by Eliza Knight
Jenny’s expression brightened with interest, and she leaned just ever so slightly forward. “Show me.”
Toran pulled from his frock coat the scrap of paper that he’d drawn on the day before using supplies he’d pilfered from the men in the croft, and he handed her the folded bit.
As Jenny unfurled the scrap, taking in the etchings, her shoulders relaxed, and he felt himself sliding effortlessly into her good graces. Excellent.
“This will be of much help to us,” she said, smiling up at him. “Thank ye for entrusting this to me.”
“Aye. And I can help ye get inside when the time comes.”
“That will be most helpful.”
Mission accomplished.
Three
Jenny sat across from Annie at the small dining table in her solar where she preferred to take meals. The sun had barely risen, and the two of them had only just returned from their midnight visit to the croft.
The room was small and cozy, the wood floors softened by a rich woven carpet, the stone walls covered in rose-and-gold silken wallpaper. It had been this way for as long as she could remember. A few landscape paintings hung among the portraits of the Mackintosh ladies—her mother, grandmother, aunts. All elegant and beautiful. Sitting in her day gown, her hair in a simple plait, purple smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes, Jenny did not feel as elegant. Annie, too, was dressed more casually this morning, in her riding habit since she planned to leave shortly for home. Jenny was going to miss not having her for company.
“Will ye go to the croft today or wait until tonight?”
“I ought to rest, but if I do, Mama will think I’m ill,” Jenny said with a short laugh. “’Tis probably best I go back. I need to speak with Dirk now that I have the map.”
“He is not as bad as ye thought, this Toran MacGillivray.”
“Nay, it would seem not. He is proving himself to be an asset. I’m sure I would have been able to come across a map of the garrison at some point, but now I dinna have to guess at when.”
“Still, be cautious.”
“As I always am.”
Annie smiled. “The brave and rebellious Mistress J.”
“The fearless and iron-stomached Doctor Annie.” They shared a laugh, and then Jenny pushed up from the table to embrace her friend. “Write to me.”
“I will.”
“And I’ll see ye soon. I’m due for a visit.”
“Aye. My brothers will be glad to see ye. Especially Graham.”
“I’m no’ marrying Graham.”
Annie laughed. “I ken, but I dinna think he does yet.”
Jenny smiled and hugged her friend again.
“Go on, now, back to your croft, back to the dangerously handsome soldier,” Annie teased. “I’ll send word when I reach home.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “I dinna think he is handsome.”
“Perhaps ye’re not feeling well?” Annie held a hand to her forehead and tsked.
Jenny batted her hand away. “I’m perfectly fine. Go on with ye. And thank ye for all of your help.”
“I’d do anything to help the cause. I only wish I could help more.”
“Someday I fear ye will.”
“We must all do our part.”
When Annie had gone, Jenny pulled the map from her bodice, running her fingers over the ink-etched lines, memorizing the way in, the corridors, the Xs that marked where the guards were most likely to stand on watch. The map was detailed, much more so than she would have expected from a prisoner. Then again, she was grateful Toran seemed to have memorized the entire fortress.
If she was going to go to the croft, now was the best time to make her escape, before her mother woke. Jenny hurried through the tunnel, running through the motions of changing her clothes and exiting through the tunnel. As she crossed into the forest that stood between the castle and the croft, she paused at the sight of fresh ax marks in a tree.
What in the world? She reached for the marks, running her hands along the newly cut bark, feeling the freshness of the grooves. Instantly, Jenny was on high alert. No one was supposed to be cutting trees here—which it didn’t appear anyone had. Only great gashes in the trunk.
She listened for unusual sounds that would signal the intruder’s whereabouts. The rush of birds from branches. A squirrel scurrying up a tree and out of sight. The slight whistle of the wind rustling tree limbs. She sniffed, taking in all the scents around her. Pine, oak, grass, scents of animals, and the freshly chopped bark.
No flames. No cooking. None of the foul stenches of outlaws that seemed to permeate for miles.
So why would one chop wood, if not to fell a tree or light a fire?
She didn’t like that someone had been on this route. Nothing else gave a hint of passersby, outlaws, or—worse still—dragoons. Even so, she pulled one of her daggers from her boot, clutching it in her hand as she continued silently, stopping every so often to listen.
With her instincts on high alert, every little sound had her jerking toward it. If not for her tight control, several forest animals might have been skewered, along with several branches and even the occasional gust of wind.
The trek to the croft took nearly twice as long as normal as she doubled back a few times, just to be certain she wasn’t being followed.
She spied the front of the croft in the distance and two shadowed figures moving about the outside. Jenny edged closer, keeping her steps silent. At all times she had two men on duty to guard the dwelling. To remain inconspicuous, the men on guard acted as crofters going about their normal daily chores and duties.
However, at night this was a little more difficult. Her men were instructed to sit or hide in their watch posts, not walk around.
The closer she drew, however, the less fearful she was, for she recognized the guards. Jenny quickened her pace, no longer worried about stumbling on dragoons.
At her approach, one of the men looked up from chopping wood and nodded. John, she recognized, touched the tip of his cap. “Mistress J.”
Jenny nodded in turn. “Any news?”
“All quiet.”
“There was an ax mark in a tree about halfway between here and Cnàmhan Broch. Were any of the men chopping any of the trees beyond the croft border?”
John wrinkled his brow and shook his head. “Nay.”
Jenny didn’t grimace on the outside, but she most certainly did on the inside. This was not good. “Keep your eye out. I saw nothing else, but ’tis a warning all the same.”
“Aye, Mistress.”
Jenny left him to go inside, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the crofting house. The two small windows had the curtains pulled back to let in light, but that didn’t help much. She stood for a moment, making out the shapes of the ladder leading upstairs, the table and chairs, the long trestle table where Archie had lain previously.
The men stood near the hearth with cups of ale in their hands.
“Mistress. Would ye care for some ale?” Toran asked from where he stood near the hearth.
The drink was likely to make her sleepy, but she didn’t want to refuse and come off rude now that they’d formed somewhat of a truce the night before. “Aye, thank ye.”
Toran pushed away from the hearth, limber muscles fluid as he poured her a drink.
She raised her cup, taking a small sip.
Archie gulped down the liquid and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Your servant, the healer, she was bonnie.”
Jenny didn’t reply. What a laugh Annie would get if she heard herself—a noble-born lass—being called a servant. Jenny decided she would be more flattered about being called bonnie.
“Will she be back?” Toran asked.
A spike of jealousy, very unlike her, gave Jenny an unpleasant feeling in her chest. “Not likely.”
Archie
drained his cup and then bit into a piece of jerky Toran passed him, a wrinkle of disappointment on his brow. “I’ll be back. Need to attend a private matter.” And then he was gone, leaving her alone with Toran.
“Did ye have a chance to study the map?” he asked, sitting down at the table.
Jenny took the seat opposite him. “Aye. It is well laid out. Ye’ve an incredible memory.”
He smiled. “Aye. My mind seems to paint a portrait with my memories.”
“That is verra lucky.” Jenny admired those with the ability, and she’d not met many.
Toran leaned back in his chair, studying her through hooded lashes. “I’m lucky ye found us when ye did.”
“Ye seem clever enough to have found an escape once. I’m sure ye could have done so again.”
He shrugged and took a leisurely sip of his ale. “All the same. A question, Mistress.”
“Aye?”
“Ye know of our clan. When do we get to know of yours?”
Jenny mulled over his inquiry for a beat. “In due time.”
“Come now, I’ve given ye the map. Having done so is certain to get me killed should King George supporters find out.”
“Ye’re no stranger to putting your life in danger.”
“And neither are ye.”
“Are ye suggesting that with ye, I am?”
He chuckled and leaned forward, his blue eyes mesmerizing as he locked them on hers. “Quite the opposite. Listen, ye clearly need more from me. So I’ll share something else.”
She waited, barely blinking.
“The Fox is double-dealing.”
Jenny frowned. “Everyone knows that.”
“Aye. But not everyone knows he’s got a spy within his own clan.”
“And how do ye know?” She crossed her legs beneath the table, finding it hard not to fidget with the excitement of such new information.
Toran leaned even closer across the table until she could make out the flecks of darker blue near his pupils. “Because I met the bastard at the garrison.”
“Who was he?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Another Fraser. I didna catch his name, but I’d know him as well as I know my own reflection.”
Jenny uncrossed her legs. “Because of your ability to paint a portrait from memory.”
“Exactly.” He refilled her mug of ale. “Where do we go from here, Mistress? A raid? Straight to sacking the garrison?”
“We’re not quite ready yet.”
“What have we left to do?”
“Gather more men, more weapons.”
“What about more women? Are ye the only soldier?” While his face remained passive with only a slight hint of interest, his body was tense.
“There are other female recruits.”
“Any MacGillivrays?”
“Nay.”
His gaze sharpened, and she felt a prickle of warning racing over her spine.
“None at all?”
“Have ye one in mind?”
He shrugged. “I’m surprised. I’d heard there was.”
“Ah.” Toran had heard right, but she wasn’t ready to share that bit of the rebels’ painful history just yet. “I’m sorry to disappoint ye.”
Toran took a long sip of his ale. “Perhaps we can rectify that.”
“The women in my forces will fight, Toran. They are not to be used as typical army camp women.”
Toran pressed a mocking hand to his chest. “Och, ye wound me. Have I proven myself to be such a rogue?”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “That has yet to be seen.”
Archie returned then, breaking the intense spell, and Toran sat back in his chair, winking at her conspiratorially.
“What did I miss?” Archie asked, a great smile on his face. He was clearly the less intense of the two cousins and generally seemed like a cheerful person.
“Mistress J was just expressing her interest in gaining access to the garrison.”
Archie stiffened, narrowing his eyes at Toran and then flashing them back at her. “Mistress, pardon my forwardness, but I think ’tis best to avoid that.”
“Why’s that?” Jenny asked.
“Because it’s full of the bloody English and traitor Scots.”
“And prisoners.”
“Aye, prisoners too,” Archie reluctantly agreed.
“Tell me, Archie, how did ye end up in English captivity?” Jenny twirled her cup slowly on the table, taking note of the way Toran stiffened across from her.
Archie grunted. “Bastards caught us when we were trying to break into the garrison.”
Jenny’s heart leapt. That was one thing she’d wanted to do but had not yet planned for, and now that she had the map it would be possible. The garrison was full of rebels she could recruit to her army.
Archie glanced at Toran, more unspoken words passed between them, and Jenny wanted to demand that they tell her exactly what the two men were hiding.
“We’d been given information on how to break in undetected,” Archie said, “in order to rescue some of our men. But the damned redcoats were waiting for us as soon as we’d breached the walls.”
Toran must have been one of the men they’d been trying to rescue, since he’d told her that he’d already been at the prison when his cousin arrived.
“We tried to fight. Some of the Fraser men didna make it. The rest were taken before Captain Boyd for execution. That’s when Toran… That’s when I first saw Toran.”
Jenny’s pulse leapt at the name Fraser. As surreptitiously as she could, she studied their plaid feileadh-beags. Because the kilts were covered in muck, it was hard to discern the woven plaid colors, not that they were likely to identify their clans anyway. Half of the Fraser men were firm Jacobite supporters, but the other half were traitors, including their chief, a notorious spy whose throat she’d like to loop a rope around.
“Frasers?” She spoke slowly and, with her hands beneath the table, pulled one dagger from her sleeve, prepared to strike now that there was a chance the enemy was indeed within her midst, for Toran had said nothing of Frasers and Archie had said nothing of MacGillivrays.
All the blood in her body felt like it was draining down into her ankles as her mind raced. Was Toran an English supporter? If so, why had he offered her the map? Why had he told her about the double-dealing Fox and his traitorous clansman? Good God, was he the traitor and only toying with her? Why wait so long to launch an attack if he was? They’d been here within her men’s midst for two days.
Their entire mission could be compromised. She gripped the hilt of the dagger until her fingers tingled.
Toran interrupted Archie’s response, as she suspected might happen. “Aye, the MacGillivrays were working with the Frasers.”
She narrowed her eyes but did not look toward Toran, her gaze concentrated on Archie. He did not seem as adept at hiding his emotions. “Is that so?”
Archie nodded, seeming to have regained his composure, but he flicked his gaze toward Toran, and she didn’t miss that spark of anger flaring in his eyes. They were lying.
Quick as her reflexes allowed, Jenny leapt back from the table, arms whipping out to the sides. She pulled her pistol from her belt, pointing it at Toran, and held her dagger at Archie’s throat.
The bastard had tried to confuse her with talk of their similarities, with his allegiance and the map, sharing secrets, but it was just a trick. How could she have been so foolish? Why hadn’t she trusted her gut when it came to him? He couldn’t be trusted. But which parts were a ruse? Did it matter?
“Who are ye?” she demanded through gritted teeth, eyes now on Toran. “The truth this time.”
Toran had barely moved since she’d pulled her weapons, but Archie held up his hands in surrender.
“We are Jacobites, Mistress,�
�� Archie pleaded, but Toran only bristled. Gone was the conspiratorial comradery, replaced with that dark and dangerous energy she’d recognized in him the night they’d first met.
Within the next second Toran had leapt over the table, shoving Archie to the floor and out of her way and wrenching Jenny’s pistol from her grasp. She swung her blade, but he caught the edge with the butt of her pistol, sending a jarring buzz up her arm. Then he flattened her to the floor, pinning her in place.
The weight of him pressed her into the floorboards, her spine pushing painfully on a knot in the wood.
“Get the hell off me,” she said through clenched teeth. “Ye think ye’ll not be shot the moment one of my men steps through the door?”
Archie was pulling himself up from the floor, confusion and pain in his face.
“Not before I kill ye,” Toran ground out.
“Then we’d both be dead.”
“What the bloody hell are ye doing?” Archie growled. “Ye broke my rib, ye bloody bastard.”
“Saving your life! The wench had a knife at your throat.”
What Toran didn’t realize was that he was about to have a knife at his. She slowly reached for the blade in her boot. But Toran felt her move and slapped his hand over hers, his touch branding her calf. Before she could make another attempt or even protest, three thunks sounded on the side wall followed by two more.
“’Tis a warning,” she whispered.
All three of them silenced, listening, and then she could hear it. The sounds of horses, the chinks of the bridles. Men marching.
“Dragoons,” she hissed. “Ye’ve brought them to our verra door. I’m going to kill ye.”
“We didna, I swear it.” She actually believed Archie when he said the words, but Toran… He only looked like he wanted to kill her too.
“If ye dinna get off me, I will no’ be able to be rid of them, and as much as I’d like to toss your arse out there, I’d never willingly give up anyone to the redcoats, even if they are my enemy.”
Toran’s face contorted, a look of accusation on his face, but all he said was “How can ye get rid of them?”
“Ye’ll have to trust me.”