The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

Jenny found Dirk outside the barracks. “Gather a few men. We’re riding tonight.”

  Used to her sudden nighttime rides to seek new allies, he nodded. But this time he also asked, “A missive has been sent?”

  Jenny shook her head. “I want to sit in at the taverns and listen. Dress for the occasion.”

  “Did Toran speak with ye?”

  Jenny cocked her head, certain what she and Toran spoke about would not be anything Dirk would be privy to. “About?”

  “What we found.”

  “Nay.”

  “All right, we’ll share at the tavern.”

  Jenny nodded and then hurried inside.

  With her mother and Isla safely tucked into bed, Jenny was able to slip easily into her chamber and change into her trews, léine, and frock coat. She tucked her hair up under her cap and slipped the white cockade of the rebels into her coat pocket. The symbol was enough to get her arrested and executed if spotted by the dragoons, as much as it was a symbol of unity among rebels.

  She pulled on her boots with trembling fingers, her nerves still on edge from her conversation with Toran.

  Outside, the torches had been doused near the place where the horses stood, and she could make out four mounts and three men. The closer she got, she could see exactly whom Dirk had chosen to ride with them: Mac, Archie, and Toran.

  Jenny narrowed her eyes, but Dirk’s subtle nod caused her to hold her tongue. This was a test for their new recruits, and she found herself applauding Dirk’s initiative as much as she hated the idea of Toran’s company. The true test would be if she could actually concentrate on the evening with him there beside her.

  “Where to first?”

  “Mack’s.”

  This was the local tavern she’d first gone to when her brother left, to gauge the sense of loyalty and purpose among their people. With the increasing numbers of dragoons on their doorstep and rumors surely spreading of Prince Charlie’s impending arrival, she was certain there would be much buzz over ale and whisky.

  The ride to Mack’s was short, and they tied their horses up outside, their plain saddles not giving anything away. As was their usual, Dirk took the lead and Jenny followed, head down, keeping her features in shadow. The rest of the men walked behind her, almost hiding her from view should anyone be looking.

  Inside, the tavern was crowded, and a mix of pipe and hearth smoke clouded the air. Through the haze, Jenny spied an empty table in the far corner and nodded for Dirk to lead the way. Though the table was in the corner, there were men drinking in clusters around it, but it was off to the side enough that it warranted them a measure of privacy if they kept their voices low.

  Toran waved his hand in the air, which brought over a sweat-drenched serving lass with circles so deep beneath her eyes Jenny wanted to offer her a bed to rest in at Cnàmhan Broch. Her gown was threadbare, her apron stained, but she had a pleasant smile when she greeted them.

  “What’ll ye be having?” she asked, her voice raspy from overuse.

  “Five ales and five whiskies,” Dirk replied.

  “Any food for ye? We’ve got a little bit of stew left.”

  “Not just yet,” Archie answered.

  They must have practiced, the four of them, for it was normally Dirk who did the talking so Jenny didn’t have to.

  They bent their heads, pretending conversation as they listened to those around them. At first she only picked up on the mundane talk of work and horses, drinks and women, but then something new caught her ear. She tensed and underneath the table felt Toran’s thigh press to hers. He’d heard it too.

  “Redcoats were knocking on me door earlier this morning, they was,” a man said, slurring. “Tried to tear off my daughter’s dress until she told him she was on the flux.”

  Jenny swallowed hard, pressed her own thigh back to Toran’s.

  “Where’s Mistress J when ye need her?” one of the men he was speaking to murmured.

  “Aye. She’d have kicked his arse back down to hell.”

  If only she was given the chance. Jenny’s heart ached. She would have loved to go in there and run her sword through every dragoon who dared to touch a Scotswoman without her permission. Was it Boyd again? How many women had he tormented?

  “Where did they go off to?”

  “I dinna know, but I’ve a sense they’ll be back. One of them was eyeing Molly with a greedy eye. I’ve a mind to send her to my cousins in the isles.”

  Unless they fought, unless they stuck together, even the isles wouldn’t be safe.

  They listened to more of the same, and in a low voice, Jenny asked Dirk and Toran, “Did ye come across any of them? Alive?”

  Toran tapped her thigh with his, and she resisted the urge to reach under the table and grab his leg, to massage the thick muscles and pretend that none of this was happening, that Prince Charles Stuart was already reigning as regent over Scotland and England, uniting the kingdoms in peace.

  “A lot of fresh prints,” Toran said. “They are everywhere.”

  “Seem to be going circles ’round each other,” Dirk added.

  “They are swarming the lands. Looking for something.”

  “Me,” she said.

  “They burned the croft down.”

  There was only one croft she cared about. A chill ran down her spine. How relieved she was she’d had the forethought to get them the hell out of there.

  “And the neighboring crofts?” she asked, worried about those who’d helped conceal them.

  “Harassing them.”

  She wasn’t surprised. “They won’t stick with harassment for long. They will become violent.”

  “Aye.”

  “The men all need to be armed. The women trained to defend themselves,” said Jenny.

  “The men are armed,” Mac added.

  “And I’m happy to train the women.” Toran’s thigh had found a permanent place pressed to hers now, and she got a certain measure of comfort from the strength of it.

  “I’ll help ye,” Jenny added. “That’ll be our next message.”

  They stayed another hour, listening until the tavern started to thin of guests and those remaining behind were too inebriated to be useful.

  Outside, the summer night air was chilly, and a swift wind blew, threatening to pull off her cap and unwind her knot of hair. Jenny jammed her cap back down on her head, feeling a chill of trepidation race up her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck were suddenly standing on end.

  “Dragoons.” She’d barely gotten the word out before the stomp of hooves and chink of metal echoed in the twilight air.

  Somehow over the past two years, she’d gotten a sixth sense for the bastards.

  “Keep moving,” Toran said, his hand on the small of her back. “Get on your horse.”

  Dirk, Mac, and Archie made quick work of untying their mounts.

  “You there.” The voice was unmistakable, taking her right back to the courtyard outside their croft, his fetid breath on her skin, rough hands on her body.

  Jenny’s hand went to the pistol tucked into her belt beneath her frock coat. She wanted to shoot him dead.

  “Leave it. Get on your horse,” Toran instructed under his breath. “Ye know he willna balk at killing ye.”

  Not if she got to him first. She hesitated another moment, but Toran whispered her name in warning. She bristled, knowing running was the right decision for now. They were not prepared for an engagement.

  Jenny leapt up onto her horse, the saddle sturdy beneath her buttocks, the warmth of the mount’s sides seeping into her calves.

  “Stop!” Boyd’s bellow rent the air.

  “Ride,” Jenny ordered the men.

  They urged their horses into full gallops, leaning over their necks to gain speed. Her cap flew off, hair pulling free of the knot and whipping a
round her head, threatening to blind her. Behind them a shot rang out, and she waited to feel the shock of a bullet crashing through her skull, but there were only the wind and the pounding of her heart.

  None of the men fell off their horses either. Boyd had missed. Thank the saints. They rode harder. The redcoats chased behind, shouting words that carried off on the wind, sounding more like the bellows of angry animals. Another shot. She waited. Nothing.

  It was dark out, but still, a man like Boyd didn’t make it to where he was by missing. Was he missing on purpose? He didn’t want them to fall, he wanted to follow them. He wanted to know where they would go when they were running scared.

  Jenny yanked the reins to the right and veered sharply off the road, and the men followed. There was no way in hell she was leading them anywhere near Cnàmhan Broch.

  They crashed over fields, trampling crops, leaping fences, scattering herds of sheep and cattle in their race to get away. No matter how many sharp turns she took, the dragoons remained close behind. Their long months of chasing Highlanders had taught them some of the tricks. She hated that.

  She veered again, to the left this time, taking the men up over a crag. The terrain was treacherous, especially in the dark, but the horses were used to it. She and her men were used to it.

  The English, hopefully, would not be.

  Up they rode, until they crested the top, and raced along a narrow goat path that was dangerous to ride even in the light. She heard a scream behind them. Someone had fallen. Not one of their own. They didn’t stop. Another crack of a pistol shot. More waiting to see if the bullet struck its mark. More misses.

  They rode down into another valley, far now from home, and the first hints of light were coming out hazy purple on the horizon. Dawn would be there soon, and they’d have no way of hiding.

  They slowed and dismounted to let the horses cool off. It seemed certain now that the dragoons had not followed after the injury of their man. It would seem they did have some integrity or compassion for their own. Not that it mattered. Their crimes against the Scots were extensive enough as it was. Was it too much to hope it was Boyd who’d fallen?

  “I know where we can hide for the day,” Toran said, and Archie glanced at him, giving a short nod. “The Fox Hole. A fortress that used to belong to the Frasers, but it’s been in ruins since I was a lad.”

  “Where is it?”

  “We’re not far now.”

  They remounted, following Toran’s lead. Jenny realized she was trusting he’d not lead them right back to Boyd. Some two hours later they arrived at the castle ruins.

  Ominously, three crows sat on the half-crumbled wall of the left tower, turning to look on them as they approached. The right side was a pile of rubble. There was no roof on the tower, and the walls looked to have been dismantled by a volley of cannon fire. They drew closer, and the birds flew off one by one. Jenny had the mad thought that they were going to tell the English what they’d seen.

  “We’ll be safe here until tonight,” Toran said, dismounting. “And then we can work our way back to Cnàmhan Broch.”

  “Do ye think Boyd has gone there already? When he takes note of me missing…” Jenny eased off her horse, stretching out the kinks in her muscles.

  “The clan will make excuses for ye. Saying ye’re sick,” Dirk said. “Ye gave them all the answers, J. Trust them to see it through. Besides, he knows what ye look like. To him ye’re Mrs. Mackintosh, resident to the croft he burned, not a lady nobly born.”

  “My mother,” she murmured. Toran stiffened, and she reached for him without thinking, pressing her hand to his. Then she yanked it back when she realized what she’d done.

  He cleared his throat. “Let us make our beds and sleep as much as we can. We can keep the horses in the stables. It might not have a roof, but we can jigger the door into place.”

  While the men took care of the horses, Jenny walked up the crumbling outer stairs of the castle, entering into what had once been the great hall. The main level’s stone floors had kept its structure at least, supporting their weight, unlike the floors above that had caved in. The furniture, rugs, tapestries and other decor had long since been pillaged by locals, and the roof was gone. In the moonlight, it was evident that some of the walls were charred black with soot. A fire must have consumed the place during whatever attack had happened here. There was a flap of wings, more crows who’d been inhabiting the inside taking flight at her approach.

  Such an eerie place. Though she was glad for the crows’ departures. If they’d stayed, that was a sure sign of death to come.

  Jenny found a spot near the far wall where she could see the entrance but she herself would hopefully remain in shadow.

  When the men entered, they each found their own places in corners and behind piles of rubble. Archie, Mac, and Dirk fell asleep almost instantly, whereas from his spot a dozen paces away, Jenny could see Toran watching her.

  “Go to sleep,” she ordered.

  “Ye first.”

  “Stubborn man.”

  “I am not ashamed of it.”

  She tried to glower at him, but the effort was too much. She was exhausted. Toran stood from his spot, coming closer and sinking down beside her.

  “What happened here?” she asked, full well knowing the answer, for it was the same everywhere across their land.

  “Dragoons.” He rested an arm on a bent knee. “Burned it after imprisoning my great-uncle some thirty years ago. Archie and I used to come here to play when we were lads.”

  “’Tis glad I am that ye remembered it.”

  “’Tis glad I am ye didna shoot the bastard, even though ye would have likely hit your mark.”

  “Better than he.”

  “Aye.”

  “He escaped death tonight, to be sure.” Jenny paused. Now, in the quiet when they were alone, was as good a time as any to bring up what she’d been wanting to ask him for some time. “Dirk told me about the men in the forest. The dragoons ye killed.”

  “A casualty of this war.” He let out a soft sigh. “And I needed a horse.”

  “I thank ye all the same.”

  Resting his wide, warm palm on her arm, Toran said solemnly, “Thank ye for taking care of my siblings. Ye could have turned us away.”

  “I dinna fault children for the sins of men.” And she was serious. “Besides, ye’d be surprised at the power of children, their memories, their pacts.”

  He eyed her. “Ye speak as if from experience.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  “Can I ask…” His voice faded out, and he looked away. “Simon said something to me last night, and I’ve got to know.”

  “What is it?”

  “The Fraser men at the garrison… He said they were not executed.”

  There was such anguish in his voice. Guilt must have racked him at leaving his comrades behind.

  “’Tis my fault they were there, and I thought—” He cleared his throat. “I thought them dead.”

  Toran seemed to relax beside her. She couldn’t imagine the stress of having believed he’d killed his own men. He leaned closer, their shoulders brushing and hazy predawn light filtering through the roofless castle. She stared into his eyes, allowing herself just the tiniest moment to sink into their depths and dream. The more time they spent together, the more she wanted to. There was something intoxicating about him. A sweet she wanted to devour.

  Before she could decipher what was happening, his lips brushed ever so gently across hers. Jenny gasped, mesmerized at the soft warmth and the jolt of awareness that spiraled through her. Just when she had the wherewithal to press her lips back, his mouth left hers much too quickly.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he whispered, eyes on hers. “I shouldna have done that without asking.”

  She flicked her gaze from his eyes to his lips. And threw caution to t
he wind. “Dinna be sorry.”

  “I’ve been wanting to do that for far too long.”

  “And I’ve been wanting ye to.” She shouldn’t. She could feel herself getting caught up in the whirlwind of things she’d forbidden herself. Clan and country first. But resisting Toran had been a test she seemed doomed to fail.

  He leaned in again, and she tipped her face up, meeting him halfway as his lips connected to hers. He took her hand in his and pressed it over his heart, the thump of it beating beneath her trembling fingertips.

  “Ye feel that?” he asked. “’Tis what ye do to me every time we cross paths.”

  “Ye’ve a way with words. Do ye speak to all the lasses like that?” she teased, smiling and wishing he’d kiss her some more.

  “Nay.”

  He couldn’t know how much that single denial made her want to swoon. She let her eyes close, reliving the soft kisses, his words, and breathing him in. He smelled of adventure—horses, leather, the outdoors, a subtle spice, and a faint hint of sweat.

  “Will ye let me kiss ye some more?” he asked.

  This was the chance she had to deny him, to tell him again that her life’s goal was to see the prince returned to his rightful throne—and nothing else. Changing her purpose on the flap of a crow’s wings was to be untrue to herself.

  And yet denying him, letting him go, seemed also to be a betrayal to herself.

  How could she have both?

  It was impossible.

  But right now, in this ruined castle, in the dark, with their enemies at bay and no warring or planning to be done, when she should be sleeping, she could allow him to kiss her some more. To indulge in a moment she might remember when things turned bleak.

  “Aye,” she said, her mouth forming the affirmation before her mind had fully comprehended or determined what she wanted.

  Toran’s hand slid over her cheek and tucked behind her head, tugging her closer as his lips pressed firmly to hers. The soft, tentative kiss they’d shared a moment before was replaced by this heady melding of lips.

  Jenny sighed, her hand pressed to his heart, curling her fingers in his shirt, wanting to hold on forever. Their mouths moved to better fit, his breath on her cheek, her heart pounding in her chest.