted back.
“Go to hell.”
“Will ye be there?” Toran urged his mount to follow, suddenly looking forward to a day of mockery with Dirk. The man was intense and obviously cared a lot about his cousin, his people, and the cause.
Did Dirk care a little too much for Jenny?
Toran couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about the previous night when he’d been so close to kissing her, close to taking her to bed. That had been a moment that couldn’t repeat itself. He’d come here for two reasons—to keep his siblings safe and to get answers.
Perhaps this ride with Dirk could lead him closer to his goals.
They crossed over the moors in silence until Toran finally broke the quiet. “Have ye lost many in the rebellion?”
Dirk was quick to respond with, “Have ye?”
“Aye.”
“We all have. What kind of bloody question is that?”
Toran just came out and said it. “My mother was killed by people she trusted. Torn apart after they’d all used her.” His words were crude, but he spoke the brutal truth.
Dirk swiveled his head toward him, a look of shocked anguish on his hard features. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Toran narrowed his eyes, surprised at Dirk’s reaction. “Her death could have been avoided.”
“Dinna blame yourself, man. ’Tis the fault of those bloody Sassenachs and the reason we’re not giving up.”
Toran gritted his teeth at the man assuming Toran blamed himself or the English—though it was partly true. He’d wished he could have been there to save her a thousand times over. Dirk stopped and jumped down from his horse, squatting over the road and touching hoofprints.
“They look fresh,” Toran said.
“Aye.”
“Only a single rider.”
Dirk nodded.
“I saw a woman sneak into the castle this morning. I didna recognize her.”
Dirk didn’t look at him, though the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Dinna concern yourself with her.”
“Who is she? I dinna believe the ballocks the guards gave me about a Green Lady.”
Dirk did look at him then, meeting his gaze with a stern stare. “Ye saw no one. And ye’d do best to remember that.”
Toran nodded. “If she rides alone, she’s in grave danger.”
Dirk stood, chest puffed out as he approached Toran’s horse. Toran leapt down, prepared for another brawl, this time without an audience.
“I dinna trust ye,” Dirk said, stopping two feet from him, hands flexed.
“Likewise.”
“If I had it my way, we’d never have picked ye up off the side of the road. I see the way your cousin Archie looks at ye, his eyes wary. He doesna trust ye either.”
Toran couldn’t argue with that, save to say, “I saved his life.”
“And what about the rest? Ye were willing to let them die. Saving a life doesna mean ye’d not be willing to risk it in favor of saving your own.”
Toran laughed bitterly. “Ironic coming from the likes of ye.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Toran gritted his teeth, not wanting to give too much away. Had Dirk been part of his mother’s death? This close to the man’s face, Toran made out the wrinkles of guilt at his eyes.
“I asked ye a question.”
“We fight for the same thing—Scotland,” Toran said instead. “And we’ve both taken a vow to protect our country, our people. We’ve gotten a bad start, ye and I. As much as I’d like to pound ye into the ground, that’s not going to solve any of Scotland’s problems.”
Dirk pressed his lips together, holding in whatever retort he’d had ready.
“Ye dinna trust me. I dinna trust ye. But we’ve got to make the best of it because, like it or not, we’re on the same side.”
“Are we?”
Dirk was not an idiot. He’d deciphered from Archie’s behavior alone that Toran was hiding something. “We are.” Toran would have to do a damned better job keeping his doubts hidden.
Proving his worth, his loyalty, to Dirk was going to be hard. Proving it to Archie might be even harder, given how much he knew about Toran’s responsibility for the deaths of Fraser men.
Guilt ate at him. This man had every right to hate him. So did his cousin. Hell, all of his clan.
And so did Jenny.
But likewise, Toran had the same right. Until proven otherwise, he believed Jenny and Dirk willingly sacrificed his mother to a horrible death. And his own clan, under his uncle’s leadership, had switched allegiances so many times that the name Fraser had meant nothing to the men who’d torn his mother to shreds. Not to mention that his uncle had done nothing in retaliation, and now he was willing to sell Toran and his siblings to the highest bidder. As far as Toran was concerned, they’d all failed.
“Your mother,” Dirk said. “She was a rebel?”
Toran bristled. “Dinna speak about her.”
Dirk held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”
Toran swallowed hard around the lump that formed in his throat whenever he thought of his mother. Their eyes remained locked, hard and unblinking. God, how he wanted to slug the man. Not out of hatred but out of anger. Pummeling someone would feel so damn good and might release some of the tension he had building up inside him.
It was Toran who finally broke the silence once again. “We’d best move along if we plan to ride the perimeter.”
Dirk let out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re not riding the perimeter.”
The truth was about to come out, then. “What are we doing?”
“Hunting Sassenach.”
That was a surprise. The day just got a whole lot more interesting. “Where to?”
“They’ve been stalking Mackintosh lands for months, we think some of Cumberland’s spies and some of Hamish’s. Doesna matter. If we encounter any and we think we can take them, we rob them. If we canna, then we keep an eye on them to report their movements to Mistress J. Have ye ever robbed a redcoat?”
Toran thought back to his escape from the cottage, how he’d not only robbed but had to kill two of them in order to take their horses. “Aye.”
“Then this should be easy for ye.”
“Aye.” In all the years he’d spent with his uncle and in his own double-dealing, Toran had learned about gaining the trust of another. Give them something they think they can hold over your head. Something they can become invested in themselves. Hunting Sassenachs had
presented Toran with just such a certain opportunity. “There’s something I could use your help with.”
Dirk grunted.
“A couple of redcoats I felled after the raid on the croft.”
Dirk flashed him an angry look. “What?”
“Aye. They were lurking in the woods behind the croft after Boyd and his men left. I hid their bodies, but…maybe would be best to bury them in case they’re found by their friends and bring more dragoons to Cnàmhan Broch.”
“Ye bloody fool.” But Dirk didn’t deny him. In fact, he looked at Toran with newfound respect. “Lead the way.”
Ten
“The supplies are ready. A rider has been sent ahead to my brother to have his men meet ye in Perth.” She returned Hamish’s signed document to one of the three Mackintosh men who were still faithful to him. Those three traitors she was sending away supposedly at Hamish’s own request, though truly it was to get them away from Cnàmhan Broch. “Keep his letter on ye in case ye’re stopped by dragoons. They’ll try to confiscate the materials, but hopefully knowing they are going to troops fighting for Cumberland, they will allow ye to pass.”
“We’ll endeavor not to be caught in their path, my lady.”
“Good.” Jenny smiled pleasantly even though it was an effort to arrange her face that way to people she knew to be traitors.
What they didn’t know was that Jenny had already sent word through Fiona that the envoy was leaving, giving their exact route. Rebels who might be so inclined could attempt to confiscate at least part of the contents that way, but with strict instructions not to confiscate it all, lest her brother come northward with his troops. Just a teensy bit to sting his pride and boost hers.
With the prince’s arrival in Scotland imminent, the more supplies they had for his rebellion, the better. She wasn’t about to give everything she had to the other side. Sending anything at all was painful, but it was her only choice in order to keep the dragoons from descending on her castle like a horde of swarming flies.
“Godspeed,” she said to the half-dozen men, three of whom were her own loyal men and would return to her once the delivery was made. “And if ye should come across any outlaws who wish to rob ye, dinna allow them to rob ye of your life.”
