by Eliza Knight
“Aye, my lady, we will honor your wishes.”
“Good. I shall see the three of ye back here in a fortnight. Dinna delay, we need ye.”
“We shall be swift.”
And then they were riding through the gate. Jenny climbed the stairs to the wall, ostensibly to watch them go. In truth, she was searching for Toran and Dirk. She’d pretended not to notice the two of them leaving, dressed as though they were going hunting. But she’d watched every movement, every surreptitious glance from Toran in her direction.
She knew where they were going, of course, as she had been the one to command Dirk to take Toran with him. The two men would prove to be the most powerful in the ranks of men, given that neither had been a clear winner in their scuffle. If the rebellion had any chance of success, they needed everyone on the same side, which meant Dirk and Toran had to work out their problems—away from prying eyes and the possibility of others taking sides.
The late-afternoon sun was covered by clouds, but still there was no sign of the men—only the swaying grasses and wildflowers, the long-limbed trees and lush greenery, the high-peaked mountains in the distance that kissed the gray sky. She supposed she wouldn’t see either one of them until after dark, if at all.
The rest of her day moved quickly as messages came in from her rebel contacts. Jenny took a look at the tallies of supplies they had left as well as gathering a circle of women to work with her mother in darning more socks and shirts. It turned out that Isla Fraser was quite adept at making socks, and she joined the women, excited to be doing something useful for the rebels. Apparently all she’d been allowed to do when she’d resided with her uncle was sit and look pretty.
Jenny felt for the girl. What a bore it must have been. Jenny was lucky to have had a father who embraced a woman’s talents in all things and to not have been boxed into a corner because of her sex. Women had so much more to offer than sitting prettily and doing what they were told. The pain of missing him was a great reminder of why she risked so much to keep his legacy and his dream alive.
She marched up to her room and changed out of her gown into trews, a shirt, and a frock coat, determined to train with the men. Now that her brother’s spies were gone and her mother had said she was going to rest for the remainder of the day, she could do so comfortably at Cnàmhan Broch. It was not yet sunset, and she still had plenty of energy.
Jenny hurried down the stairs and out to the training field. As soon as the men saw her coming, they let out a raucous cheer. The only two perplexed by her presence were Archie, who by now had healed enough to participate, and Camdyn.
Jenny aimed the tip of her sword at Archie. “Ye, Fraser. Want to fight?”
He pointed to his chest, eyes going wide, and then glanced around at the other men as if expecting one of them to have an answer. They all just grinned, knowing exactly what was coming. Simon, the wastrel, even started taking bets, his coin on Archie.
Jenny laughed. “Come on now, ye’re not afraid of a woman, are ye?”
“Nay, Mistress,” he said, though his eyes looked worried.
“Then take up your sword and let us see what ye’re made of.”
The men clapped and formed a circle around the two of them, Camdyn looking ready to leap to her defense. She pointed at the lad and said, “Ye’re next.”
The lad looked crestfallen, and she couldn’t help laughing even more. “Lad, ye’re old enough to know the rules of a soldier. Never show your opponent your fears. Slap some color back into those cheeks if ye have to.”
Simon leaned over, grasping the lad around the shoulders, and said something, obviously teasing him, for Camdyn grew even redder about the cheeks.
Archie faced her, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and holding his sword and small Scottish shield—his targe—upright. His mouth pinched with worry, eyes crinkled at the corners.
“First to draw blood?” she taunted, finding the lure of teasing him irresistible.
He blanched. “Mistress!”
“I’m teasing. Try not to cut yourself.” And with that, she started to circle him. “Show me what ye’ve got, Fraser. Dinna hold back.”
Archie nodded and tentatively tapped his sword to hers, the way a child might.
“What am I, a bairn?” She laughed. “Hit me for real, sir.”
Archie tapped her sword a little harder, and Jenny decided to show him no mercy. She slammed her sword against his, feeling the jar of the blow all the way up her arm and stunning the man in the process.
“Ye’re strong,” he mused.
“Aye. Now fight me.”
Archie didn’t hold back the next time, advancing on her. They parried back and forth, knocking into one another, blocking, dodging, hitting, ducking. Sweat dripped down her spine, from her brow, and on her upper lip. She’d not had a workout like this in weeks.
She was only just getting warmed up. She jabbed her sword forward, one of her favorite moves, and caught the blade of his just above the hilt. With a spin of her sword and a sure flick of her wrist, his sword was in the air.
Archie didn’t hesitate to duck and roll for the weapon, but she advanced on him, kicking it away. He pulled out his dirk, and while some of the men gasped, Jenny only laughed.
“Good move, soldier.” She pressed the tip of her sword against his neck. “Ye might be dead, but I’m wounded, aye?”
Archie grinned. She reached for his hand and helped him up.
“I’ve never fought a woman before.”
“Most men have not. On the fields of battle, they either believe me weak and easily overcome or are too scared to injure me. Works to my advantage either way.”
Archie shook his head in that way people did when they were proven wrong. “I will never underestimate a woman again.”
“’Tis good ye say so. We are stronger than we look.” She glanced toward Camdyn. “Are ye ready, lad?”
He nodded, smiling broadly, excitement in his features rather than the fear that had shown there before. She liked that, could see in him what an eager Toran might have looked like in his youth.
The lad took up his sword, in position to circle her, but just as he lunged forward, a bellow rent the air.
Toran pushed his way into the circle, standing between the two of them. “What the bloody hell is going on here?” A fierce glower covered his dirt-smeared face, cheeks flushed as though he’d been running from wherever it was he’d been. His wild dark hair flew in all directions, and she had to resist the urge to smooth it out and then to follow that by smoothing the angry lines on his face. She scanned his plain clothes, covered in dirt as though he’d spent his day rolling in the pen with the pigs.
Jenny frowned at him, jutting her chin forward a notch. “A lesson. And I could have run ye through just now. Have ye never learned not to jump into the middle of a sword fight?”
He ignored her rebuke. “What kind of lesson?”
Jenny cocked her head to the side. The man was refusing to see what was actually going on here, and once more he was underestimating her. “Have ye never trained afore, Fraser?”
Toran’s mouth dropped open a little in surprise, his widened eyes ridding him of some of the angry wrinkles at their corners. “Ye canna mean to fight my brother.”
Inside she bristled; on the outside, she remained befuddled. “Is he not trained with a sword?”
“He is,” Toran scoffed.
“Ah,” Jenny said, stabbing the point of her wooden training sword into the dirt. “Ye’re no’ worried over your brother. Ye think me feeble.” She glanced around at the men and started to move in a wide arcing circle, dragging the tip of her sword behind her. “Ye only just missed me kicking Archie’s arse.”
“What?”
“Did we not meet at the point of my pistol? Why is this news to ye?” She pursed her lips as she moved, causing Toran
to turn in a circle as she walked around him. “I have an idea. How about ye take Camdyn’s place?”
“Me? Fight ye?”
“Aye,” she answered as she finished drawing a circle enclosing the two of them.
A grunt and scuffle behind her revealed Dirk pushing forward. He too was covered in dirt, and she wanted desperately to ask what or whom they’d found. The hunt often yielded a prize or two, and clearly, they’d unearthed something.
“Come on, Cousin, what’s a wee spar with a lass?” Simon goaded, and Jenny ignored him, with half a mind to call him into the ring next.
Toran sized her up, his gaze raking her from head to toe. She felt suddenly self-conscious, more than she ever had before. In fact, he was the only one she’d ever met who had the ability to make her feel this way.
A rush of heat filled her that had nothing to do with the exertion of fighting. She became aware of the sweat beneath her arms, the way her hair was damp and sticking to her forehead, temples, and neck. Her cheeks must be ruddy from exertion, not to mention that the exercise and sweat had likely taken away any bit of floral scent she had from her perfume. But that was reality, wasn’t it? A reality for her, a soldier. Not a lady.
“Well?” she asked, letting her irritation slip into her words. “What are ye waiting for?”
A training sword was tossed in Toran’s direction, and he caught it without looking, the wood hilt slapping against his palm, and causing a few appreciative murmurs from the men standing around them. Toran flipped his sword on his fingers, letting it twirl in a full circle before taking the hilt in a firm grasp.
This man was much more skilled with a sword than his cousin. Archie had been easy to best, but she knew by the glittering look of challenge in his gaze that Toran was about to take her to task. A shiver of excitement ran through her limbs. As many years as she’d been practicing, not one man had ever looked at her that way—as though he wanted to kiss her and spar with her all at once. Men always held back at first, something she could use to advantage, but from the look of it, Toran wasn’t going to spare her a thing.
The notion thrilled her as much as it gave her pause. What was going through his mind? That he wanted to beat her? Or that he wanted to have some fun? To see what she was made of? The thrill of it made her limbs buzz, her fingers tingle.
Neither of them spoke, concentrating as they moved in a slow circle inside her makeshift sparring ring. Jenny blew out a long, slow breath, centering herself. With sword in hand and targe on her left arm, she studied the man in front of her, the way his muscles moved as he stepped, fluid and exact, the way he held his weapon, as though he’d been born with the sword in his hands.
He wouldn’t be the one to make the first move, she could tell. Just like in their game of chess. Jenny never liked to go first. That meant her opponent had a moment to evaluate her and decide how best to react, an advantage she preferred to keep for herself.
Toran was grinning and she smiled back, flashing him a wink in hopes of distracting him, only for the second that it would take. She shuffled forward, feinted to the right, and doubled back to the left, slamming her targe and sword against his at the same time. The force of the double strike would send a jolt skidding up his arm, just as it did to her own. With her blow released, she leapt backward out of his reach, but that didn’t stop his advance. She blocked his attack, slamming her sword against his, and then the dance began, parrying and attacking in fluid motion, the thwacking sound of their wooden swords a beautiful music to her ears. She was laughing as excitement thrummed in her veins.
She’d thought fighting with Archie had been fun, but with Toran…their movements felt natural and in line with one another, as if each could anticipate the other’s move before it was executed. They were fluid, two rivers spilling into one swirling mass of water. Melding, connecting as one.
Sweat was pouring off them both, and her arms were starting to ache and shake from the exertion, but still she didn’t quit. The men around them were silent, afraid to break the spell. But Toran was in for a surprise. Jenny had yet to show him her best moves.
As he attacked, she ducked, swiveling to the left, angling her head toward the ground. She swiped her foot toward his ankles and yanked back, quite literally sweeping his feet out from under him. Toran tried to catch his footing but fell to the ground with a surprised oomph. He was quick to roll, leaping to his feet, a wide grin on his face.
“Fancy footwork,” he said.
She only snorted in answer and attacked him with a hard back blow, their swords twisting this way and that against one another. She feinted right, hitting left, and ducked to sweep his feet out from under him again, but he dodged her at the last minute, sending her skittering to her knees.
“Not so fast, Mistress. I’m a quick study.”
Letting out a growl, she leapt back to her feet, twisting around, only to be stopped by his arm around her waist. He held her back flush to his chest, his targe pressed to her breasts, his sword coming toward her neck. She blocked his weapon and kicked back against his leg, causing him to issue a grunt of pain as she connected her bootheel with his shin. His grip loosened enough that she rounded on him, but before she could make her final blow, he held up his hands in surrender. He didn’t drop his weapons though.
“Not so fast, soldier,” she taunted and swung her sword toward his neck. “Dinna make it easy for me.” He blocked her, over and over, until he was able to finally stand up. She couldn’t help but look on that strength of will with some admiration.
Toran stood there before her, chest heaving from exertion, sweat trickling down the column of his strong neck, dark hair plastered to his temples. The expression in his eyes was one of pride and admiration as well. He didn’t raise his weapons to her again and instead said, “A truce, Mistress?”
Jenny shook her head slowly, meeting his eyes with all the seriousness she’d felt in the lesson she’d just provided him. “I never give up.”
“I am seeing that.”
“A good soldier never leaves a fight.”
“Unless ’tis with his peers and the only way for both to come out alive and ahead is by calling a truce.”
She pursed her lips at him, willing to concede. “Ye have a point.”
“I am at your service.” He bowed forward, and she took the opportunity to press the tip of her sword to the top of his bent head.
“I win.”
“So ye did.” He straightened, stabbing his sword into the ground and holding out his hand to her, a grin curling his lips.
Jenny did the same, reaching for his hand, feeling the largeness of his palm sliding over hers, the strength of his fingers clasping around hers. A shock ricocheted from that grasp up her arm, sending gooseflesh to rise over her skin, hardening her nipples. Their hands were sweaty, slick, and hot as they rubbed together, callus to callus.
God, the feel of him. She wondered what it would be like for him to touch her in other places. What would happen if they were back up in that darkened corridor with no one around? This time if he’d challenged her to kiss him, would she?
“I could shake your hand, my Mistress J, but I would not be a gentleman if I didna kiss the hand of a lady.” And then he was bending forward, his lips pressing to her scraped knuckles, warmth fanning deliciously over her skin.
Jenny’s mouth went dry, and she forced a tight smile on her lips when all she wanted to do was gasp. To tug him closer and finish what they’d almost started so many times—a kiss.
She yanked her hand away, forcing herself to remember her vow. The prince was coming soon to Scotland; she could not waver now. She had to prepare for battle, prepare to take a knee before her rightful king. However much Toran caused her to forget, she couldn’t allow him to distract her from that.
“Good fight, sir,” she said. “I am impressed.”
“As am I. ’Twas an honor to be chosen.�
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“Let us not forget that ye stepped in.”
He winked. “And a pleasure it was to have done so.”
From the corner of her eye, she watched Dirk huff. Though they weren’t at each other’s throats at the moment, it was clear the men still did not see eye to eye.
“Continue on, lads,” she said, tearing her eyes from Toran and forcing herself to concentrate on the men’s training. “Ye too, Fraser.”
Toran grinned as he backed away from her and called his brother over to parry.
Jenny took up a stance along the perimeter, watching the men fight, her heart still pounding. Though she was no longer exercising, she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Her hand still burned where he’d kissed her, and all she could think about was his large palms sliding over her skin, his warm lips pressing to hers.
This was ridiculous.
Perhaps she should just bed the man and be done with it. Like a sweet, the more she pined for a treat and denied herself, the more she wanted it. Was desiring a man the same way? Could she get over the craving once she’d had him?
Jenny’s gaze followed him on the field, watching the way he talked to his brother, all seriousness and calm. He was a good teacher. And damned fine-looking. His buckskin breeches hugged his arse in a way that made her itch to grip him, to squeeze and rub. Blazes, she was going to hell for thinking such things. Where had that thought even come from? She’d never touched a man’s arse. Never even thought about it. But Toran’s…
Dirk sidled up beside her, drinking deeply from a waterskin. “Did ye know he killed a couple of redcoats the day he deserted us?”
Jenny stared at her cousin in shock, all thoughts of arse rubbing gone. “Nay.”
Dirk grunted, took another long sip. “’Tis probably safe to say he’s one of us. If he wasna before, he is now.”
Eleven
Toran didn’t join the others in the great hall for the evening meal. In fact, he didn’t join them for the next three nights running. Instead, he volunteered for guard duty on the wall, and during the day he kept himself busy both with training and hunting Sassenachs with Dirk. He barely slept, and even the few times he tried, it was all for naught.