The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  To talk of his mother like that after the awful way Moire had died was tantamount to drawing swords. Dear God, let him take a moment to push the vulgar words aside.

  Jenny pinched his calf in hopes of keeping him in check, but she could already feel that this unfortunate meeting with the dragoons had turned from bad to worse. From what she could make out, there were four horses in their party to her five. They could easily take the redcoats on, but not without consequences and perhaps alerting other dragoons in the vicinity to their whereabouts.

  “Now, kind sirs,” Dirk said. “Let us leave his ma out of this. We ask that ye allow us to pass to get our wee kin home. Ye recall what it’s like to be a wee lad, nay?”

  “We were never filthy Scots. Perhaps ye’d like to take the punishment for your wee kin,” he mocked their brogue, “yourself.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Dirk was saying.

  “We’ll be the judge of what’s needed. Give us the lad now.” Their voices were sharp and edged with danger.

  Now that lines had been drawn, there was absolutely no way these bastards were going to let them go without giving Jenny a thorough beating.

  She started to shift, but Toran pressed his hand firmly against her rear, causing her to still.

  “I’ll do it,” Toran said to the dragoons. “He’s my brother. I’ll take his beating if ye give us your word ye’ll let us pass when ye’re through.”

  Jenny’s throat went dry, and she wanted to scream. This was not the way he needed to prove his loyalty. This was not what she’d wanted when she’d laid across his lap and trusted he would handle the English. This was utter madness!

  She pinched him again to show her resistance to this futile plan.

  “All right,” sneered the dragoon. “Get off that horse and strip off your shirt.”

  Toran transferred her to Dirk’s lap, and it was the hardest damn thing she’d ever done to keep her eyes closed and her mouth slack, her body flopping, when she wanted to protest, to fight.

  She heard Toran’s feet hit the ground, boots crunching as he walked to meet the bastard redcoat.

  “If even one of ye makes a move to protect your kin, I’ll have ye shot,” the dragoon was saying. “Get against the tree, filthy Scot.”

  Jenny blinked open her eyes very slowly to slits, hoping no one noticed. All the dragoons’ eyes were firmly on Toran, who had pressed his bare chest to the tree and wrapped his arms around it. The muscles of his back rippled in the sunlight and exposed scars of battles or beatings past. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart was pounding so loudly, surely they heard it and knew she wasn’t sleeping.

  Stop! She wanted to scream. Bloody stop! Beat me instead!

  Tears threatened, and she held them at bay. If even one fell, she wouldn’t be able to wipe it away, and the moisture would only blind her to what was happening. Dirk’s hand pressed firmly to the small of her back, a measure of support she couldn’t seem to take any comfort in. Yet she was glad he held her down, for she wanted nothing more than to leap from her prone spot and draw her sword.

  Perhaps that was why her cousin did it.

  The dragoon’s black boots hit the ground, and he walked slowly toward Toran, his riding crop tapping against his leg. The first slap was hard, and she clenched every muscle, including her jaw to keep from screaming. The crop sang through the air again and snapped against the golden skin of his back, bringing with it an angry red stripe.

  Five more cracks of the crop brought five more bright red stripes across his skin.

  When the dragoon paused, Toran started to pull away from the tree, and she breathed easy knowing the beating was over.

  “Oh no you don’t, savage. We’re just getting started. Take off your belt.”

  “What?” Toran asked, his voice tight. Not since they’d met had she heard this tone from him. It was a new level of dangerous that snaked down her spine. He’d not yet turned around, and she feared what would happen if he did.

  “I said take off your belt.” The audible click of a flintlock pistol cocking made Jenny want to throw up.

  Beneath her Dirk’s legs stiffened, and his horse sidestepped so her view was only of the men’s feet. The dragoon swung on him. “Move and I’ll shoot ye in the head.”

  Dirk managed to relax, but Jenny couldn’t.

  Toran didn’t move, and the crop whipped against him. Jenny bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted the familiar metallic tang of blood.

  “Take off your belt or I’ll have it cut off and you can ride home with your ballocks hanging out.”

  Toran was slow to take off his belt and pass it to the bastard. Once he did, the dragoon snapped it hard against Toran’s back, muttering a derogatory expletive as he did it. Jenny lost count of how many times the bastard hit Toran, but with every crack, her nerves frayed more, and she was grateful to not be able to see him. By the time the man let the belt drop to his side, he was panting, and she could see droplets of blood sprayed against the ground.

  Not a single sound had passed Toran’s lips as he stood there taking the beating that had been meant for her.

  Jenny was on the verge of sobbing or vomiting, her mouth filled with blood from the effort to keep herself silent. Her back was covered in sweat, and Dirk’s hand was still pressed firmly in place. When she’d not found comfort in his touch before, she did now.

  The belt fell to the ground beside the blood-spattered boots of the dragoon, who walked away.

  “Be gone with you,” he said in a near wheeze as he got himself back onto his mount. The clomps of their horses thundered in her ears as the dragoons disappeared back down the road.

  None of them moved, not even Toran. When Jenny pushed away from Dirk, she could see the mangled mess of his back and how he pressed naked to the tree, eyes closed as if in a dead faint.

  Archie was the first one to drop to the ground, running toward his cousin, pressing his fingers to Toran’s neck and calling his name.

  Toran’s eyes blinked open, and he stared at his cousin. A soft groan escaped his lips, the first sound he’d made since questioning the dragoon about his belt.

  Och, but she couldn’t imagine the pain he must be in, and she felt the phantom stings on her own flesh.

  She jumped off the horse and started for him, but Dirk grabbed her by the arm and shook his head. No matter how hard she yanked, Dirk wouldn’t let go. Toran needed her. This was her fault, and as she stared at his bloodied body, rivulets of red sliding from the gaping wounds and down his bare legs, she had no idea how the hell she could ever make it right.

  The man had just taken a vicious beating for her, one that could still leave him dead if they didn’t care for the wounds properly and infection set in. His back was torn apart.

  They needed Annie, who was going to be at Glenfinnan, but that was at least another two or three days’ ride ahead of them at a fast clip, which they wouldn’t be taking now that Toran was injured.

  “We need to go back home.” Dirk’s face was dark, his tone leaving no room to argue.

  “Aye,” John agreed.

  Jenny stared at her men in disbelief, stared at Toran and Archie who hovered over him. Toran had dropped to his knees, his head hanging low. They were right. They were only a day and a half into this journey and still further from their destination than they were from home.

  “John, ride back to Cnàmhan Broch and get a wagon. We’ll quickly follow, but ye’ll be faster alone and can meet us upon the road.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” John took off at a hard gallop.

  Dirk let go of her then, and she bent to pick up Toran’s shirt, coat, and kilt. When he saw her intent to dress Toran, Dirk dismounted too and took the clothes from her.

  “Allow me,” he said softly, and she did, for despite wearing men’s clothing, she’d never dressed a man in her life. She had no idea how t
o do it when he wasn’t injured, let alone when his back was split open.

  Jenny’s stomach roiled as the men cleaned the slices in Toran’s back. They shredded strips from his shirt, binding them around his torso. They slipped his arms into his frock coat for added protection and belted his kilt into place, hoping for a sense of normalcy should they cross paths with any more redcoats. Though the graying pallor of his face was alarming.

  Toran fainted as they dressed him. Then they gingerly lifted him up onto his own horse, facedown. They turned around on the road, the three of them taking turns riding ahead to scout for dragoons, while the others remained with Toran to see that he didn’t fall from the saddle.

  When the sun fell, they made camp, forcing whisky down his throat. Jenny insisted on being the one to clean his back this time. She’d watched Annie often enough that she knew partly what to do. His shirt was stuck in places, and it took an effort not to scream herself as she peeled the blood-soaked fabric from his back.

  She patted down his wounds with whisky on a scrap of clean linen while Dirk and Archie held him in place. Dirk tore an extra shirt of his into strips, and they wrapped Toran’s body with it. They didn’t bother with the frock coat again, simply wrapping him in an extra blanket.

  The night was long, broken by Toran’s moans of pain. When it was clear none of them could sleep, they each took turns to force the whisky down Toran’s throat. When the faintest light of dawn arrived, they silently packed up camp and continued on their way. They just needed to get to Cnàmhan Broch, where they could care for him. The walls of her castle would keep them momentarily safe from any more bastard redcoats wanting to take out their anger.

  Guilt ate at her. This was her fault.

  They were halfway home when Dirk finally said, “Ye’ve got to stop blaming yourself, Jenny. Toran volunteered to take your punishment. Do ye know what would have happened if the dragoons had discovered ye were a lass? Far worse than what happened to him, and ye know it.”

  She did know it. She could still feel Boyd’s hands pawing at her flesh, see the lecherous hunger in his eyes. The brutality of Toran’s beating was not lost on her, and neither was the fact that he’d saved her from something unspeakable. She involuntarily shuddered, recalling the horrific fate of Moire, Toran’s mother. The awfulness of what could have happened slammed into Jenny’s chest. A fresh wave of nausea was replaced by a slow-dawning ache of respect and admiration for Toran and what he’d done for her. How could she ever repay him for how he’d suffered?

  The following morning they met the wagon along the road, and Toran was placed facedown in the back lined with blankets. Camdyn, who’d insisted on joining John and several guards for the return, rode in the back of the wagon with his older brother, keeping him plied with both ale and whisky to stave off the pain and fever.

  When they finally reached the castle, Toran’s skin was beaded with sweat, and his pallor had turned a sickly gray. Worse than before, this was the color of fever and infection.

  They carried him upstairs to the spare bedroom beside Jenny’s at her insistence, and the clan healer was called to care for his wounds. Jenny hovered in the corner with Dirk by her side. He pulled her back every time she lurched forward to interfere.

  “Let her do her job,” he said softly, and Jenny was recalled to herself. Their healer knew better how to handle the task than she did. But that didn’t mean she didn’t wish to comfort him all the same.

  Isla came into the room and froze, her gasp of horror audible. It was Jenny’s instinct to get the wee lass out of there, but when Isla moved to her side and slipped her hand in hers, feet planted on the floor, Jenny knew it would take more of an effort to push her out than to simply comfort her. It was just another way for the lass to see the danger they were in, the brutality of this world with redcoats in it. Isla was a young and beautiful girl, and if she was ever cornered alone with English soldiers, there could be no doubt what would happen to her.

  “They said he did this for ye,” Isla whispered. “That he took a beating so ye wouldna have to.”

  There was no accusation in the young lass’s tone or words, only statement of fact. “’Tis true.”

  Isla’s grasp grew stronger. “He is verra brave.”

  “Aye, he is.”

  “Did ye watch it?”

  The memory of those horrible infinite moments made Jenny’s stomach roil. “Aye.”

  “Ye’re verra brave too.”

  “I would have gladly taken it,” Jenny said, “so he didna have to.”

  Isla’s fingers squeezed around hers. “Ye care for each other.” Again, just a statement of fact.

  Jenny’s chest constricted, throat growing tight. Care for each other, aye, very much. But she couldn’t manage to form any words, so instead she simply nodded. Dirk caught her eye then, having heard the exchange. She expected him to balk, to grimace, but he did none of that. Instead, he simply nodded his approval.

  * * *

  Toran had been hit by bullets, had been sliced by daggers, and had even felt the pierce of a sword. He’d been in battles waged on fields and those in courtyards and taprooms. He’d sustained plenty of wounds, always coming out of them as though he’d been built anew.

  And this one would be no different.

  Despite his fever and delirium, despite the pain of his torn flesh, he still understood that this all would pass.

  One thing, however, would not be the same.

  He was no longer going to stay passive when it came to Jenny. The lass was lying to them both when she said she couldn’t or wouldn’t be with him. Every time she looked at him he felt her interest deep in his bones, the way she leaned toward him—but most of all the way she’d called out to him, stroked his flesh when she cleaned his wounds. She cared for him, more than she was willing to admit. But he had enough ballocks to admit it for the both of them, if that was what it took.

  A battle between loyalists and Jacobites was inevitable. He’d be damned if they weren’t going to be a part of it. They’d face things—together. She was strong, stronger than any woman he’d ever met, but the very reason why clans thrived was because people were always stronger together. He and Jenny—together they would be unstoppable.

  “Jenny,” he called, needing to tell her right now.

  But he couldn’t sense her near him, and in his hazy vision he couldn’t see her. What he did see, however, was a hulking figure that could only be Dirk.

  “She’s gone to rest, Fraser.” Aye, ’twas Dirk. “Ye’d best get well soon. Jenny is beside herself. Blames herself for your injury. Stubborn lass, she is.”

  “Aye,” Toran croaked out, wanting to push up from his prone position, but even moving made it feel like the flesh that had fixed itself back together was ripping open again.

  “Dinna move. Ye need not face me while I’m speaking to ye, I’ll forgive ye this once,” Dirk teased. “Ye’re a bloody fool, Fraser, but ye saved us all out there on that road. Ye saved Jenny.”

  He had. There had been other options, but none that didn’t see Jenny harmed and the rest of them having to fight and then go on the run. He’d taken the punishment in hopes the dragoons would see their bloodlust sated and then move on, which they had. However much it had hurt, it had been worth it.

  “Bastards,” Toran said.

  “They were that. I’ll never forget the man’s face, and if we ever see him again, I’ll hold him down while ye run him through.”

  This was a new dynamic with Dirk. The men had been dancing around each other, looking for reasons to fight, to battle out their differences. But now Dirk was giving him a level of respect Toran had never imagined possible.

  Dirk cared about his cousin a great deal, and now maybe he knew how much Toran cared about her too.

  “A solid plan,” Toran managed to answer.

  “Rest, my friend. We need ye. Jenny needs ye
.”

  Jenny needed him. Sweet music to his ears because damn if he didn’t think he could survive without her.

  Nineteen

  The day after returning to the castle, Jenny and her men set out once more to meet the prince, leaving Toran at the castle in the care of her mother and his sister. She wanted to be there for him, but she knew he would understand the importance of meeting with Prince Charles. Though they might not make it in time, now that they’d been set back, she had to try all the same.

  Jenny, Archie, and Dirk rode hard for three days with only half the inventory they’d promised in the name of speed. A wagon would only slow them down, so they carried only what they could on their horses and the backs of three additional horses.

  “We’re too late.” Jenny stared at the hill of Glenfinnan, riddled with the evidence of a great gathering minus those individuals who’d been there.

  “Perhaps the prince is still nearby,” Dirk offered.

  Jenny nodded solemnly and followed her cousin on horseback to the nearest village and tavern. Archie remained with the horses outside while they inquired discreetly inside.

  The meeting at Glenfinnan had been a success. MacDonalds, Camerons, MacPhees, MacDonnells, and others had amassed there to pledge their support. The prince had marched up a crag at Glenfinnan with his men, one carrying the royal standard and pipers behind him piping a royal ballad. At the very top, he’d claimed the throne of Great Britain in the name of his father, King James Stuart, and himself as regent.

  Though she was fiercely proud of her prince, Jenny regretted not being a part of history. They inquired as to the prince’s whereabouts but were not able to glean any information. Even rebels weren’t sharing where the prince might be in case it dampened the brilliance of his claim.

  The ride home was slow and arduous, the lot of them tired and disappointment draining all their vigor. But alas, three days later, they crossed through the gates of Cnàmhan Broch to the fanfare of the clan, though their shouts of excitement dulled when they took in the equally loaded horses from when they’d left. After updating everyone on what had happened both at Glenfinnan before they arrived and after, Jenny sought out her mother.