by Eliza Knight
“I am Captain Thomas Boyd. And you are?”
This too she’d practiced. “Mary Mackintosh.”
Behind him, redcoats were putting her provisions into their saddlebags.
“We thank you, Mrs. Mackintosh, for your hospitality,” Captain Boyd said, his eyes glittering with malice.
Go away, she wanted to shout. Go back to England, or suffer the end of my sword! But she remained silent, managing a bob of her head, and bit the tip of her tongue.
“You have not happened to see two prisoners run by, have you?”
Jenny shook her head, not commenting on the fact that he’d already asked her if she’d seen them. “Nay, I assure ye, I’d not have been tending my gardening all alone if I’d known there were fugitives running around.” Ye bloody bastard.
Captain Boyd narrowed his eyes. “But you must realize the fugitives are everywhere. Jacobites swarm the Highlands like rats.”
He was trying to get a rise out of her. “Aye, we’re infested, ’tis true. But no’ so on Mackintosh lands. Our laird doesna tolerate it.”
“Good. If you should notice anything, be certain to report it to us.”
“I will, of course, Captain.” She did her best to sound obliging and not like she wanted to shove her dagger in his eyeball.
“I’m certain we’ll cross paths again, Mrs. Mackintosh.”
“Why’s that?” She couldn’t help but ask, with an innocent cock of her head.
“My men like your bannocks.” But the way he leered, his eyes roving over her breasts, Jenny knew that the oatcakes were not what he was referring to.
She pasted a smile on her lips. “I shall bake extra next time.”
He raised a brow in challenge, and she feared for a moment he might demonstrate exactly what he’d meant by touching her again. Her breasts still ached from when he’d squeezed. There would be bruises.
Thankfully, he ordered his men to move out.
Dinna collapse. Dinna fall. Dinna move. Jenny remained in place until the last of their shadows had disappeared in the distance before she rushed back inside the croft. The dragoons had tossed a cot against the far wall, perhaps looking for someone underneath.
“They’ve gone,” she said to the air.
Several loud sighs could be heard from beneath her feet. Thanks be to the heavens, for if even one of the dragoons had decided to stick his sword through the floorboards to see how far the ground beneath went, they would have all been murdered.
“We’ll give it a half hour and then ye can come out,” she said. And then she could take off this awful gown. In the meantime, she prepared a soup for the men when they emerged. They’d be starving, no doubt, but not her. She still felt like vomiting.
Some months back, Jenny had lain in that same hole beneath the floorboards so she would know exactly what it felt like as the floor was put in place and the rushes spread over. Very little light crept in, and every footstep was loud, creaking on the wood, the dust from the walker’s boots falling into one’s eyes, and every sound echoed. If one were to sneeze, belch, or pass wind, it would be heard. That was perhaps the hardest part, holding in every bodily function when one’s instinct was to let it out.
Every man was made to endure pit training when brought to the croft. She certainly hoped that Archie had been able to endure it without the practice, and Toran, she hoped he had been tormented a bit by it. This was not the first time they’d been visited by dragoons, but it was the first time they’d been so unprepared. There was only one reason for that—Toran MacGillivray or Fraser, whoever he was. He’d distracted her, else she would have sent out scouts to search the area after having found that ax mark.
Still, she wasn’t so certain that the tree had been marked by dragoons. Why would they?
Blast it all, but Jenny could beat herself up with that question all day if she allowed herself the indulgence.
The scent of the cooking soup, normally pleasant, started to make her queasy, and she was glad for the need to step outside for fresh air. She paused a moment to inhale before heading to the coop to see if John had managed to snare a chicken to add to dinner. The sun overhead was shadowed by clouds rolling in, as if mirroring her mood. Jenny paused for a moment, staring up at the sky and watching as small white puffs of clouds blew with the gentle breeze. They’d come so close to being caught. Too close. She wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a ragged breath.
Not until that moment did she realize her heart was still pounding right out of her chest. How had Captain Boyd and his dragoons not heard it? How had he not felt it, with his hands on her? Or had he taken pleasure in her fear?
Away from the men, she sank to her knees, pressed her hands flat to the earth, and retched until there was nothing left in her stomach. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and sat back on her heels. Her throat burned, head pounded. She closed her eyes briefly, dragging in clean air, before they popped back open in fear of the return of the English.
“We’re safe,” she whispered to no one. But she knew that whatever safety they might have at the moment, it would be fleeting.
In the coop, she found John holding a prepared chicken in one hand and his sword in the other.
“They’re gone,” she said and took the plucked chicken. “Thank ye.”
“I hate that ye make me hide.”
“I know.”
“Dirk will be furious.”
She rounded on him, snapping before she could stop herself. “Dirk is not in charge here, I am, and ye’ll do well to remember it.”
Immediately she felt contrite. Her skin still tingled with anger and pent-up nerves from her encounter with the dragoons, with Boyd. And she was glad that John had been out of sight and hadn’t seen what was happening. He would have been waiting for her signal, a whistle, and she was glad he’d stayed put even when she’d screamed.
“Aye, Mistress,” John said. “We all respect ye as our leader. Ye’re braver than anyone I know. I just—”
“Dinna say it, John,” Jenny warned. The men so often felt the need to tell her they wanted to protect her. She understood their chivalrous need but wished her sex never came into play. “We protect each other.”
“Aye.”
“Now let’s go tell the men they can come out.”
As they crossed the muddy yard, made worse by the horses’ hooves, Jenny scanned the woods and road for any sign of dragoons. All was quiet. She shivered all the same. Mac appeared from around the corner of the croft, and one look from him said that while John hadn’t seen, Mac had observed all. He nodded in respect and held open the door for her.
Inside the croft, the herbs and vegetables were boiling, and she dropped the cleaned, plucked chicken into the pot to cook.
With enough time having passed that it seemed safe for the men to come out of hiding, she nodded to John, who pulled back the rush floor covering.
“Ye can come out now,” she said while he pulled up the floorboards, revealing the men below.
One by one they crawled out of the space, stretching the kinks from their bodies. Five. The three men who’d been in the loft, one of her other guards, and Archie MacGillivray-Fraser.
There was one person notably missing.
“Where is Toran?” she demanded of Archie.
The man hung his head for just a moment, before looking her in the eyes. “He left, Mistress.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And left ye to spy like any good Fraser?”
Archie’s face turned red at that, and his jaw muscle ticked. He clearly didn’t like being called a traitor.
“With all due respect, Mistress, I’m no’ one of those Frasers.”
“And Toran?”
Archie straightened. “His family is in danger. He saw an opportunity to go to them and took it.” She didn’t miss that Archie had not answered the question.
“Who and how?” she demanded. If he was really one of her men now, then he would answer the question.
“His wee brother and sister. Their mother was…” He paused, his throat bobbing, and his eyes narrowing. “She passed. And so has their father. With our escape from prison, the dragoons will retaliate.”
“They know he has a family?”
“Aye. They know a great deal about many.”
“They do seem to keep a good measure on all the people in the Highlands, do they no’?”
“Toran told me once they’ve had pictures drawn so they might recognize rebel leaders and arrest them should they ever be found.”
Jenny gritted her teeth. Did that mean they had pictures of her? Was that why Captain Boyd had so…boldly taunted her?
“Will he be returning?” Jenny had to ask, for whether Toran returned would determine his future.
“Not likely, Mistress.”
“Perhaps ye’d like to go with your cousin.”
“Nay, Mistress.”
“I canna trust ye.”
“I will endeavor to prove I’m loyal to the Jacobite cause.”
Jenny frowned. The man appeared sincere, but so had Toran. “I’ll allow ye to stay with us, but ye’re not to be alone. Any sign that ye’ve betrayed us and I will put a bullet in your head myself.”
Archie nodded. “Ye have my word.”
The dragoons had already forced her to make the choice to abandon their safe house come nightfall, but Toran’s departure solidified the need to move quickly. Dirk would want to send a search party after him, to bury Toran and all he knew before he could reach his destination. But if there truly were two young ones who needed him…she wasn’t so certain she could allow that. Damn the man for confounding her.
To one of the men who’d come from the hole, she gave orders to rush to the castle, unseen, and tell Dirk that poachers had been seen in the forest—their code for needing to vacate the croft.
“Prepare the wagons. We canna stay here.”
“Where will we go?” John asked.
Jenny studied each and every one of the men, thought of all those across the moors who were hiding in plain sight, eager to fight for Bonnie Prince Charlie, eager to get the bloody English off their lands.
“We’re going home.”
Five
Crouched behind a tree, Toran watched two dragoons who’d dismounted from their horses to take a piss. One shouted a jest over his shoulder to the other, who laughed as he gave the punch line. Something about a Scottish woman and three dragoons. Toran itched to grab for his dirk, to take aim and land the point in the center of the bastard’s head. For though he told a jest, the way they both laughed at the brutality of it, Toran was certain they’d have participated.
Alas, he needed a horse.
It was now or never. Steal the horse and make away at neck-breaking speed. Or steal both horses and let one go far enough away that they couldn’t catch up with him. Or kill or otherwise detain both of them, which he could easily do.
Two dead dragoons couldn’t tell tales.
Decision made, he pulled his dirk from inside his sleeve and another from his boot and took aim. He tossed first to the right, the thunk and cry startling the other man. But he didn’t move fast enough before Toran had sunk another one in him.
He removed his blades from the bodies, dragged them beneath some gorse bushes, and then searched their belongings for any clues as to Boyd’s plans or information he could use to barter for his siblings’ lives should the need arise. Sewn into the lining of one dragoon’s coat was a coded message, which Toran stuffed into his sporran. Once he’d made it Dùnaidh, he would try to decipher it.
Finished with his search, Toran took both of the dragoons’ horses and rode away at a clip that was only slightly slower than breakneck speed. He’d already wasted enough time on foot.
He was at least another hour’s ride from his great-uncle’s castle at Dùnaidh, and every second was agony until he finally spotted the turrets over the trees. But even the turrets weren’t as much of a relief as seeing the gray chimney smoke that signaled someone was in residence. He’d been fearful of arriving back to a pile of rubble. It wouldn’t be the first time the English had razed a house when they deemed the inhabitants to be traitors to King George. The Duke of Cumberland, youngest son of King George, had been given full authority over the king’s army and allowed his dragoons to run rampant in Scotland doing as they pleased.
Was Boyd waiting for him inside? Had he left the croft and headed straight for Dùnaidh? He’d have had enough time, considering how long Toran had been on foot. Had Boyd convinced his great-uncle to turn his nephew over to the English?
At one time, Toran would have said nay, but he knew his relation better than that. The man had been double-dealing for more than thirty years.
Ballocks…
Whether Boyd was there or not, had turned his great-uncle against him or not, it didn’t matter. Toran had no choice but to push forward. Camdyn and Isla were counting on him. And as soon as his chief found out that Toran had been the one responsible for the deaths of so many Frasers, to have betrayed Boyd while he was at it, he would do everything in his power to bury Toran—even if that meant using Camdyn and Isla as bait.
Toran urged the horses faster toward Dùnaidh, his uncle and Boyd be damned.
Just before he broke through the trees to ride across the heather-covered moor, he paused, searching the area for clues that the dragoons had already arrived. The grasses did not look more trampled than usual, the earth not turned into a hundred divots created by hooves.
When he was certain there were no English in sight, he slowly exited the forest, not wanting to alert the men on the wall with the rapid pace his pounding heart demanded.
Dùnaidh was not an overly large castle. The tower keep was only five stories high. It boasted seven chambers on the upper floors and a great hall above the kitchens. A wall surrounded the property, and within the wall were the stables and other outbuildings. A small village surrounded the wall, of which nothing seemed out of sorts.
As he drew closer, the guard on the wall shouted down, recognizing Toran even with the setting sun. The gates were opened, and Toran was welcomed into the bailey by men he’d known since he was a lad. He searched the faces for his uncle, but he wasn’t there—and neither were Camdyn and Isla, who normally shoved their way through the throng to greet him.
“Where is his lordship?” Toran asked.
“I expect he’s inside, sir.”
Toran nodded. “And Camdyn? Isla?”
“Same.”
Toran handed off the two horses. The men looked at the animals suspiciously. Though he’d gotten rid of the dragoons’ personal effects, there was no mistaking the English saddles with King George’s crest carved into the leather.
“Destroy everything but the horses. Change their shoes to be rid of the King George crest and repurpose the iron for shot.”
“Aye, sir.” The men were used to such requests, given his uncle’s way of life. And his own.
Toran didn’t waste another minute before rushing inside. The doors to the great hall were open, and voices could be heard inside, but before he reached it, a hand snaked out of the dark, wrapping firmly around his forearm.
“Toran.” He whipped his head to the side, recognizing the grizzled, shadowed face of his cousin Simon. “We need to talk.”
“Not now.”
Simon gripped him harder. “Aye. Right now. I know what ye did. And my da knows too.”
Toran felt his blood running cold. Was he too late already? But instead of reacting, he yanked his arm from his cousin’s grasp. “Ye know nothing.”
Simon laughed, the sound always reminding Toran of a dagger scraping against stone. “Ye’re just like your mother.”
Toran was swift to react,
wrapping his fist in Simon’s shirt and slamming him back against the wall. “Dinna speak of my mother.”
Simon’s lips peeled away from his teeth in an ugly smile. “Traitor,” he whispered.
But to even suggest that Toran was a traitor when Simon and his own father had made a life from doing such was absolutely ridiculous. His cousin always had been one to shoot off at the mouth when he shouldn’t. Which could only mean one thing—he did know something.
Toran shoved his cousin back, letting go of his shirt and raking him with a look of disgust. “Watch your back, Simon.”
“Is that a threat, Cousin?”
Toran didn’t bother to respond. He backed away slowly to the great hall, where he found his uncle at the head of the table, Camdyn and Isla flanking him along with several other Frasers. Slowly his uncle raised his glittering gaze, the threats Simon had issued in the corridor clear in his uncle’s eyes. Toran braced for an attack, or men to rush him from the dark corners, but none came—yet that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
“So, ye’ve returned.” His uncle sounded surprised, but the satisfied grin on his face only set Toran’s nerves on edge.
“Toran!” his sister called as she and their brother pushed out of their chairs. Isla bounded for him, and Camdyn walked as stoically as any adolescent on the verge of manhood might.
Toran tugged Isla into his arms, the impact of her body making him waver. He held her tight and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She resembled their mother so much it made him ache—auburn hair threaded with gold and eyes the color of the sea. She was taller than their mother had been by several inches, taking her height from their father.
“I see ye’ve suffered greatly in my absence,” he teased, tugging lightly on her braided hair.
“Aye, ye were gone too long, Brother. Another week and we’d have forgotten ye existed,” she taunted right back, giving him a tug of his locks in turn.