The Rebel Wears Plaid

by Eliza Knight

  “Come in,” Jenny called.

  Sarah opened the door, a beaming smile on her face. “I’m sorry I missed ye last night, but Lady Mackintosh insisted she would aid ye.”

  “Dinna fash, Sarah. ’Tis good to see ye.”

  Sarah’s eyes went to the bed, and Jenny’s followed to the two dented pillows, the covers flung back from opposite sides. It was obvious that two bodies had slept there. Fortunately, her maid was discreet and said nothing as she quickly refilled the water basin and just as swiftly made up the bed. Without missing a step, she headed to the wardrobe, flinging open the doors and sifting through Jenny’s gowns.

  Sarah asked, “What’s proper for a lady laird, I wonder?”

  “I suspect the same things that are proper for a lady,” Jenny mused as she cleaned herself up with the water in the basin. It was cold, refreshing. After a night of making love, she was no longer chilled to the bone, but she was still incredibly exhausted.

  “What about this?” Sarah pulled a somber-looking day dress from the wardrobe. “Seems serious, does it no’?”

  “Aye, verra.”

  Jenny allowed the woman to dress her and answered all of her questions about the battle, especially those of her beau, wee Alaric—who was not wee at all but a strapping Highlander who seemed ages above his own.

  Outside the bedchamber came Dom’s distinctive low bark accompanied by a bop against the door as he tried to headbutt his way through.

  “Somebody’s missed ye an awful lot,” Sarah quipped.

  “Aye. I’d best see to him and the rest of the clan.” Jenny needed to pass on her condolences to the families of the men who’d died and assure them that Dirk would bring home their swords, though their bodies would have been buried on the battlefield.

  Dressed and with her hound beside her, Jenny hurried below stairs, only to find that everyone had gathered in the great hall to await her.

  Fiona’s familiar face was one among the crowd. Jenny greeted her friend warmly, though inside she was a jumble of nerves. “What are ye doing here? I thought ye’d stay with the prince. ’Twas dangerous for ye to travel in such foul weather. Has Annie come too?”

  “Nay, she remained behind to aid with the wounded. She’s gained quite a reputation. In fact, the prince even requested her assistance for a sleeping draught and another when he was feeling an ague coming on.”

  “That’s fantastic.” Jenny beamed, full of pride for her dear friends who were fulfilling their passions in aiding the prince.

  “Aye. And speaking of the prince, I’ve a message for ye, from himself.”

  “Oh?” Jenny’s belly flopped somewhere down near her knees. Her feet felt numb, and she wiggled her toes to regain feeling.

  “Aye, Laird Mackintosh.” Fiona winked. “The prince is headed north into the Highlands and plans to stay a night or two at Cnàmhan Broch.”

  Jenny’s mouth fell open at the news. “Dinna jest with me, old friend.” Though the prince had promised to do so on two occasions, she didn’t expect him to go through with it.

  “I dinna jest at all. His entourage will have left Bannockburn just shortly after myself. General Hawley’s men are holding strong at Edinburgh, and so the prince wishes to winter in the north to gain more confidence among his troops.”

  “We are to host the prince.” Jenny was breathless with excitement. “We have much to do.”

  “Aye. And is there no’ some news ye wish me to bring to your allies, Laird Mackintosh? It’d be my honor to share.”

  “Aye. Tell those who were no’ at Falkirk that the prince was victorious and rides north. They need to be prepared to bring their support should their regent grace them with his presence.”

  * * *

  For two weeks, the Highlands were quiet. The dragoons seemed to have disappeared, except for some who Toran knew were still occupying the garrison. Thankfully, fewer than there used to be. They were still holding prisoners, and men did ride out looking for trouble. But none of them came close to Cnàmhan Broch.

  Was it because the castle, according to the English, belonged to Hamish Mackintosh? Or was it because the dragoons were concentrating on the prince’s route north? They might be trying, but Toran was certain they couldn’t touch him. Not with the thousands of followers in his retinue. Most of the English troops were still near Edinburgh after the recent rout, and the weather had prevented most from crossing into the Highlands.

  Toran worked hard by day with Mac and the rest of the men, fortifying the castle and grounds, clearing snow, and any other way he could assist with the preparations. The majority of their men still rode with the prince. When there had been no further attacks, Jenny had sent the soldiers who’d returned with her home to tend to their families for a few days. She could call them back if danger presented itself, but some of them were a half-day’s ride away.

  The days were filled with work and growing excitement about the prince’s coming visit, and in the evening, Toran and Jenny challenged each other to different games—chess or games of boules with the furniture pushed aside. Some nights, if she stared at him a little too long, he snuck up to her chamber.

  Toran had just reached the top of the wall to relieve Mac of his watch that morning when movement on the horizon caught his eye. A lot of moving horses? He gritted his teeth, praying his eyes were deceiving him.

  “Either the prince is come, or we’re about to be sieged,” he grumbled.

  Mac passed him the looking glass with a grin. “Take a look.”

  Toran extended the glass and peered through, catching sight of the prince’s standard. He grinned widely. “The prince will be here within the hour,” he said, handing back the glass. Toran took the stairs two at a time, racing across the courtyard to the castle. Jenny was likely in the kitchens tasting the dishes her staff had been hard at work preparing. A meal fit for a prince.

  She was exactly where he thought she might be, scraping a sweet-looking sauce from a bowl with her finger and sucking the remnant into her mouth with a sigh of pleasure. “’Tis perfect.”

  Her eyes fell on him, widening as she took in his wild eyes and windswept hair.

  “The prince?” she asked.

  “Aye. We spied his standard on the horizon.” Toran dipped his finger into the bowl, following her lead. The flavor was decadent.

  “Oh, dear me. Oh…” She touched her hair, smoothed her skirts. “I have to change. I need to look like a laird.”

  “I think ye look perfect the way ye are,” he said.

  “Ye’re verra sweet, Toran, but one does not greet their rightful monarch covered in flour and sugar.” She danced around the kitchen and then out the door, rushing across the great hall with Toran in tow.

  “Might I remind ye that ye greeted the prince before in trews and frock coat?”

  “Quite right,” she murmured, stopping short. “So ye think I should dress in trews? Is that what he’ll expect of me?”

  Toran let his gaze rake slowly over her luscious body, imagining each curve delicately peeled free of clothes. “I think any way ye dress the prince will be impressed with ye, lass. Ye’re beautiful, strong, intelligent—”

  “Och, dinna flatter me now!” She rushed from the great hall, calling out for her maid to help her prepare.

  Toran stared after her, only slightly bemused.

  Isla and Lady Mackintosh peered out from an alcove where they’d been sitting and sewing. “Is the prince coming?” his sister asked, excitement coloring her cheeks.

  “Aye. Do ye wish to change as well?”

  “Of course, ye dullard, the prince is so verra bonnie! I’ll need to freshen up.”

  “Ye’re not to offer yourself in marriage,” Toran teased after her retreating figure, ignoring her insult.

  Lady Mackintosh smiled over at him. “Ye’re a different man than when ye first arrived, sir, and I hope
ye dinna take offense to that.”

  “None at all.” And he spoke the truth, for she was right.

  Jenny had changed him—for the better. Made him realize who he was and where he wanted to be. She had snapped him from a bitter stupor of revenge so he could see clearly what his true values and beliefs were.

  Toran went back up the wall to watch the progress of the prince’s retinue, only to be startled by new movement on the horizon—from the opposite side. A single rider, approaching the castle at a speed that had warning bells going off in his head.

  “Camdyn, with me.”

  They descended the stairs, and Toran called for their horses to be readied quickly and for Mac to be roused to take up his position on the wall. As they mounted and approached the gate, Jenny called out from behind. Her hair had been freshly wound into a modest coil, and golden-white tendrils fell loosely around her temples. She wore a plaid gown in Mackintosh colors, and a filigreed wildcat brooch pinned a modest shawl in place to cover her breasts. At her hip was pinned a white rosette cockade.

  “Where are ye going, Frasers?” There was an edge to her tone—worry and distrust. It cut deep into his heart. Had he not yet proven himself loyal?

  Toran swallowed away the bitter question and faced her.

  “There is a single rider approaching rapidly from the east. We aim to intercept him and see what he is about afore he gets close enough to the prince. We shall return, my laird, ye have our word.”

  She nodded, relief visible in her features before being replaced by worry. “Is it one of our scouts?”

  He took some measure of comfort in her easy acceptance of his explanation. Perhaps it was not distrust that had her questioning him after all.

  “Could be. I’m going to find out,” he answered.

  She wrinkled her brow with concern. “Take more men.”

  “Camdyn and I will be fine against one.”

  “What if ’tis an ambush?”

  “The prince’s army is minutes away. They’d be stupid to ambush us.”

  A slight grin crossed her face. “But, Fraser, they fight against the rightful heir to the throne. I think ’tis a given that they are lacking in intelligence.”

  “Good point. We shall return shortly with answers.”

  Jenny waved them off, and Toran didn’t waste another minute in racing out of the gate.

  * * *

  Jenny watched Toran and his brother ride out, feeling more than a twinge of guilt at the doubt she’d showed him moments ago. But seeing him on horseback, prepared to ride out without saying anything to her—the sight had her instantly wondering if he was going to disappear on her forever.

  It was unfair of her to think that way. He’d more than proven his loyalty to her, in both deed and word.

  Was that remaining crumb of doubt the reason why she hadn’t agreed to marry him? What message was she sending by repeatedly allowing him into her bed, even telling him that she loved him, if she wasn’t willing to make the ultimate commitment? To forever bind herself to him and to prove with her own words and deeds that she valued him, trusted him, wanted to spend her life with him?

  But there wasn’t time to ruminate on those feelings or to run after him because seconds later the sound of a horn rent the air, announcing the prince’s arrival.

  Jenny’s belly did a little flip. There was no need to round up her people to come and stand with her in the courtyard, as they’d all heard the horns and rushed to the courtyard, forming a line in order to greet the royal prince. The gates were opened wide as Prince Charles Stuart, Regent of Britain, crossed through the gates. Dirk and a dozen other warriors rode in behind him. The remainder of the army had stayed southward in case the English followed their path so they could cut them off.

  “Welcome to Cnàmhan Broch, Your Highness,” Jenny said with a low curtsy.

  Prince Charles smiled down at her. He wore fancy garb similar to what she’d seen him in at Bannockburn House, albeit a bit dirtier from his travels. “We are pleased to be here accepting your hospitality as laird of Mackintosh.”

  Jenny could have fainted at the acknowledgment, but she somehow managed to stay upright as she inclined her head. “We’ve prepared the best chamber for ye, if ye wish to rest after your journey.” Hamish had taken their father’s chamber for his own upon the older man’s death, and when he left, neither her mother nor Jenny had felt right entering it. But the prince’s presence would wash away any trace of traitorous shadow that her brother had left behind.

  “I would.” The prince dismounted in all his finery and passed the reins of his horse off to a waiting stable hand. “But first, I wish to impart to you our thanks for all you did at Falkirk.” He glanced around at the other warriors standing there. “Your laird is very brave.”

  Jenny’s face felt like the heat of a thousand suns burning her. Oh, to be so admired by the prince in front of her people!

  “My daughter is a loyal Jacobite,” her mother said, approaching. “Your Highness, I am Lady Mackintosh.”

  The prince approached her mother, took her hand in his, and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “I can see where your daughter gains her beauty.”

  Jenny was fairly certain she’d never seen her mother blush so much in her life. In fact, Lady Mackintosh was actually fluttering her lashes. Her mother smiled coyly. “Och, thank ye, Your Highness. Might I be so bold as to say I now understand why they call ye bonnie?”

  The prince let out a laugh and clasped her mother’s hand in both of his. When they finished their laugh, he said, “I understand your husband served my father in the ’15.”

  “Aye, he did.”

  “My condolences on your loss. I have only ever heard praise of his name, and the two of you have raised a wonderful daughter.”

  There was no mention of her brother, and Jenny was glad the prince chose to save her mother the embarrassment of mentioning her traitorous son. The fact that the prince was here at all, that he trusted Jenny to fight with him, to protect him, was an immense honor considering the trouble her brother had caused.

  The pounding of horses’ hooves signaled Toran and Camdyn’s return, their horses rushing through the gate.

  The prince’s guard quickly surrounded Toran, pulling out their weapons and making the very clear point that they were ready to execute anyone on sight.

  “Your Highness,” Toran said. “I apologize for my hasty arrival. I did no’ mean to cause ye worry. But I come with grave news.”

  “What is it?” Jenny asked, feeling the glee of the prince’s arrival evaporating.

  “Your brother, my laird. He rides with an English and Scots army of several hundred men to take back the castle and take the prince. Boyd is with him—and so is Simon.”

  Jenny felt sick inside but had no time to reflect. She had to think fast. Had to protect the prince. They had perhaps only forty in total, for the prince’s retinue was small in number.

  They’d be annihilated, she knew they would, because her brother would show no mercy. There was no time to gather their allies. Only time to act or run—perhaps not even enough time for that. At least they had the benefit of the castle walls to protect them, but not for long if her brother’s men dragged cannons.

  Jenny glanced at Dirk, who was frowning fiercely. He would want her to run, for them all to retreat. But the road was more dangerous, especially if her brother’s army was not the only one advancing. Then she looked at Toran, his blue gaze watching her steadily, calmly, as if he trusted her completely to solve this problem.

  That moment of panic she’d had before had left her completely. In that moment, she knew she trusted him with all her heart.

  “I have an idea,” she said. “And I’m going to need your help.”

  Twenty-Six

  Jenny ran down the road, her arms loaded with muskets and pistols as she set them up at points well
hidden from any riders. As she sprinted back toward the castle for more, Toran ran past with an armload. Her feet ached from exertion, but there was no way she could stop.

  Their plan was to set up multiple weapons along the road, caches manned by single fighters. They would post a warrior at each and begin using them as her brother’s army started its approach. One Jacobite soldier would be turned into ten or twenty or more if he could shoot fast enough without the worries of reloading. The rout would be tricky, and there was every chance it would fail. That her brother wouldn’t believe they were an army of thousands.

  But they had to try.

  The prince was safely tucked into the castle with her mother and one guard, the last line of defense should he need it. She prayed this worked, or else she would be responsible for Charles Stuart’s capture. Not that she’d be alive to try to rectify her mistakes.

  On her last run down the road, arms heavily laden with muskets and shot, Jenny nearly tripped when she saw the horizon darken with an advancing line.

  “To your stations!” she bellowed. At her warning one of the men blew the horn, and hopefully sent a chill of fear running down the spines of her brother’s men.

  Saints, but she wanted to see him cower for once! What she wouldn’t give to smack his haughty smirks off his face.

  She started to run back down the road when Toran gripped her arm, stopping her. His face was fierce with worry.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, uneasiness making her insides twist.

  “I know ye will, lass.” His voice was soft, and the expression he gave her—so loving, so full of worry—was not one a soldier gave to his commanding officer before battle but instead the look of a man to the woman he loved.

  “Ye’ll be fine,” she said with a teasing smile, trying to lighten the mood. She squeezed his hand, wished they had time to do more than embrace before they needed to run.

  “Aye, love.”

  “I’ll see ye when it’s done.” As much as she wanted to stay with him, to fight beside him as they had at Falkirk, this plan would only work if they were far apart, running from firearm to firearm. One Jacobite becoming twenty or more. She’d have to shoot two weapons at a time, drop them, and lift two more as fast as humanly possible.