The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  “Why is that?” Jenny asked it softly, not wanting to pry too obviously. She had about a hundred questions she was ready to fire off at the lass but instead was trying to remain calm so as not to give the girl any alarm. She was sharp, and Jenny had to remember that.

  “I’m not certain how to explain it.” Isla shrugged. “Just felt…unsafe. People were always watching. Uncle always waiting. The air was so…I dinna know, thick, I suppose. Angry.”

  Jenny knew that feeling. “And Camdyn? Did he feel that way too?”

  “He was busy training.” She shrugged again. “We didna talk about it overmuch. But I know when Toran came home, things seemed to grow tenser. He was not even home an hour before it was time to go. Neither of us argued. Even Simon didna argue, and he and Toran fight at every chance. My brother said we were going to a safer place. A place run by a brave woman. Is that ye?”

  Jenny smiled. “’Hap ’tis.”

  “I think so.” Isla turned abruptly, causing Jenny to nearly rip out her hair with the brush, and she flung herself against her. “Thank ye.”

  Jenny hugged the lass back, stroking her hair as she imagined an older sister might do. “Ye’re welcome.” She patted her awkwardly then, pulling back slightly and feeling the need to leave to process what she’d learned. “Sweet dreams. If ye need anything, I’m only across the hall.”

  Jenny slipped from the room, entering her own chamber with a great sigh. If only there was a way for her to sneak into the men’s barracks without anyone the wiser.

  A sound from outside her window had Jenny easing over to pull back the curtain and peer down below. Well, it would appear that there was a God after all. What looked to be all the men from the barracks were standing in a circle in the center of the bailey, chanting. A fight, no doubt. She couldn’t see who it was, as the crowd pressed in around the combatants and not enough of the torchlight filtered through. Did it matter? They were probably fighting over a bet or a lost game of knuckles.

  But that meant the barracks were clear—and her desire to search through Toran’s bag was actually possible to fulfill.

  * * *

  Toran grinned at his opponent. He and Dirk had both discarded their shirts and boots, standing only in their trews. The men of the clan stood in a rocking circle around them, and somewhere in the courtyard someone beat against a drum. Simon was taking bets—having staked his odds on Dirk, the bastard.

  The fighting ring was illuminated by only the moon and less than a half dozen lit torches flickering in brackets on the walls.

  Dirk had the advantage of a few inches in height, though Toran himself was a tall man. He more than made up for those inches in muscle—Dirk was well built, but Toran was bigger. Stronger. And, he prayed, faster.

  The drum stopped abruptly, a signal that their fight was now to start.

  Dirk held up his hand and beckoned Toran forward. So, Dirk wanted to see Toran’s moves first and wouldn’t toss the first punch. Well, he didn’t fault him for that, for he’d been considering the same method. But now that he’d been invited to swing first, he couldn’t refuse without looking like a fool.

  Fine.

  Toran stepped to the left and then quickly to the right, throwing out his arm in a hard right hook. Dirk blocked him and parried with two quick jabs to Toran’s ribs. Toran gritted his teeth, letting out an oomph.

  Ballocks but that bloody hurt! The man had a damned hard hit. Toran retaliated with a jab up, hitting Dirk in the jaw hard enough to snap the man’s head back, stunning him for the few seconds it took to swing with his left, catching Dirk in the gut. The man stumbled back, shook his head, and rubbed at his jaw.

  “Good hit, Fraser.” Dirk smirked. “That’ll be the last one ye get.”

  Toran grinned. “Challenge accepted.”

  Dirk lunged forward. When Toran moved to block, the man ducked and spun to hit Toran in the back. Though his move was quick and tricky, Toran was ready for him and dodged the attempt with a laugh.

  “Ye’re quick on your feet for a big man,” Toran taunted.

  “I could say the same of ye, ye bloody bastard.”

  Toran only chuckled at the insult. Dirk was getting frustrated, made even more so when Toran repeated his move and was able to land an elbow in the man’s spine before he got out of the way. They whirled on each other, Toran landing a punch in Dirk’s belly while Dirk connected a hard punch to Toran’s cheek. They grappled with one another, punching until Toran tossed them both to the ground. He pinned Dirk in place only to find himself launched in the air. Dirk scrambled toward him, where he’d landed on his back.

  Leaping to his feet, Toran avoided being crushed by the weight of Dirk’s tackle. They circled each other again, nostrils flaring, bruises forming in the places they’d been able to land blows.

  Rather than feeling anger or even pain, Toran felt exhilarated. It’d been a long time since he’d been in a scrap like this. “Ye impress me, Dirk.”

  “Wish I could say the same. Wait a second, nay, I dinna.”

  Toran chuckled. “I know ye dislike me, and I dinna care. Your mistress likes me, and that’s all that matters.”

  That was enough of a goad. Dirk lunged forward, a meaty fist cracking Toran in the eye. But he’d been expecting that as well. He started to fall backward and grabbed hold of Dirk’s head. Toran brought his knee into the man’s nose, the sound of cartilage crunching and Dirk’s shout of pain a signal it was time to call it quits. No use in annihilating a man only to prove he was better—he’d already done that.

  Toran backed away, hands up. “No more, man,” he said. “I’ve already broken your nose. I can barely see out of my eye, and I’ll be pissing blood for days.”

  Dirk let out a bellow that was likely to wake the whole village. It certainly set the dogs howling, and old Dom came barreling into the circle to stand between the two men, barking his orders for them to cease fighting.

  Toran was ready to listen, but Dirk, blood dripping down his face, looked ready to tear Toran in two.

  “This is nay over.” Dirk spat blood onto the ground before stalking away, evidently not pleased even with Toran’s surrender.

  * * *

  The men’s barracks were barely lit. Shadows crawled across the ceiling, making it look like it would come crashing down on Jenny. She shouldn’t be in here—she should be outside putting a stop to the brawl. It had only taken one glance as she sprinted across the courtyard to see that the two men fighting inside the circle were Dirk and Toran.

  She’d paused only long enough to see that they appeared to be on equal footing before rushing into the unguarded barracks. As soon as the fight ended, the men would be going back inside to sleep and nurse their wounds, and she couldn’t be caught there.

  A fight between Toran and Dirk seemed inevitable. They’d been butting heads since the first night she’d spied the two Frasers on the road, and perhaps this was what they needed to knock it out of their heads and finally get along. At least she could hope. In the meantime, she stared around the barracks at the rows of cots, the clothes hung on the walls, the weapons stacked against the corners. How in blazes was she supposed to figure out which one belonged to Toran?

  Jenny walked slowly down the center of the long chamber, staring from cot to cot, hoping something would leap out at her and scream Toran. It wasn’t until she got to the very end that she saw what she was looking for—two satchels matching the one she’d seen in Isla’s room, each on a separate cot.

  Camdyn’s and Toran’s. She didn’t have time to contemplate whose was whose; she would just have to look through both. Jenny made quick work of the buckle on one, looking over her shoulder every few seconds as she riffled through the contents. Just clothes, a ball of soap, a…paper! She pulled out the folded scrap. A note? She opened the paper to find something quite unexpected instead.

  It was a drawing—a very indecent
drawing of a naked woman—scratched in coal. The woman was lying on her side, arms up over her head, her legs pressed together, but not hiding the dark triangle at her thighs. Her breasts were large, and her mouth parted in an O of pleasure. Even for someone as inexperienced as Jenny was, the woman looked to be in the throes of…rapture.

  A spark of something hot lit inside her. Not at the image itself but at the meaning behind it. What it would feel like to be in that same position, those same sensations whipping through her. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine it.

  “What are ye doing in here?”

  Jenny gasped, whipping around and tucking the picture behind her back, only to find herself face to naked chest with Toran. The muscles of his upper body glistened with sweat, and just looking at the dips and swells made her body ache. His nipples were small, dusky against his golden skin. Her eyes rose to his, taking in the trickle of blood down his cheek from where his brow was split in the brawl.

  “I…” She glanced behind him. No one else had come in yet.

  “What do ye have?” He nodded over her shoulder, but she shook her head, denying there was anything in her hands.

  “Let me see it.” He spoke softly, but there was an edge of danger in his tone.

  Jenny let the paper fall, hopefully to the floor where she could kick it under the cot, but she must have flinched, moved in some way that he saw, because in a flash he was catching it before it hit the floor and stepping out of her reach.

  Her mouth went dry as he regarded the image and then slowly raised those icy-blue eyes, one partially swollen, to meet her gaze. “Naughty lass. Were ye leaving me a present?”

  Jenny’s face felt like it was erupting into flames. She jutted her chin out. “’Tis not mine.”

  “And yet I found it in your hand.”

  “Nay, ye found it on the floor.”

  He tsked. “Where ye dropped it. Were ye going to put this on my pillow so I might dream of ye?”

  She gasped and stepped back, forgetting in her fluster that there was a cot there. She flopped down onto it, catching her balance before she fell all the way backward like the woman in the drawing.

  “I’ll have ye know, lass, that is not my cot.” He nodded to the one beside it. “So, if ye’d kindly fall on this one, I can show ye what it is ye desire.”

  His tone was teasing, almost mocking.

  Jenny stood up in a huff and shoved him in the chest as hard as she could—he barely moved. “I didna bring that drawing for ye.”

  “Then who did ye bring it for?” Oh, but why did his voice have to be so low, his brogue so enticing? The sound of it seemed to travel from her ears straight to every single part of her she wanted him to touch.

  “I didna bring it at all. It was in the bag.”

  “Oh? Ye were snooping.” He peered behind her at the opened satchel.

  She frowned. “’Tis my right.”

  “Ah. So it may be. Is this what ye were looking for, then?”

  “Nay.”

  He chuckled, stepping closer to her. Though there was still at least a foot of space between them, she felt caged in. The heat of his very naked chest seemed to leach out from him to her own skin, everything feeling suddenly so incredibly warm.

  “I need to go,” she said.

  “Ye probably should,” he drawled.

  “’Tis late. And ye need to…take care of your face.”

  He grinned. “What’s wrong with my face?”

  “Ye know.”

  “I’m glad ye care.”

  “I dinna care. Where is everyone else?”

  He stroked his hand feather-light over her arm, sending a thrill running through her. “Dirk walked off. The rest are still out in the bailey. Ye’d best hurry out of here else they find ye.”

  She took his advice, skirting around him and rushing for the exit.

  “And, Mistress,” he called after her, “’tis verra unsafe to go riffling through a man’s things. Death has come to some for less.”

  Jenny gritted her teeth, prepared to tell him exactly what she thought of his threat, but a few of the men had started to trickle inside. Their laughter died on their lips when they saw her, hopefully assuming she’d come for some important reason. But when they saw Toran standing at the end of the barracks, they ducked their heads and murmured formal greetings.

  Saints if she wasn’t mortified; she felt as though she could burst into flames. Through it all she raised her chin, meeting their gazes as she spoke.

  “See that our guests are not in need of medical attention,” she ordered Mac. “Where is Dirk?”

  “He’s gone to the loch, my lady, likely then off to see the healer.”

  She nodded, and more of the men filtered into the barracks, including Toran’s cousin Simon with a leering expression.

  “Mac, tell him I should like to see him first thing in the morning.”

  “Aye, my lady.” Her guard bowed, and Jenny got the hell out of there as fast as she could.

  Eight

  The dark of night, when all was quiet, was the time in which Toran found his thoughts the loudest, and tonight was not any different.

  He’d settled into his cot, surprised at its comfort. The bruises on his face and ribs had been dulled by the three drams of whisky he’d downed with the men who’d attempted to befriend him after Jenny had left the barracks. After he’d made certain she’d not found the coded message he’d yet to cipher. Sneaking past Simon was going to be an effort.

  Jenny… What had she been doing with that naked drawing? The idea of her looking at it had aroused him too much. Seeing the flush on her cheeks, the way the pulse point in her neck leapt and her breasts rose and fell at a rapid pace beneath her shawl—the shawl that split apart at her throat, showing just a hint of the soft mounds it covered with every breath she took. It had required every ounce of willpower he possessed not to kiss her. Not to toss her onto the cot or simply bend her back over the one she’d fallen onto.

  Had that been her aim? To seduce him so that he didn’t ask questions? He shifted uncomfortably on the cot, something digging into his back.

  From what he knew of her, he highly doubted that was true. Only everything about her had his head turning. Even her lingering scent had him lifting his chin to take in a deep draw of floral, spicy air.

  It didn’t matter if she wasn’t aiming to seduce him, for it was happening naturally. And it was appalling. The woman had obviously been in the barracks to snoop through his things and happened upon the wrong satchel. The portrait must have belonged to Camdyn, which meant he had some talking to do with the young chap about taking precautions with the lasses.

  His brother slept soundly beside him, not in the least aware that Jenny Mackintosh had found his private image. The lad would be mortified. But not half as mortified as she’d been when Toran had spied her looking. It had been fun to tease her, to taunt her and watch her flounder. She had been trying so hard earlier to seem calm.

  Knowing sleep wouldn’t come, Toran rose to do what he did best—and to make good on his original vow when he’d first uncovered her identity. Time to do some snooping of his own and to see if he could figure out the missive he’d stolen off the dead dragoons.

  Simon snored, laying flat on his stomach, face buried in the cot. None of the men stirred as Toran crept past them. He feared the creaking of the hinges when he opened the door, but for safety’s sake, they kept the joints well oiled. Not a sound was made as he opened it and stepped outside.

  Morning mist covered the ground, and the sky was a hazy gray. A raven’s wings flapped overhead, disturbed from its perch on top of the barracks.

  The bailey was not guarded, though several men were up on the walls keeping watch, none of whom turned around to see him. The moon was still visible low in the sky, and heaped in the bailey were the sleeping forms of
a few of the men who’d stayed up well past midnight preparing wagons for Jenny’s brother.

  That had to hurt the lass’s pride. To be a rebel in charge of so many, and at the same time forced to aid her brother who sided with the English. What a blow. He shouldn’t even care, and yet he did. He also cared to find out what exactly was in the wagons.

  Toran snuck over to the three wagons, overloaded and covered with woven tarpaulins. On the far side, out of view of the men who slept and those who guarded the walls, he lifted one corner to peer inside. Hard to tell—all he saw were lumpy sacks piled high. He ran his hands over the sacks. Felt like oats and grains. At the other end were large casks, filled, he supposed, with wine or ale. How much of their stores was she expected to send?

  If Hamish was anything like his Sassenach counterparts, he’d likely demand the whole of it, his clan’s welfare be damned. Bastard.

  Toran moved to the next wagon. It was full of fabric items. Hose, shirts, breeches, plain wool blankets. Unsurprisingly, no plaids. Most of the Scots who’d sided with the English had foregone their kilts in favor of more traditional English attire. There were a couple dozen pairs of leather boots as well.

  The resources already stockpiled in these wagons were enough to cause the clan to suffer, he was certain.

  The third wagon was not yet as full, and this was the one he’d feared. Crates of arrows and crossbows, broadswords with the traditional Highland basket that goes around the hand but missing the rear wrist guard that he and his men had fashioned onto their own swords to keep their wrists protected. Interesting that she didn’t want to give her own brother that advantage. There were shields as well, but noticeably missing were any pistols or shot. So she was arming them, but not with the most sophisticated items.

  Toran had to give her the respect she was due there.

  He set down the flap, eyeing the men on the wall and those asleep to make certain he wasn’t being watched, and then he slipped into the barn, waving away the sleepy-headed stable lad who rose his head from the hay and making his way back toward his horse’s stall. Inside, using the light from the single torch nearby, he pulled out the coded message. Using the cipher he’d memorized in his dealings with Boyd, he decoded the message. And then decoded it again, shaking his head in disbelief.