by Eliza Knight
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Eliza Knight
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Craig White
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Excerpt from Highland Gladiator
One
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
With much love to my own warrior for believing in me, and to my tenacious daughters, who are a constant inspiration.
Dear Reader,
When I first imagined the concept behind this series, I knew I wanted to create a cast of incredibly brave female heroines who would have to risk nearly everything for the good of their country and their future king. The Jacobite era of Great Britain’s history is the last civil war fought on the united soils of Scotland and England, ultimately coming to rest in a rather tragic ending for many. Throughout the tumultuous years were born many heroes—dozens of which were women.
I wanted to incorporate their bravery, tenacity, and enthusiasm for their cause and their loyalty to a prince they wanted to be king, so I used many of their stories when creating those within this series. In The Rebel Wears Plaid, you will find Jenny’s story to have a flavor of the lives of Lady Anne (Farquharson) Mackintosh, Jenny Cameron, and Lady Margaret Ogilvy, mixed in with a generous helping of my imagination.
There is also a fun rumor that the Christmas carol “O Come, All Ye Faithful” was in fact a Jacobite call to arms, and that the line “come and behold Him, born the king of angels” was code for “come and behold him, born the king of the English”—who just so happened to be Bonnie Prince Charlie. Allegedly the Latin verse was actually a celebration of the prince’s birth rather than of Jesus’s, all connotation of which was lost when it was translated in the nineteenth century. Learning that his people were nicknamed angels, it seemed a fun theme to incorporate into the series: Prince Charlie’s Angels.
I do hope you enjoy reading this book and the rest of the series as much as I have enjoyed writing it!
Best wishes,
Eliza
One
Inverness, Scottish Highlands
Late June, 1745
Wind whipped at Jenny Mackintosh’s hair as she raced for her life to escape from the English. She and her small band of men pushed their mounts to the limit, flying across the moors, the crack of pistols cutting the night air behind them. At any moment, she’d feel the sting of a bullet in her back.
What else should a rebel recruiting an army expect?
Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her back, and her hands trembled against the leather straps of the reins.
“To the forest,” she called to her five partners in rebellion following behind her, but her words were lost in the noisy thrum of pounding hooves against the earth. Leaning to the right, she urged her horse down a slope, over a boulder, and onto an unmarked path that led toward the forest, hoping they’d lose the redcoats.
The shouts of the dragoons behind them were fainter now, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger.
She burst through the trees, and a twig caught in her hair, the wrench stinging her scalp. Still, she didn’t cry out.
Once she knew they were out of sight, she reined in her horse, her heart racing. Jenny tugged the twig from her hair and threw it on the ground, wishing it were the bloody English so she could stomp them into dust as easily. She stroked her mount’s mane, patting his neck in thanks for the hard gallop, then reached up to rub at the tightness in her own.
They waited in silence, their breaths growing slower as the minutes ticked by. The shots had ceased the moment she and her soldiers had been able to break away from their enemies’ sight, but the pounding of the horses’ advance still thundered in her ears—or was that her heart?
Jenny focused her gaze through the foliage and waited for the dragoons to catch up. They’d only been caught once, a few months ago. Jenny had escaped with her life that time, but there were several others who hadn’t been as lucky. King George, the usurper, had sent his dragoons to apprehend anyone with sympathies to Prince Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Great Britain. King George had given Charles the moniker the Young Pretender, and his father, the Old Pretender.
Prince Charlie’s father, King James, had named him Regent of Great Britain, and regent was the name under which she and other Jacobite supporters were bent on returning the prince to the throne. King George would be tossed back to Germany where he had been born and raised and should have remained.
Despite the brightness of tonight’s moon that allowed them a good view of the road, the brambles and pines were thick, veiling her and her men’s massive horses from their enemies. When the first half dozen redcoats rode past, they did not see the Scots hidden just a few feet away. They barely slowed, too busy chasing phantoms.
As soon as they passed, Jenny and her men let out a collective sigh, only to freeze as several more dragoons rounded the bend and headed right for them. Eyes wide as the moon above, she watched them advance. The gold buttons on their muted red coats glinted in the moonlight, as did the muzzles of their muskets, their pistols, and the hilts of the thin swords at their hips.
Their dress was so different from that of the Scots. They wore starched white breeches, where her men were allowed freedom of movement in their plaids. Stiff tricorns covered their heads, while the Scots wore soft woolen caps that were broad and flat on the top. When Scots were feeling particularly rebellious, they pinned white rosette cockades on them in support of the Stuart line.
The redcoat leader issued an unintelligible order, and for a second, she thought the dragoon was staring right at her. Would he order his men into the forest? Her lungs burned for air, but she couldn’t risk even the tiniest sound be heard by these bloodthirsty monsters.
She touched her pistol, prepared to shoot if needed, but then he was pointing and shouting for his men to continue down the road. Jenny watched them kick their horses into a gallop, clouds of dust following in their wake.
Only once the dust settled did Jenny allow herself a moment to exhale. Despite the risk she was taking every time she came out here, there was no way she’d stop her nightly missions. The fate of the entire Mackintosh clan was now Jenny’s responsibility. She would not let her brother’s betrayal destroy her clan.
Which was exactly why, on this night—while her brother was busy with his nose up an Englishman’s arse—she found herself a few miles from an English garrison and several hours from home.
For three generations, her people had been trying to reclaim their country. Jenny, along with all the other Jacobites, had a restless need to do something to aid in bringing the rightful heir home to Scotland. Soon there would be a war, and she knew on which side she’d stand—with Bonnie Prince Charlie, the regent of Scotland. She’d made a vow a lifetime ago, it seemed, to support the Stuart line, and she planned to keep it—to follow in her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and honor the warriors who had died for the Jacobite cause. Even if it meant going sword to sword with her brother in battle, a notion that made her stomach sour. At least she was faster and more agile than he was and had bested him more than once in the past because of that.
“We should turn back, my lady.”
Jenny glowered at the shadowy figure on the mount beside her. Her cousin Dirk was always with her on these nightly raids. “What did I tell ye about calling me my lady when we’re out?” She glanced back at the road, her hand on her pistol, ready to strike should a redcoat suddenly leap out in front of her.
“Apologies, Mistress J.”
Jenny couldn’t help but smile at the affectionate moniker her people had given her. It took away her title of lady and also didn’t give away her given name, keeping her identity shrouded in secrecy. It’d only been a few months since she’d taken up her most sacred duty, and in that time, she’d gained a reputation as a leader.
“We canna go back now,” Jenny said. “My brother will return any day now, and there is every chance Hamish will allow the English to billet at Cnàmhan Broch. That’ll be a death sentence for me, for ye, and for all loyal to the true and rightful Scottish king.” Jenny shuddered at the thought of dozens of redcoats flooding her family’s castle.
The bastards had already done enough damage.
Dirk shifted uneasily in his seat. “Aye, but—”
“Cousin, ye grew up with me,” Jenny interrupted, running her fingertips over the initials carved into the hilt of her broadsword: JM—Jon Mackintosh. Her voice grew hoarse with emotion. “Ye were beside me listening to all the tales of our clansmen fighting for the Jacobites.” Both her father and her uncle had joined the rebellion some thirty years before. Labeled traitors, they had been hunted down and eventually executed by English loyalists and their Scottish supporters when she was still a young lass. “We have to honor them.”
Dirk sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. It was the same conversation they’d had many times. “But not by getting yourself killed. Ye ken the danger of being so near the Sassenach garrison.” Dirk grumbled something that sounded a lot like he was warding off the devil, a sentiment echoed by the four men grumbling behind him.
Jenny couldn’t blame them. The English dragoons were known for their brutality. Raping, pillaging, and destroying anything on a whim. That was precisely why she had to stand against her brother. How could she wait idly by and let him consign his people to a lifetime of terror? He might have pledged his loyalty to the King George loyalists, but that didn’t mean the bloody devils would ever treat them as equals.
“If we’re caught, Mistress, they’ll not hesitate to shoot us.”
Jenny inhaled deeply through her nose. The dragoons had been searching for her for going on two years now, and what Dirk said was true. Even still, she put on a confident front. “We’ll just pretend we’re looking for a wee one gone missing. They canna fault us for being out late in search of a bairn.” They’d used that tactic before.
Dirk nodded, but the air was thick with unspoken words. She knew he wanted tonight’s recruitment to come to an end, but she was the leader of these warriors, and she would make that call when she was ready. And something in her gut told her it was not yet the right moment.
“One more village.” Dirk rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “But if there is any danger…”
“We’ll turn back, I promise.”
“We trust ye, Jenny. And we believe in the cause as much as ye do,” Dirk reassured her.
If her brother had any idea what she was doing, at best she’d be locked in a dungeon, and at worst she’d be hanging from the ramparts for the crows to eat. The soldiers would suffer certain death, and her mother would be devastated. Already her son’s betrayal was enough to have her mother take to her bed and rarely come out.
“I’ll never be able to thank ye enough.” She reached over and patted Dirk on the shoulder and then eyed the men behind them. “And when the regent is on the throne, we’ll see that every risk was worth it.”
“Ye needna thank us for being loyal Scots,” Dirk said.
“Aye,” the four men murmured in unison.
Jenny straightened in her saddle, the creak of the leather mingling with the sounds of insects and the distant birds of prey. “All the same, I’m grateful to have ye by my side. The prince regent will land in Scotland in less than a month. The more soldiers we can gather, the more coin and weapons we present him, the better.”
She glanced at Dirk and then the men behind him. In addition to the other two Mackintosh warriors, tonight they’d only gathered two new recruits—the lowest number of any night since she’d started a few months before. And the coin they’d gathered was barely enough to buy a meat pie and ale at the local tavern.
The last village she wanted to visit tonight happened to be closest to the English garrison. Most of the men and women who lived there had been treated cruelly by the soldiers. There had to be at least half a dozen men she could sway to the cause, if for no other reason than the fresh rounds of arrests that had taken place just that morning.
Jenny returned her attention to the road. Not a single redcoat had passed in at least a half hour. “Are ye ready?”
“Lead the way, Mistress.”
Jenny grinned, excitement thrumming in her veins. She had no doubt she was doing the right thing. Soon she’d be bowing before the regent, a leader who could oust the English from Scotland for good. And then she’d look into her brother’s eyes, and instead of executing him for his betrayal, she’d sway him back to the cause. Wishful thinking, aye.
For now, she needed to focus on what lay ahead. The risks she took could get her killed, and yet she seized them boldly. Fear had no place in a rebellion. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. But one had to master their fear. And if there was one thing she’d been good at since she was a bairn, it was taking control over anything that scared her.
“We ride.” Jenny took the reins in both hands as she nudged her heel into her mount’s flank.
* * *
“Bloody hell,” Toran Fraser muttered under his breath.
It was nearing midnight as he stood in the center of the English garrison’s courtyard, working hard to hide his alarm. His cousin Archie stood among the condemned. The men had been dragged behind horses, hands shackled in front of them, and in the torchlight it was clear they’d been viciously beaten. Each of them was still dressed in his traditional Highland attire—kilts, sh
irts, waistcoats, boots. But they’d been stripped of their weapons.
And in mere moments, they’d be stripped of their lives. This was not what was supposed to happen. Aye, he’d intended for the rebels to be caught…but executed? He’d been naive to believe Boyd when he’d said he’d use the men to extort information. Served him right for trusting a bloody Englishman.
Of course Archie recognized Toran. The surprise and hope in his gaze quickly turned to outright disgust when he realized that Toran was standing beside the very English Captain Thomas Boyd.
Toran shifted uneasily. He, too, wore a kilt in Fraser colors. Boyd believed him a loyal deserter, taking up the position his father had vacated upon death, but understood Toran had to play the part of a Scotsman to gather information to hand over. Even so, if Archie let slip that he’d just spoken with Toran about Boyd’s plan to trap the rebels, then he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the English captain. It was a careful line to walk—having betrayed one allegiance meant that his new one would always be suspicious, and with good reason.
But family was family despite allegiances. Toran followed in his father’s footsteps, solidly on the side of King George’s government, while some of his family had chosen to support the Young Pretender, Prince Charles.
Toran had cautioned Archie to stay out of the rebels’ planned break-in, refusing to relay how he knew of Boyd’s plan. His cousin had obviously ignored his warnings. Maybe Archie had not believed him, or maybe he’d warned the men that it was a trap, and they’d devised a new foolish plan. It didn’t matter. The English had won this fight.
Bloody hell!
The only reason that his cousin was imprisoned at all was due to the information Toran had seeded for the rebels, who believed him to be one of them, about the garrison’s weaknesses.
Archie was knocked to his knees by a boot to the back of the leg. His gaze never left Toran, silently declaring him a traitor to his country and his own family. Could Toran really stand there and watch his cousin be hanged?
Disgust at himself made Toran’s insides burn. He cleared his throat. The knot of his neckerchief grew tighter and tighter, cutting off his air supply. Never once since he’d made his choice had Toran regretted dancing on this double-edged sword. His mother had been sacrificed by Jacobite rebels she’d trusted. How could Toran not try to seek vengeance in her name?