by Eliza Knight
“Aye. Do ye want Toran and me to take the rounds of the perimeter? See if the dragoons have truly left the holding?”
She shook her head adamantly. “No’ Toran.”
“Archie?”
“One of our own.”
Dirk stopped walking then, and when she looked at him, she could see his disappointment, perhaps even a bit of censure in his eyes. “Jenny, they are our own.”
“No’ tonight,” she said, ignoring how awful it made her feel to say such. “Take someone else.”
Her cousin didn’t agree with her, she could see it in the stiff lines of his shoulders. But neither did he try to argue. And for that she was grateful.
With his silence she turned to walk again, heading from the garden back to the castle.
Sixteen
Jenny didn’t change her mind and force Toran to leave, nor did it appear that she had told anyone else about her brief order for his exile. She also didn’t speak to him for four days, notwithstanding his attempts to make amends and not for the lack of others trying to interfere. The tension between the two of them was palpable, and the time for her to leave to meet the prince was growing closer. The idea of her riding off without him at her side unsettled him.
Aye, he knew Jenny was plenty capable of protecting herself; he’d seen it firsthand. But he still couldn’t just stay behind. He had a mission to win her over, to prove to her that he was worthy, that she could trust him. Damnation! He had to prove that he was the man for her.
Dirk did tell him that they’d decided to keep Simon in the cell until after meeting with the prince so he wouldn’t be able to foil their plans or put anyone in danger while they were gone. It would be then that he dealt with his bastard uncle as well.
Finally, one morning, he waited in the shadows between the barracks and stables for her to check on the men constructing her false-bottomed wagons. He started toward her, and as though she sensed him—as much as he always sensed when she was near—she glanced up. Panic flashed quickly on her face before it disappeared.
“I’m going with ye, Jenny,” he said. “Dinna deny me.”
Her frown deepened, and she watched him through eyes that left no room for guessing at her thoughts. Those in the courtyard paused, trying poorly to be surreptitious in their eavesdropping.
“If I choose to deny ye, that is my right,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and managing to look down her nose at him despite him being taller.
Toran bowed his head. “Aye, ’tis. I’m asking ye not to.” He raised his gaze to hers, searching the emerald-green eyes for some sign and feeling himself getting lost in their depths. “I was going the wrong way until I met ye, and I’ve been lost without your direction. I’ll get down on my knees right here if need be. Ye’ve punished me thoroughly, I admit it. Allow me to prove to ye I am true.”
“There is no coming back,” she said, eyes steady, back stiff. “If ye betray our cause, I’ll kill ye myself.”
“Should it come to that, I will hand ye the weapon of your choice. I swear to ye, ye can trust me. I am yours.” He cleared his throat. “Yours to do with what ye will. I am your soldier.”
There was a shift in her eyes at that declaration, giving him a moment’s glimmer of hope.
“Ready yourself, soldier.” And then she turned her back on him and marched toward the castle.
He wanted to run after her, to swing her up in his arms and thank her for giving him a second chance, but to do so would cause a scene—not to mention possibly inspire her to change her mind.
Toran glanced at those milling around the courtyard. Some stared at him with respect and others with expressions he couldn’t determine. There was one face that didn’t look too pleased at all, and that was Dirk’s, which didn’t surprise him in the least.
If he was going to win over Jenny completely, he needed to win over her cousin as well. No way could he have the man she was closest with looming over him and wanting him dead. Toran wasn’t afraid of Dirk. Hell, when they’d grappled weeks ago, they’d been evenly matched. If Toran had actually put in more effort, then he would have bested the man.
Toran nodded in Dirk’s direction, and to his surprise, Dirk nodded back.
* * *
Never before had Jenny experienced this unsettled nervous feeling. Not when Boyd had had his hands on her, not when they had been running from dragoons with bullets whizzing past her head. But when she was around Toran, when he had begged her in front of everyone to let him come along with her, to believe in him—when it felt like her future hung in the balance and she had to choose an irrevocable path for the rest of her life—her entire world turned upside down.
She made it into the castle before she pressed her back to the wall and let out the breath she’d been holding, only to drag another one in. Her heart pounded in her ears, and all she could think of was Toran’s pleading eyes. His kiss. The fact that her soul seemed to reach for him.
She couldn’t say no. Couldn’t turn away.
And the idea of leaving him behind seemed impossible. She wanted him near her. And having him there beside her—or at least in her vicinity—would alleviate any worried thoughts she might have. About how he was faring, for instance, if he was thinking of her, if he’d decided to go back to Fraser lands or even cross over to the English side once more.
This would be a test for him. A test for them both, truly. To see if Toran was loyal as he said, to watch him interact with the prince, and to know for herself if there truly was no going back. Because when he’d declared himself hers—even if he’d corrected himself to say her soldier—she’d known what he’d meant. It had taken every bit of willpower she possessed not to run and throw herself into his arms, to feel the comforting strength of his embrace, to breathe in his scent, to kiss him.
Right there in front of everyone, he’d been willing to break, to bare his soul to her, and she’d seen it. Felt it in her heart, and it was changing her.
He was changing her.
Jenny pushed off the wall and went to her father’s study, the room her brother Hamish had never bothered with. He had preferred to keep all of his machinations to the great hall, as if parading his traitorous notions on display.
The maids kept the chamber tidy and fresh. Shelves lined the walls, filled with her father’s books and papers. Items her brother would have discarded like yesterday’s rubbish if she’d not insisted they were important to her.
God, she missed her father. Missed the way he’d invite her up to his study after supper and share stories of the past, discuss with her the politics of the day. He was content to have her read in the corner while he wrote letters, and on occasion when his hand cramped, he’d ask her to write them while he dictated.
Hamish had always been too busy with his horses or his friends, making merry instead of spending time in this chamber learning what it meant to be chief to his people. Her father and Hamish had never really seen eye to eye from the time her brother was a bairn. She supposed it made sense that when their father died, Hamish had run off to side with the English—a final defiance and insult to their father even though he was already dead and buried.
Jenny glanced toward his desk, could still see him there smiling at her, beckoning her forward to show her whatever it was he was working on.
That little seed that had started in her mind was blooming, its roots finding purchase in her veins. Her father had groomed her to be laird, even if he’d never said it outright. She knew what to do. Hell, she’d already amassed an army, armed and funded it. If she could do that in secret, imagine what she could do if given true power to make things right.
Hamish didn’t deserve to be laird. He hadn’t earned it, and he didn’t care enough about his people to rule them. But she had and she did.
She ran her fingers along the shelves until she came to her father’s favorite, Gulliver’s Travels. S
he lifted it from the shelf, opened it up, and drew in the scent of old paper, memories rushing back. When she’d been about seven years old, she’d commandeered one of their skiffs and shoved it out onto the loch, taking an oar, prepared to row herself to Lilliput. Thank goodness her hound Dom’s sire had been on the shore barking his head off, or she might have adventured to another land altogether in the afterlife.
Jenny relived her memories for a few moments more and then put the book back on the shelf and went to sit in her father’s chair. Being laird, asking for the clan to side with her, to be loyal to her, seemed like a hard prospect. But already they looked to her for leadership. There didn’t seem any reason for them not to agree to her taking the title permanently.
The next male choice in line would be Dirk, but he wouldn’t take it from her. If that had been his aim, he would have stopped her from doing what she’d been doing two years ago, not followed her every step of the way.
Nay, her cousin would support her. And so would her people, she was certain of it.
But would her mother?
Lady Mackintosh still wanted her daughter to marry and marry well. But marriage didn’t have to mean giving up her position of leadership, did it?
No, it did not.
Jenny pressed her hands flat to her father’s desk, the place where he had often laid them once he’d made an important decision. She was going to do this. She would take her brother’s place as laird. When Hamish found out, it would mean a battle at their doorstep, and she was prepared to fight him. But at the same time, she was also trying to fight a war for the prince. Perhaps it would be better to officially lay claim to the Mackintosh lairdship after the prince had been established on the throne. Prince Charles would undoubtedly support her claim after all she’d done for him.
A soft knock came at the door, and she called out, “Enter.”
Fiona slipped inside, looking as though she hadn’t slept in days.
Jenny stood and hurried toward her friend, worried she might collapse right then and there. “What is it?”
“The prince… He didna bring French reinforcements.”
“What?” Jenny’s heart twisted in fear. “What’s happened?”
“Aye. His ships were attacked at sea. One of them, the Elisabeth, was damaged in a storm and not allowed to make passage by the English. ’Twas the one filled with gold and weapons. All the ships but one have returned to France. So the prince is here, but he’s arrived with nothing but good faith and a few men. They have made a base at Kinlochmoidart and go back on their ship, sailing out whenever the dragoons come near. They are taking no chances.”
Jenny felt herself wavering on her feet. They needed the French reinforcements, coin, and supplies. She’d been able to gather a lot of supplies, and so had several other Highland leaders, but what she had amassed was nothing compared to what the English possessed.
They’d been counting on France and on the prince’s connection. Without it, they would be sunk.
“Are they coming back? Sending more?”
Fiona shook her head. “I dinna know for certain. He hopes to gain supporters here and that the French will return and invade from the south.” She collapsed into the same chair Jenny had sat in as a young girl. “But to make matters worse, many of those who said they’d back the prince are angry now. They’re threatening not to help him, saying that since he failed to show up with the soldiers and weapons as promised, they dinna trust him to deliver himself to the throne.”
Jenny leaned back against her father’s desk, bracing her hands on either side to steady herself. She shook her head, disbelieving. “What of our friend, A. M.? Has there been any word?”
“I’ve had no messages.”
“I will still go to Glenfinnan,” Jenny said, determined.
Fiona looked incredulous. “Ye canna be serious.”
“I will. With a handful of men, and I will leave behind the supplies. I want Prince Charlie to know we support him fully.”
Fiona nodded as if she’d expected as much. “I’ll be going with ye.”
“’Tis probably better if we’re no’ seen together.”
“Ye’re right. But I willna be far behind or ahead of ye, that I can promise.” Fiona stood, scrubbing a hand over her face in an effort to wake herself.
“Will ye not rest a while?”
“I canna. I have more deliveries.” Packages, messages, news… Jenny didn’t ask how Fiona came by her information. That was her friend’s mastery and should remain a secret from everyone, including Jenny. What she didn’t know couldn’t be tortured out of her.
“Be safe, my friend.” They embraced, and Jenny squeezed her friend tightly, fearing what was to come next. The prince had already failed in his initial mission. Would the Scots rally? Would their supporters in England and Wales pick up arms, or would they stay true to King George?
Fiona startled her from her worries. “I shall see ye at the Glen.”
“Aye, and we shall dance the night away with a man named Finnan,” Jenny said absently. The two of them laughed. Not because it was particularly funny but because it eased the worry and tension that wound them both so tightly.
A soulful howl came from outside the door after Fiona had departed, and Jenny went to open it, letting in old Dom. Her father’s hound padded across the floor and went to curl up beneath her father’s desk, a task that was quite a feat for his size. Jenny crouched low, stroking a hand over the hound’s back.
“I miss him too,” she murmured.
Seventeen
Toran looked up just in time to see a massive wool sack hurtling toward his head. He caught it before it decapitated him and let out a grunt at the weight and impact against his chest.
Dirk stood before him, lifting another sack and tossing it toward him as though he were throwing snowballs and not woven sacks packed full.
Again Toran caught it and placed it on the pile. They’d been doing exercises like this all morning, lifting and tossing the sacks to hone their muscles. Today it was sacks of wool; tomorrow might be cabers or boulders. It seemed as though Dirk was trying to challenge him in this exercise instead of another all-out fight.
Toran was willing to take that challenge.
Dirk threw the next sack a little harder, the impact taking Toran’s breath. He chucked it onto the pile. The next one caused him to take a step back. Rather than toss it onto the growing mountain, he chucked it back at Dirk, hard as the man had thrown it at him. If he wanted to challenge him, fine, but Toran didn’t have to take the abuse.
The man looked surprised, but then he grinned and threw the same sack right back at Toran. He leapt back to catch it, a grin of his own matching Dirk’s. So this was how it was going to be. He was ready.
They danced in a circle, tossing the sack back and forth until they were both sweating and a ring of men had formed around them.
Then Archie leapt into the center, arms outstretched to catch the sack in midair as it hurtled toward Dirk. He tossed it to Angus, who tossed it to Camdyn, and around and around they went. Toran picked up another sack, passing it back to Dirk, until it was stolen. Again and again until half of the pile they’d previously stacked was flying through the air and the bailey echoed with shouts of laughter and calls for men to pass.
But just as suddenly as the game began, it ended. Jenny appeared, dressed in her trews and frock coat, light-golden hair braided down her back. She was frowning yet utterly beautiful. Her face was drawn, and she scanned her gaze over the men.
“I’ve a need to have a word with ye. Both of ye.” She pointed at Toran and Dirk and then turned to head back to the castle without explanation.
Toran tossed his brother the sack he’d been holding and hurried to catch up with Dirk. Seemed they were both in trouble if she was calling them inside together. Hell.
Perhaps that had been Dirk’s plan.
The logical part of Toran’s brain denied both those ideas. Jenny was clearly disturbed by something, and it wasn’t the men throwing bags around.
She led them up the stairs to a dimly lit study with shelves lined with books.
“Shut the door,” she instructed.
Toran did as she asked and followed Dirk to the center of the room, mimicking his posture of standing with his hands behind his back at attention.
“I’ve had some news that will change some of our plans,” she stated. “We’re still going to Glenfinnan, so dinna try to argue that point. But it would seem the prince has arrived with few reinforcements and no provisions. He is spending time at Kinlochmoidart and also sometimes on his ship.” She told them about what she’d learned from her courier. “I canna know more until we go and meet with him, but I do know this. We haven’t come this far to give up. We didna sacrifice so much of ourselves and have others give their lives for us to pack it up now.”
Toran nodded, but Dirk was shaking his head.
“Dinna speak yet,” she said, holding up her hand. “I’m no’ finished. We will go to Glenfinnan, but we will not bring the supplies as originally planned. And we will go with a small group so as to avoid raising suspicion with the dragoons. When I thought we might be leading those bastards to an army of Frenchmen, that was a different story.”
“Without the support of the French?” Dirk started, but she cut him off.
“I’m well aware of the risks, Cousin. But without risk, we do no’ succeed. The prince needs to know he has support here, and the more clans that show their loyalty, the more will join in. If he’s forced to return to France, there’s no telling when he’ll be able to muster enough confidence from the Scots to return.” She glanced at Toran, and he had the distinct feeling she was talking about him. He was a risk to her. Did that mean she believed in him?
Did that mean she needed him?
It was too much to hope for. The lass was fiercely independent, and that was one of the reasons he admired her so much. She didn’t cower in the face of danger or shrink before a man simply because he was a man. Nothing seemed to intimidate her. And Toran found all of it…arousing.
