by Jan Constant
THE REBEL AND THE REDCOAT
Jan Constant
Anstey Fraser, a proud and loyal young Scotswoman, had been charged with the murder of an English officer. Now she was being escorted to the Tower of London—and certain death.
During the long journey south, Anstey kept up a brave front, openly defying her English captors.
Yet gradually, barely aware of what was happening, she began to feel a strange fire burning in her heart—ignited by the one man who stood for everything she despised!
CHAPTER ONE
The wind from the sea snatched at the girl’s skirt and stirred the soft tendrils of dark blonde hair that escaped from the plaited coronet she wore as she paused in the doorway of the tower, lifting her face into the chill air with the enjoyment of one who had not felt fresh air for some time. Heedless of her guard’s impatience, she looked about as she folded a tartan shawl around her shoulders, watching a seagull as it hung in the breeze and following it with her eyes as it plunged away with a raucous cry.
The man touched her arm and she followed him reluctantly, her footsteps lingering as she crossed the castle courtyard. Looking over the stone wall, she could see the waters of the loch below and the white sand of the shallow shore, while beyond a group of tiny houses clustered about the far end of the stone causeway that joined the island of Cushlan Keep to the mainland.
“Sir Robert is waiting,” said the man at her elbow.
Anstey Frazer turned her shoulder and gazed over the blue sea that reflected the summer sky, her dark eyes intent as if she were memorizing the scene before her.
“The English Redcoat is with him,” the man went on.
“I know, for I saw the soldiers arrive.” She smiled coolly at the man. “But I fail to see why that should make me hurry when this is the first time I’ve seen the outside of your tower for more than a week.”
“Indeed, Mistress, and I ken fine your feeling, but the Chief’ll no’ be in a good mood if you keep him waiting - especially with the Redcoat to see him so disrespectfully treated.”
“Your master’s moods have little importance for me,” Anstey told him loftily, but at length she turned and followed the clansman into the tall crenellated keep, her smallness emphasised by the pair of massive wooden doors.
The man behind the table rose at her entrance, and came forward with hand outstretched and all the signs of a welcoming host.
“Good evening, Mistress Anstey,” he said. “Will you take a glass of wine?”
“Not with you, Sir Robert,” Anstey replied, eyeing him coldly. “I’ve tasted your hospitality in your prison tower for the last week and that’s enough.”
“You knew you could have spent the time as a guest in the castle - I’ve even asked you to dine with me.”
“I’ll have no dealings with a traitor!”
“Anstey!” Sir Robert glanced over his shoulder at the silent figure in the window embrasure, who had turned and was regarding the scene with obvious interest, his tall form and broad shoulders silhouetted against the light.
“If you’re afraid of what your English friend will learn, I’ll tell him it’s not your politics I question, but your loyalty to old friends. My father saved your life as a child, and for that he was given a piece of Mackeiuie land, which you’ve always coveted and now see a way of recovering.”
“The land belongs to the family - my father had no right to give it to a stranger. I could have accepted gold or money, but not my inheritance.”
“So now, with my father attainted for following the Stuart Prince, my brother a fugitive and myself accused of murder, you see a way of seizing it?”
“If you’d married me, Anstey, as I asked, this would never have happened.” He spoke quickly and sincerely, forgetting the silent stranger behind him.
Anstey regarded him, her lip curling contemptuously. “You thought you’d get Glentyre through me,” she told him scornfully. “Did you really think I’d marry you, when your wife had been my friend and I’d seen how you treated her - and even your children afraid of you? I’d too much care for my own wellbeing to even consider it, Robert Mackenzie!”
Sir Robert checked a sudden movement towards her, and recalling the watching soldier forced a laugh to his lips, the angry colour high in his cheeks.
“See what a spirit our Highland lasses have?” he asked jocularly. “I don’t envy you your task of carrying her to London. Take my advice and don’t believe a word she says.”
The soldier gazed at Anstey, noting the air of defiance she wore like a cloak, his eyes travelling over her neat Highland costume of blue velvet bodice and short, full skirt of tartan.
“Pray introduce us,” he said quietly.
“Captain James Ward - Mistress Frazer,” Sir Robert supplied curtly.
The English soldier bowed his powdered head, his red coat and white breeches incongruous to Anstey’s eyes, used to the kilt or tartan trews. She acknowledged the introduction with the briefest of nods, and with chin high, waited for him to speak.
“I have been sent to escort you to London where you will stand trial for murder of one of the King’s officers.”
He thought she grew pale, but her voice when she spoke was firm and clear.
“I suppose that you feel an English jury would be more likely to convict.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is there some, doubt of your guilt?”
“None whatsoever - I confessed at once.”
Captain Ward looked to the Scotsman for confirmation.
“Just so - besides, there can be no doubt at all. She was found by the soldiers with the pistol in her hand and the body of the officer at her feet.”
The soldier looked at her with distaste. “Spirit indeed,” he observed coldly. “Thank God our English women are more civilised.”
“Have your English women had to defend their lives against a cruel invader?” Anstey asked hotly. “Better give your thanks that they haven’t had to face the barbarities shown after Culloden. None of our leaders have earned the title of ‘Butcher’ as your fat duke has.”
“War has a way of making barbarians of us all, Miss Frazer, as you have found out.”
“War, Captain Ward, had very little to do with it. Your soldiers arrived to turn me from my house due to the machinations of Sir Robert.”
“Your father is a Jacobite, he was out with the Pretender and has since fled to France. It was my duty,” put in Sir Robert.
“Duty!” exploded Anstey. “You wouldn’t know what duty was. It was sheer greed - you wanted Glentyre and saw the chance of taking it, so you informed your English cronies and even sent men to guide them here. I despise you, Robert Mackenzie, you are less than half the man your father was. I hope you think at night how he must be turning in his grave to know of the thanks you gave to the man who saved your life ... And now I would go back to my cell.”
“I’ve said you’ll dine with us,” Sir Robert said, his face tight with anger.
“I’ll not break bread with you.”
“Nevertheless you’ll sit at my board, if I have to tie you there.”
Anstey Frazer laughed shortly. “So that you can tell the tale to your credit of how you offered me food the night before I was taken to England? Sir Robert, the folk hereabouts know you better than that. Your greed and cruelty are common knowledge.”
“ ’Fore God I pray they hang you,” he said through his clenched teeth.
“Whatever happens to me, I’m certain that you will roast in Hell.”
For a moment Captain Ward was certain that the Scotsman would strike her, but, aware of the witness, Sir Robert regained control of himself and shouted for the table to be spread.
Anxious servants ran in carrying dish
es of vegetables and a plate of boiled mutton. Sir Robert seated himself at the head of the table and indicated that his guests should take either side. Captain Ward held the chair for Anstey, and reading the expression in the Scotman’s eyes which said only too plainly that he would enjoy carrying out his threat, she reluctantly took the seat, but resolutely refused all food and drink.
Captain Ward sighed over his plate, having discovered that invariably the meat was badly prepared and cooked, either tough or underdone, and usually accompanied by soggy, overcooked cabbage.
“I’m afraid that Captain Ward does not approve of your cook, Sir Robert,” said Anstey wickedly, having recognised the fleeting expression of distaste that had passed over the soldier’s face.
Ignoring her jibe, James Ward turned to his host and asked him some questions on Highland economy, a matter dear to Sir Robert’s heart, and for a while Anstey was left to herself. When she thought herself unobserved the defiance left her expression, leaving her eyes shadowed with fear and her mouth vulnerable as she toyed with her glass, twisting the long stem between her fingers as she stared into the clear bowl.
Pipes were lit and she lifted her head at the first smell of tobacco. “Let me go now,” she said, a hint of a plea in her voice.
Sir Robert blew smoke in her direction. “I’m sure you can ask better than that,” he said.
“Let me go, Sir Robert,” she repeated wearily.
For a moment their eyes held across the littered table, then Robert Mackenzie made an impatient gesture.
“Go, then, and be damned to you - I hope never to see you again.”
Anstey looked at him steadily, nodded slightly and rising, went to the door. Sir Robert hunched an indifferent shoulder, giving his attention to refilling his glass, but the soldier crossed the room and held the door for her.
“We set out early,” he warned, and put her into the care of a waiting guard before closing the door and returning to his host.
Anstey followed the broad back of Sir Robert’s retainer, so deep in thought that she scarcely raised her head as she crossed the courtyard and held her skirt down automatically as the wind lifted it about her ankles.
The Redcoat officer had seemed quiet and gentlemanly in his manners, she thought, but there had been a certain coldness at the back of his eyes when he looked at her, that caused her unease. She sensed a dislike which was more personal than was to be expected in a soldier merely performing a duty, however distasteful. Finding no satisfactory explanation, she dismissed the matter from her mind and gave her attention to her plans for the morrow; knowing the countryside as she did, she felt sure that she could give Captain Ward some surprises and fell to planning her actions.
Anstey had made her scanty toilet and eaten the water and porridge supplied for her breakfast, when the door to her cell was opened and the tall form of Captain Ward appeared, filling the small doorway.
“Pray put these on,” he said, holding out a bundle of clothing.
Puzzled, Anstey took them, shaking out the folded garments. “But these are breeks!” she gasped.
“I can imagine that your sensibility must be shocked by such a request, but I do assure you that I consider it necessary,” he told her formally.
“I’ll not wear men’s clothes,” Anstey stated, thrusting the green woollen suit from her. “You must be mad to ask such a thing. Even King George would not expect a lady to display herself in such a manner. You’ve seen too many plays, Captain, where I hear actresses are only too pleased to show off their charms. Even Sir Robert would—”
“Sir Robert, I may say, was in favour of it when I told him my plans,” said the soldier, his eyes glinting as he looked down at her wrathful face.
She was brought up short by his reply and then gave a short laugh. “Because he fears some of my people might try to effect a rescue and they would be less likely to recognize me in such a disguise!” she cried scornfully.
“I believe he had something like that in mind, but that is not wholly the reason in my case. My troopers would have little difficulty in dealing with an unarmed rabble. The journey is long and difficult and I should say quite impossible riding side-saddle and encumbered by heavy voluminous skirts. For your own safety, I must insist that you wear breeches.”
Anstey eyed him with clear dislike. “You can take that air of complacency off your face,” she told him roundly, “for I’m not a female to be reasoned with. I’ve no intention of showing my legs in your suit, and that’s an end of it.”
“Then, Miss Frazer,” the Captain said quietly, “you’ll show a good deal more, for if you don’t put them on yourself, I’ll call my troopers to act as lady’s maids and dress you to my liking.”
Anstey’s gaze widened and her shocked eyes flew to his face, her expression indicative of the outrage she felt. “You would not dare!” she gasped.
Amusement gleamed momentarily in the Redcoat’s eyes. “Take my advice and don’t rely on that,” he drawled.
A few seconds longer she held his gaze, before her defence crumbled under his indomitable air.
“Very well,” she whispered, “but go away.”
“You may have ten minutes,” he announced curtly and left.
Once alone, mindful of the time-limit imposed, Anstey scrambled into the unfamiliar clothes, pausing as she suddenly recognized them as belonging to her younger brother. Stroking the wool of the jacket, she wondered if he had managed to effect his escape to France; then, recalling the passing of the minutes, she dragged on the waistcoat, her fingers fumbling with the long line of buttons. She was still struggling with the lawn cravat when, after the briefest of knocks, the soldier returned.
His eyes travelled over her without expression and she flushed and shifted her weight from foot to foot under his scrutiny. Silently he reached forward and finished tying the cravat around her neck, then, taking her by the shoulders, turned her about.
“We’ll have to do something about your hair,” he said as he removed the pins from the coronet she wore high on her head, and her hair spilled on to her shoulders.
For a moment his fingers were cool on the nape of her neck as he gathered the loose, dark blonde tresses together and Anstey shivered under his impersonal touch.
“I will do it,” she said, not liking the intimacy, and moving pointedly away. The grasp on her hair was retained and she was brought up short by his grip. Hearing an odd sawing sound, she twisted to see what he was doing and saw to her dismay a tumble of hair fall to the ground.
“It will grow again,” he said heartlessly, tying a black ribbon about what was left of her hair and standing back to examine her. “You make quite a passable young man,” he commented dryly.
More upset by the loss of her hair than she wished him to know, Anstey stared stonily back, determined to keep the tears from her eyes as Captain Ward took her arm and led her from the tiny room.
The clear early morning light dazzled her momentarily as they arrived in the courtyard, and at first she could only see her escort as dim, formless figures, but her vision cleared quickly and she was able to make out several horses and men in bright uniforms waiting nearby. As she emerged all eyes were turned on her and she read both curiosity and anger in their hostile glances.
A small black horse was led towards her, and the Captain commented that he hoped she could ride astride.
“She’ll have learnt by the time we reach London,” observed his sergeant, and Anstey looked quickly at the older man, reading in his expression the same hostility that was emitted from the troopers.
“Of course she can - our women ride astride on all but the most formal occasions,” said a voice from the top of the steps to the keep, and they all turned to look at its owner.
“Come to wish me Godspeed?” Anstey asked as the Sergeant cupped his hands for her booted foot and she was thrown into the saddle.
“I’ve a mind to make sure the captain knows how to treat you,” Sir Robert told her, descending the stone steps. “Take my
advice, Captain Ward, and tie her in the saddle - if you have no irons to fasten her wrists.”
The officer looked faintly surprised. “I’m sure there is no need for such matters.”
“I’ve known Anstey Frazer all her life and while you might think her meek and mild, I know she’s planning her escape. She’s slippery as an eel and as wily as a fox, so have a care and take heed of my warning.”
“Tut, Sir Robert - the soldiers will think you lack the manners of a gentleman.”
“Oh, I’m a fine gentleman. Today, for instance, I’m going hunting just like my English fellows.”
Anstey’s eyes narrowed as she looked down at him from the back of her mount. “Hunting- that’s not one of your hobbies that I know about.”
“Hunting Jacobites is better sport than chasing a fox or deer. Your brother has been missing for more than a week. I intend to run him to earth today.”
Anstey caught her breath, but her voice was steady when she replied. “You’ll not find him,” she said with conviction.
“You think not? Who knows, perhaps I’ll find your sister instead, and maybe she’ll be more amenable to my proposals than yourself.”
The girl was so pale that James Ward thought she was about to faint and instinctively stepped nearer.
“You wouldn’t,” she whispered, “not even you, Robert Mackenzie, would do such a thing.”
The Scotsman laughed triumphantly. “I would, Mistress Anstey, and fine you know it, so take that thought away with you. When you mount the scaffold she and I may even then be wed.”
Captain Ward felt there was much here he did not understand. “This sister?” he asked. “What of her?”
“She’s an idiot,” Sir Robert told him briefly, not taking his eyes from the girl.
The Englishman was shocked. “And you’d marry her?”
“Her body’s fine and healthy - she’ll bear many a bairn.” Sir Robert eyed Anstey reflectively. “And she’s prettier than this one. Flaxen-haired and beautiful, with the face of an angel.”
Captain Ward was not interested in his lyrical description. “How long’s she been missing?” he demanded, watching the slight figure in green intently.