The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  He opened the door, peered into the corridor, and then ducked out of sight.

  Jenny shut the door, leaning her back against it, her heartbeat still erratic and her mind a jumble of confusion. What they’d done had been incredible, beautiful, and so very wickedly potent. She wanted to do it again. Had to restrain herself from yanking open the door and calling him back.

  When the battle was over, she was going to strip bare for him and tear off his clothes too. She wanted to see what he looked like, feel the weight of his hard member against her hand, bask in his touch, and cry out in rapture until both their throats were dry and hoarse.

  With that she crawled into bed, tugging her pillow close and pretending it was Toran she snuggled up against. One could dream, after all.

  And perhaps those dreams would get her through what was still to come.

  Twenty-One

  A splash of water crashing over his face woke Toran the following morning. Eyes jerking open, he found Dirk looming above him, his brow furrowed so hard he looked as though he’d eaten a dozen sour prunes and was in great need of a privy.

  “What the bloody hell was that for?” Toran growled, shoving himself upward.

  “I know what ye did last night.”

  An image of Jenny pressed up against the wardrobe, her cheeks flushed as her body trembled in his hands, flashed before his mind. Ballocks…

  Toran wasn’t going to give in to Dirk’s inquiry, however. “What in blazes are ye talking about?” He wiped at the water on his head. Perhaps there was something else Dirk was referring to. With luck…

  “Jenny. Everyone walking past her chamber could hear the two of ye.”

  Damn. “What business is it of yours?”

  After reluctantly leaving Jenny’s chamber, Toran had fallen onto his cot and into a fine deep sleep. He’d not slept so well in months, if ever.

  “She’s not your whore,” Dirk snarled.

  “I didna treat her as such either, ye bastard. I ought to call ye out for speaking about her that way.”

  “So ye admit it then.”

  “Admit what? That ye’re jumping to conclusions and making your laird into something she’s not?” Toran retorted, leaping from his cot so he could face off with Dirk at eye level.

  “Ye bedded her. I know ye did.”

  “I didna. If ye need confirmation, I suggest ye go ask her, though I’ll bet she’ll not take kindly to your questions.”

  Dirk let out a growl and shoved Toran hard, but he’d been waiting for it, his feet braced against the floor, and so he didn’t budge.

  Archie leapt between the two of them. “That’s enough. Save it for the redcoats, ye bloody fools, else ye want Mistress J to leave one of ye behind? We’ve got bigger enemies and far bloodier battles to fight than this petty skirmish.”

  Toran gritted his teeth, his glower on Dirk. “Agreed.”

  “Fine.” With a final scowl, Dirk stomped from the barracks.

  “Ye’re even more of a fool than I thought before,” Archie accused, turning his fury on Toran. “What were ye thinking?”

  “I didna lie with her,” Toran said.

  “Ye might not have taken her maidenhead, Cousin, but ye came close enough that it counts.”

  Had the whole damn castle heard them? He thought of the fallen pot, their moans, the way his heart had pounded—surely loud enough to let all of Scotland know what they had been up to. “’Tis only a business between me and her.”

  “’Tis all of our business when we’re about to head off to war.”

  “Our…connection will no’ stand in anyone’s way, nor has it compromised the mission.”

  Archie nodded, watching Toran for what seemed like forever. There was so much still left unspoken between them. And Toran needed to make it right.

  “I’m sorry, Archie,” he said. “For what happened at the garrison this summer. I’m a bastard, and I dinna expect that ye’ll ever forgive me, but I’ll ask it all the same.”

  Archie was silent, the muscles in both sides of his jaw flexed hard enough to cause divots. Slowly, the tension in him dissipated.

  “Ye are a bastard for so easily betraying your clan. There’s blood on your hands, but they were determined to get into the garrison one way or another. If ye’d not supplied the information, someone else would have, or they would have gone in anyway without it. I could hate ye forever, but it would do no good. The fact is I owe ye my life. And if I’d believed rebels responsible for my mother’s murder, I too might have taken the same path.” Archie ran a hand through his hair. “Ye’ve changed, Cousin. For the better. I trust ye, and I forgive ye.”

  Emotion swept through Toran. He pulled his cousin against him, pounding him on the back. “Thank ye.”

  “Ye dinna have to thank me. That is what family is for. To forgive one another, to take care of one another.”

  “I’ll thank ye all the same.”

  Archie squeezed him back, cautious not to slap him on the back as men often did.

  “Speaking of family… What are we to do about Simon?” Toran broached the topic, though he’d be just as happy if his cousin rotted forever in the dungeon. They’d kept the Fox at bay by forcing his cousin to continue sending mundane updates.

  “Uncle is going to come after ye soon. He’ll eventually figure out that the missives ye send are untrue and demand to see the son he’s been missing for months. He will believe that ye’ve figured out his plans if it comes to that. The Fox may have tried to toss ye into Boyd’s clutches, but he doesna believe ye’re stupid.”

  “Aye. I’d thought to keep him locked up until after the battle. But I dinna want to bring more danger to Cnàmhan Broch while we’re gone.”

  “Why no’ give Simon a taste of his own doing?”

  Toran’s brows rose. “Ye mean send him to Boyd.”

  Archie grinned. “Aye.”

  “Boyd willna kill him because of the alliance with our uncle.”

  “Exactly. He may torment him a bit though, which is no worse than what Simon was planning for ye. In fact, ’tis showing him mercy.”

  “I’ll speak with Jenny about it.”

  When his cousin had gone, Toran ripped off his wet shirt and replaced it with a dry one. He picked up his plaid where he’d laid it to dry by the brazier the night before after washing it in the nearby loch. The wool was still damp in a few places, but he didn’t care. He belted it in place, pulled on his frock coat, boots, and cap, and then donned his weapons. The journey south would take four or five days, depending on whom they met along the way and whether the weather cooperated.

  Toran hurried into the castle, sneaking up the back stairs, hoping to catch Jenny before she exited, and was lucky to find her just outside her chamber.

  “What are ye doing here?” she whispered, glancing up and down the corridor.

  “I needed to speak with ye about something afore we go. ’Tis important, or I’d no’ have risked it.”

  “All right.” She reopened her chamber door and ushered him inside.

  “’Tis about Simon. I want to send him to Boyd.”

  “Nay!”

  “Hear me out. If we leave him here, my uncle will come for him, and that will only bring danger to your mother and the rest of the clan staying behind. If we send him to Boyd, the danger will be directed away from Cnàmhan Broch. Boyd will use him against my uncle, but he’ll no’ kill him.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Ye’re right. Leaving him here is dangerous. But sending him to Boyd, he’ll only divulge everything he knows about us. Better to send him back to his father. That bastard already knows what’s going on here.”

  “Aye.”

  “The Fox would be a fool to retaliate while we’re away. He’s got bigger problems than to attack an empty castle.”

  “I’ll speak with Dirk and have a few men take hi
m to the garrison in the middle of the night.”

  Jenny pressed a swift kiss to his lips and then pulled back before he could wrap her up in his arms. “Get out of here.”

  Toran chuckled. “Aye, Mistress.”

  He sneaked his way back out of the castle and found Dirk, finalizing the plan for Simon.

  Jenny was all business when she exited the castle, barely looking his way other than for a nod of respect, as if he were any other member of her regiment. Toran grinned. All right then, that was how it was to be. In fact, he preferred it that way. He didn’t need any needling from the men or another icy bath to wake him in the morning.

  And for her part, she didn’t need anyone speculating about whom she was lying with or when. It was none of their business, but worst of all, he didn’t want her losing the respect the men had for her because she was bedding a man—bedding him. He suspected that part of her allure was that she was seemingly untouchable.

  That was a bit of lore he rather liked about her, and he enjoyed watching the men who admired her from afar. Toran stuck to the back of the line as he mounted, perfectly happy to keep up her ruse.

  The first day of riding they took slowly, avoiding the roads as much as possible, as they had that first time they’d ventured out months before. They made camp that night by a riverbed surrounded by thorny bushes. They were fully aware that if the Sassenachs took it upon themselves to notice an army, there would be nothing the Scots could do about it. This was no small contingent of men.

  Jenny had called upon all of her reinforcements, and now they were some four hundred men strong. It was a massive lot of warriors to be traipsing through the woods together, and there was no hiding their purpose. With that many bodies moving, that many horses, wagons full of supplies, even splitting into smaller parties the path they made could not be hidden.

  The second day of travel was through the Cairngorm mountains, and they were slowed down by rain that made the terrain slippery and dangerous. They pressed on, but it cost them time. They still spent the majority of their daylight hours moving forward, but it would now be five days’ travel instead of four.

  Jenny stayed away from Toran as they rode and still when they made camp, and he did the same out of respect. He would wait for her to come to him again, even if nearly every waking and sleeping thought was of her. She plagued him in his dreams and even more so when she relayed updates to him and then rode back to the front, her bottom bouncing enticingly on the saddle.

  Their entire party was with them now, as the dragoons didn’t often come into mountain territory. They were too afraid of dying, which many of them did—some by accident and others less accidentally.

  They made camp at the crest with the road down below. Their makeshift tents within the trees attempted to keep them dry but failed. The night was miserable and freezing. By the morning, most of the men were snapping at one another as they packed up. The only one who had a kind word to say to anyone was Jenny, keeping the peace and raising morale.

  When no one was paying attention, Toran passed her a cup of warmed cider.

  “Mistress J.”

  She took it, and the slight dip of pleasure in her eyes at the warmth against her cold, red fingers was exactly what he’d been hoping to see.

  “Thank ye, Fraser,” she said.

  “Ye’re welcome, Mistress.”

  She took a long sip, her throat bobbing, and she sighed in pleasure. A slight curve of her lips was all the smile he’d get, but Toran cherished it all the same.

  They set out once more in silence. Nearly at the bottom of the mountain, Jenny held up her hand. Arms shot up down the line to still the men and wagons at the back of their caravan.

  Five men deep, Toran peered around her trying to discover what it was she’d seen or heard.

  There was no mistaking the sound of the English soldiers riding directly toward the mountain, their chatter about stealing a string of horses from a Scottish crofter making Toran bristle with anger. They didn’t bother to be quiet, boasting loudly for all the trees and passersby to hear their vile deeds. They were oblivious to the Jacobite army hidden within the trees. Idiots.

  In silence they watched two men in red coats ride past at a leisurely pace, a half-dozen horses tethered to their mounts. It took every ounce of her willpower not to lash out at the men and instead allow them to pass.

  When they stopped to make camp for the night, they filled up the woods like a village of outlaws, campfires smoldering near dozens of makeshift tents, the men joking around about this and that, sharpening their weapons and eating. Toran didn’t stop himself from finding Jenny this time. He sat down beside her, ignoring the glares from Dirk, who was rarely far from her side.

  She passed him a flask, which to his surprise was filled with whisky.

  “Good work today,” she said.

  “And to ye, Mistress J, our fearless leader.”

  She grinned and took back the flask. “I am not without fear, but I am determined to make it this time. And without ye having to answer to a dragoon’s whip.”

  “I will not oppose ye on that.” Toran’s back still smarted every once in a while, though the scabs had long since healed. The skin was tight, itched at times and stung at others, still sensitive to the touch. The men were aware of that fact, and when they were trying to rile him, they didn’t hesitate to smack him on the back. Especially Dirk.

  It wasn’t overly painful, not the kind of pain that would bring a man to his knees, but enough so that he grimaced a bit more than he would have otherwise.

  “Only a couple of days now,” Jenny said, handing back the flask.

  Toran took a small sip of the whisky and then asked softly, “Have ye been to battle before, lass?”

  The words were soft enough that no one had heard, but all the same she stiffened, her head whipping toward him. He’d been so informal by calling her lass.

  “Mistress, apologies.” He’d nearly lost himself in being so personal with her.

  “I have no’ had the pleasure as of yet, Fraser. A few small skirmishes with dragoons, aye, but nothing like what we’re about to encounter.”

  He was glad she admitted it. The woman had pride, but she wasn’t so full of it she couldn’t admit where she was weak.

  “But with ye and Dirk and the men who’ve been to battle before, I should be all right.”

  “I am at your service in any way that ye need me. I know ’tis not a topic either of us wish to revisit, but I will remind ye I’m familiar with the English and their ways.”

  “I think that will be helpful, Fraser. Extremely so.” She slid him a sideways glance, a teasing smile on her lips. “It would seem your wayward days are coming into good use for us.”

  “May this be a way for me to redeem myself, for I’ve been a fool.” His tone had turned sober.

  For that he would never forgive his uncle or Boyd. The two of them had played him for a fool. The Fox was too old to move as swiftly as he once had and had used Toran’s anger as a way to still be in the game. No longer. The Fox could go to the devil for all he cared and take his wily son with him.

  Suddenly irritated, Toran stood, passed her back the flask, and walked off into the darkness. It would be nigh impossible to find any semblance of privacy, given the number of men camping in their makeshift village.

  Toran managed to find a thick tree facing a darker patch of the woods, the nearest Highlanders a dozen feet away. He was able to lean against the tree and think, unnoticed.

  Or that had been his hope.

  “What happened back there?” Jenny’s voice was quiet. He’d not even heard her approach.

  “Ye’ve a light step.” He pulled a cinnamon stick from his sporran and began using it to pick his teeth.

  “Ye canna be a rebel without one. Have ye another of those?”

  “Aye. True enough.” He handed her a
second stick.

  “’Tis spicy,” she mused.

  Toran grinned, thinking about what it would be like to kiss her now, with both their mouths tasting of cinnamon.

  “So, are ye going to tell me?” she asked.

  Toran pressed his lips together, not one to talk about his feelings. Before meeting Jenny he’d been the hard, silent type, but she seemed to bring out a different side of him. At first he’d feared that she was making him weak. But how could that be, when she herself was so strong? She’d not bring him down, only bolster him, and he likewise for her.

  “I dinna much like talking about it.”

  “Ah,” she murmured and leaned against the massive tree beside him, her shoulder touching his arm. “I’ll not push, Toran, but know that I’m here if ye ever wish to talk.”

  He turned to the side, leaning his shoulder against the tree and looking at the shadows that framed her face.

  “When did ye know ye wanted to be a rebel?” he asked.

  “I didna come here to talk about me.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  She sighed and turned as well so they faced each other. She ran a hand through her hair, pausing a moment. “When we were wee lasses, my friends and I—Annie and Fiona—made a pact that no matter what, we’d take up the cause. We would continue to fight as our ancestors had, as our sires had.”

  “A lifelong conviction.”

  “Aye. What is a conviction unless ye can make something of it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly. And what of ye? What convictions have ye made, besides those I’m already aware of?”

  “No one has ever asked me that.” Toran tucked the cinnamon stick away, and she handed hers back to him.

  “I am honored to be the first,” she said.

  “Keep it,” he said, then referring back to what she’d said, “Clan and country have always been my focus.”

  “Until they were no’.”

  “Even that I’m no’ so certain about.”

  She raised a brow in question.