by Eliza Knight
“I might have been on the wrong side, for the wrong reasons, but I was still fighting for my mother, for my brother and sister. I wanted them all to be free from what I’d believed was a death sentence.”
“And now? Do ye believe our fight is a death sentence?”
“For some, aye. But if our cause is no’ one worthy of dying for, then it would no’ be worth it at all.”
Jenny nodded, her eyes cast down, chin tucked to her chest. “I have a healthy bit of fear for what’s to come,” she admitted. “I know the risks, and I know that there will always be an opponent out there stronger than me, faster, more skilled. I hope I dinna meet them. But that is not what has me scared most of all.”
“What is it?”
“That would be meeting Hamish on the field.”
Toran took hold of her hand, her fingers cold in his grasp. He rubbed the pads of his thumbs over her small knuckles. “Ye willna have to fight your brother.”
She cocked her head, thinking. “What was it like when ye saw Archie at the garrison?”
“Like being gutted with a rusty, blunt knife.”
“I was afraid ye’d say that.” She and her brother had never gotten along as children and had been at odds as adults, and even now she hated him for the decisions he’d made. But all the same, the idea of killing her own brother didn’t sit well with her. If she had to, if it came down to it, she could do her duty. But it wouldn’t be without heavy scars.
“No one would expect ye to fight your brother on the field.”
She laughed bitterly. “The thing is, Toran, that where I might turn away and show my brother mercy, he is no’ likely to do the same. If I face my brother in battle, he will try his damnedest to cut me down. He will see me no’ only as a political traitor but as having betrayed him personally as well. He will see me as the enemy, one who could topple everything he’s lied, cheated, stolen, and killed for. He will need to show the English that he took my life to prove that his own was worth something.”
Heedless of whoever could see them, Toran tugged her into his arms. She let him, circling his waist with her arms and laying her cheek against his chest.
“Bastard,” he said.
“He is.”
“I willna let him hurt ye, Jenny.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head, breathing in her scent, hints of cinnamon swirling between them. “He canna take ye out of this world. Ye’re too valuable to everyone.” To me.
“I feel so ridiculous,” she murmured against his chest. “I’m the leader of a regiment I recruited myself. I’ve fought dragoons, outsmarted them, and here I’m practically blubbering like a bairn over a skirmish with my big brother.”
Toran chuckled softly. “’Tis no’ just a skirmish, lass, and even the toughest of warriors sometimes have to break down—if only to build themselves back up again. Ye’re stronger than ye know. Just look around ye.”
She pulled away, peering into the woods at the dozen or so fires where men talked, slept, ate.
“Ye’re their leader, Jenny, whether ye’re blubbering against my chest or seated in the saddle of a fine warhorse wielding your musket. Ye dinna have to be this person or that, ye just have to be ye.”
She swiped at her eyes and looked up at him. “Ye’re right.”
“Aye,” he said, not trying to curb the twang of arrogance. “Ye’d best heed.”
She laughed. “Now ye’re overly confident.”
“I just want to be me, lass.”
Jenny playfully swatted him, and he grabbed her hand, pulling it to his lips. They were warmer now from his touch.
“Soldier, seducer, nursemaid,” she teased.
“Nursemaid?”
“Aye, ye attended your cousin, and the hugs and encouraging words ye just gave me were very similar to my nursemaid’s when I was about six years old.”
He chuckled. “I may be a soldier and seducer, but I would no’ label myself a nursemaid.”
“What would ye call it, then?” she teased.
“Let me see… I think I should like to call myself a healer.” He winked.
“A healer?” One arched brow rose in question. God, he loved how expressive she was when she was letting her guard down.
“Are ye no’ better, lass? Are ye no’ healed from melancholy?”
“I suppose I am,” she said softly, and he had to resist the urge to pull her into his arms.
“Ye see, the name fits.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m certain most things will fit in that big head of yours.”
He tapped her on the tip of her nose. “Dinna be jealous.”
Jenny’s mouth fell open a little in mock outrage. “I am no such thing.”
“If ye say so.”
She huffed and gave a little shove to his chest, but he caught both her hands in his and pressed them to the place where his heart beat.
“Ye, sir, are baiting me.” Her voice was a little breathless, and he liked the soft lilt.
“I may be,” he drawled.
“Tease.” She pinched him playfully on the muscle of his chest, just a few inches above his nipple.
“’Tis true. Shall I pinch ye back in the same spot?” He waggled his brows. “Make it even?”
She backed away from him, shaking her head, and he could just barely make out the curve of her smile. “I came over here to make ye feel better, Toran, and I am leaving with a lighter heart.”
“Trust me, lass, when I say that I am as well.”
Twenty-Two
Glasgow was a cacophony of noise, between the pipers, horse hooves clomping on the cobbles, shouts of newcomers meeting with those who’d already arrived, and drums that beat with no particular coordination. It was glorious chaos, and to Jenny it almost seemed like a mirror of the battle that had taken place here hundreds of years before between Robert the Bruce’s troops and the English. It was odd how often history repeated itself. The two countries united but always divided.
The prince was quartered with Sir Hugh Patterson at Bannockburn House following his return from battle, and Jenny still for the life of her couldn’t understand why the prince’s advisors had told him to retreat. Why had he not pushed onward to London?
She supposed it was because he didn’t think he had enough troops. But from what she’d heard, the Welsh supporters of the Stuart line had rallied and marched on London thinking to meet the prince there.
The overcast sky gave way to drizzle and mist but nothing stronger. Jenny glanced at Toran, gathering strength just from his presence. And from the rest of her men, nodding at her with approval. To think back to two years ago when she’d gotten the idea to ride out into the night—that since then she’d been able to amass all of this.
When they reached camp of the prince’s army, set up outside the walls of Bannockburn House, they weaved their way through tents and carts, passing by dozens of men and women she didn’t know and dozens more she did, as they stood back to allow Jenny and her army to pass on the way to greet the prince. Prince Charles stood on the steps of the great manor house before a crowd of people, looking every bit as French as Jenny imagined the royals in Paris might look. His long ivory-and-silver frock coat shimmered, embroidered with cream-colored silk thread in what at first looked like everyday flowers but on closer inspection were in fact tiny white Jacobite roses.
He wore a powdered wig, and his cheeks were pink, but she guessed the color was from the excitement and perhaps the wine that he held freely in his hand. He was indeed as beautiful as witnesses made him out to be, with high cheekbones, plush rose-colored lips, and light-blue eyes.
At his side was a pretty woman a few years older than Jenny, her dark curls styled in delicate ringlets that hung to her shoulders. She wore an elegant gown of creamy silk, embroidered with roses. It made Jenny feel only slightly self-conscious of her trews and frock coat.
When Jenny was announced, the prince looked up from his conversation, his eyes scanning her with what could only be called amusement, and he beckoned her forward. The crowd parted, allowing her to come closer.
“Your Highness,” Jenny said, starting into a low bow but then quickly changing to a curtsy despite her lack of gown.
The prince laughed. “Ma chérie,” he said. The prince had been raised in Rome and spent some time in France, but she had supposed that he would have spent all his time in the company of his own courtiers and developed their accents, for his was a mixture of Italian and French.
His eyes widened in recognition. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Jenny, though I have heard that I should instead call you Mistress J. I still owe you and your clan a visit.”
A giddy pleasure rippled through her at his use of her title and the fact that he respected her enough to say it as though it were a truth. And she supposed it was now, if the prince was declaring it so.
“Aye, I am one and the same. We’d be honored for ye to visit us.” She felt the color rising in her cheeks. “I’ve brought ye over three hundred soldiers to aid in the fight as well as wagons of weapons, coin, and other provisions. Will ye accept our gifts, Your Highness?”
“I am more than honored, my lady. We are extremely pleased with your gift and to name you our royal subject.” He took her hand in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “A formidable adversary you will be to our friends in the south.”
“Not only those in the south,” she said. Her stomach twisted at what she had to tell him. But it was like any wound that needed tending; ignoring it wouldn’t make it better. “I must tell you that my brother Hamish, the former Lord Mackintosh, fights for Cumberland.”
“Ah, well, I have heard this much. Brother against brother, father against son. And for you, sister against brother—this will be hard, no?”
“Aye, but I know I’m on the right side. When he meets his maker, my brother will regret the choices he’s made.” She only hoped she didn’t have to be the one to deliver him there.
“He will, my lady. You will be a valuable asset to Murray who commands my troops.”
A man approached, speaking softly to the prince in an Irish brogue. One of his seven men of Moidart, no doubt—men who had come over from France with him, a mixture of English, Scottish, and Irish subjects.
Dismissed, Jenny returned to her men to find Annie and Lady MacPherson, her mother, sitting with Dirk inside her tent. Jenny embraced her friend and then looked for Fiona, but their third was not yet present.
“Jenny,” Annie said, gaining her attention. “We’ve no’ many men in our contingent, and they all get along well with yours. We all fight under the direction of General Murray.” She gestured at the dozen MacPherson warriors who mingled with the Mackintoshes.
“Aye, I’m glad.”
Their rest in Glasgow was not long. They stayed a few days, their time filled with hours of training, the regaling of tales from the battles of Prestonpans and Derby, and Jenny’s nerves growing thinner and thinner. She met often with Murray, learning as much as she could about battle tactics. While she would take direction from him, her men were to take direction from her. And so after her meetings with Murray, she gathered her men to discuss the tactics they would take in the coming days—in particular that the prince had informed Murray the Mackintosh army was to be at the frontline of the battle.
She longed for a moment alone with Toran. Even a brief conversation would have been nice.
And then the horn blew—a sound they’d all been eager to hear.
It was time to march into battle.
* * *
Jenny’s heart thrummed like the pounding of imaginary drums as they made their way toward the battle point. The moment of attack had been chosen, a strike when the English would be least expecting it. A surprise attack. She and her three hundred men were to march under Murray’s leadership, alongside the Mackenzies, Farquarsons, MacDonalds, MacPhersons, Frasers, Camerons, and Appins, their weapons bared. To their rear were the Gordon, Atholl, and Ogilvy clans. All had come dressed in Highland garb, swords gleaming and sharp, muskets loaded—if they had them.
Their caps were adorned with white rosette cockades, pinned to show those loyal to King George just whose side they were on—the Stuarts. Not a Sassenach would get past her nor a traitorous Scot, and none would take her life. That was the vow Jenny had made to herself, no matter how unrealistic the first part might be. She was going to do her damnedest.
The prince had not joined them on the battlefield. He was instead nursing an ague at Bannockburn House with Lady Clementina for company, the woman Jenny had seen beside him when she first met him. Annie had been asked to aid him as well. While he might not be there in the flesh, he was there in spirit. Jenny swore that she’d be among the leaders who presented the victory to him.
Most of her men were on foot, while the rest were on horseback. Being on the frontline, with the English using their cavalry to fight foot soldiers, Jenny and her men would have to rely on the unpredictable tactics they’d practiced.
She was flanked by Toran and Dirk, with Archie at the rear, as though they formed a shield around her. Both Toran and Dirk had fought to stand in front of her, but she’d not let them. She knew what they were up to, not wanting her to be hurt, and she could appreciate that. But she wasn’t going to be the type of leader that stayed hidden in the background.
Most of all, she feared the moment when she finally came face-to-face with her brother. She’d rather face him on Mackintosh lands where the rush of battle made their judgments not about life and death but instead about negotiation. A negotiation that she might be able to swing toward her favor on their own lands with the elders there to back her up.
Boyd, however, she would gladly meet on the field of battle. She was certain that black-hearted bastard would revel at the idea of cutting up Scots.
At last the time came to make their presence known to their enemies. The Scots stepped from the shadows, eight thousand strong, to surprise the Sassenachs on their stolen ground. Flashes of red, gold, and white went by in blurs as the English scrambled to get themselves into place, tossing on coats, pulling on boots, grappling with reins and weapons.
As they stared at the faces of their enemies, their breaths puffs of clouds in the frigid air, thunder rumbled overhead. The skies that had been mostly gray and threatening now unleashed, pelting against their faces. Jenny smiled. This was Highland weather at its finest. If these bastards thought they could simply come onto Scottish soil and steal their holdings, their very lives, then they had better be ready for the Highlanders to steal them back.
The battle was fierce, and throughout the melee, true to their word, Dirk and Toran remained by Jenny’s side, fighting shoulder to shoulder. More than once Jenny raised her father’s sword high, saving one or more of them from English blades. Their enemy fell quickly, none having been ready for the battle—men half-dressed and fighting in bare feet.
As the rain pelted down on them, the English forces broke. Loud cannon fire erupted with the thunder, and the screams of those dying and being torn apart shook the earth. Seeing that they were on the losing end, the English generals called their men to retreat.
The Jacobites gave chase to the retreating English forces, some of the men looting the bodies of the dead loyalists along the way. And it was only belatedly that she noticed Dirk was nowhere to be seen, having joined the men who chased after the retreating rebels, while Jenny and Toran took their contingents to fight the dragoons who remained behind.
“We have to find Dirk and the other men,” Jenny said.
Toran searched the fallen with her for what felt like hours. The ground was littered with men in red coats, some of them reddened by dye and others by death. None were Dirk or any of her men, which relieved Jenny at the same time as it sent a chill down her spine. Pray God none h
ad been taken captive by King George’s men.
And then she came across a familiar face—one of the men she’d sent to be with her brother, a loyalist she’d been glad to see the back of. He lay dying on the ground, clutching a gaping wound in his belly. She knelt beside him, an enemy, but a man she’d known all the same, and offered up a prayer for his soul.
“Traitor,” he sneered, choking on blood that burbled in his throat.
“Where is my brother?” she asked.
His lips peeled back in a smile, teeth gleaming red. “Where he belongs.”
“What does that mean?” A sense of panic lodged in her throat.
“Taking back what ye stole.” The man started to cough then, spraying blood against her cheeks.
“Enough riddles,” she said, swiping at the warm droplets. “Where is he?”
But the man did not answer, his eyes rolling back as death took him. Jenny shuddered, staring into his death mask and willing his words to make sense. The only thing she could surmise from them was that Hamish was heading to Cnàmhan Broch to take back the castle. She prayed she was wrong.
When darkness fell completely, Jenny and her soldiers retreated themselves. They followed a horde of other Jacobite soldiers nearly a mile to Dunipace, to a castle, barely lit, its walls and towers jutting toward the sky like fingers reaching from a grave.
They were ushered inside. Jenny recognized several clan chiefs but in her exhaustion could do barely more than nod. They were shown to the great hall, where men dined on a pottage that smelled like peas and pork and that made Jenny’s belly rumble with hunger.
She collapsed onto a bench, held upright only by her hands flat on the table. Toran sat beside her, his hand resting on her elbow.
“Are ye all right?”
“Tired. Worried.” She could speak in no more than single words. “Some of our men are missing, and Hamish… One of his men said he’s going to take back what is his.”
“We’ll find out what happened to the men in the morning, I swear it. And your brother, he willna have gone from battling to seizing. He’s resting tonight as are the rest of us.”
