The Rebel Wears Plaid Read online

  But now, watching Archie face death at English hands, his choice looked more and more like a foolish one.

  Captain Boyd paced in front of the condemned. “You have all been charged with treason for betraying King George, your rightful monarch. Do you confess?”

  Not one man opened his mouth, and a prickle of pride slid along Toran’s spine.

  Boyd appeared surprised at the silence. “Then you are all sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. The sentence shall be exacted…” He checked his pocket watch as if trying to determine a time and then said, “Why wait? Let’s do it right now.”

  Toran grimaced. Archie’s gaze never left his, and if one could be killed by a glower, then Toran would be lying in a bloody heap. Hell, he would deserve it.

  Captain Boyd turned his gaze toward Toran and the other men standing beside him—some Scots, some English, but all known supporters of the English throne.

  Toran cleared his throat. “Captain, if I may?”

  Boyd narrowed his eyes, probably never having been interrupted during one of his sentencings before. Depending on the man’s mood, Toran could very well end up on his knees beside his cousin.

  “What is it?” Obvious irritation dripped from Boyd’s words.

  “I recognize that one.” He pointed at Archie. “Might I take him inside for questioning?”

  Boyd raised a brow. “You think he knows something?”

  “Aye.” This was a lie, and Toran was acting as fast as he could to save Archie from death. While he wished he could save them all, that was impossible. Even this hasty plan could fall awry. There was a very high probability that they were both going to die tonight, but at least he’d go to his maker knowing he’d done the right thing.

  “Fine. But as soon as you get what you need, bring him back out here to be dealt with.”

  Dealt with, like rubbish in need of disposal. The sour taste in Toran’s mouth grew stronger. After what he was about to do, he’d not be safe anywhere near the English. He’d be labeled a traitor, and the bounty on his head would likely be enough for even his own mother to turn him in, God rest her soul. Hell, he’d not be safe near the Scots either.

  Boyd flicked his hand, dismissing Toran, who walked over to Archie and yanked him up by his shackled arms.

  “Dinna say a word,” Toran warned quietly against Archie’s ear.

  “Where are ye taking me?” Archie shouted, ignoring Toran’s request.

  “If ye want to live, ye’ll shut your trap,” Toran warned once more, then nodded to Boyd. He half-dragged, half-carried his cousin back into the garrison, once a well-fortified Scots castle, the tenants long since evicted. Archie had been badly beaten, both lips split, one eye swollen shut, and a cut above his forehead that dripped down his face. An odd bump on his arm hinted at the broken bone beneath. He didn’t know if Archie wasn’t walking properly because of an injury, obstinacy, or exhaustion. And there was no time to figure it out.

  Toran dragged Archie through a musty corridor dimly lit by a few torches. He nodded to the guards they passed, praying that no one asked questions.

  “What are ye doing?” Archie asked. “Ye want to kill me yourself?”

  “Keep quiet,” Toran ordered.

  “I’ll not.”

  Toran pushed his cousin against the wall beneath a torch so Archie could see his eyes. Manhandling his cousin appeared to be the only way to get his attention. He gripped the front of Archie’s shirt and leaned in close to whisper. “I’m getting ye out of here. A task that will cost us both our lives if ye dinna shut your mouth and listen.”

  Archie’s one working eye widened, and then he nodded in understanding.

  Toran dragged him up a set of dark stairs, pausing to listen every half dozen or so, and then hurrying his cousin as much as possible considering the shackles. At the top of the stairs, he tossed his cousin over his shoulder—not an easy feat since Archie was nearly as tall and easily just as full of muscle. He whispered prayers up to a God he wasn’t certain would listen, given his many sins.

  But at last he found the door he was looking for, one that led to nowhere.

  “This will hurt,” Toran cautioned. “We’re at least fifteen feet in the air, and once we land, they’ll be able to smell us for miles.”

  “What?” Archie didn’t sound convinced by his plan.

  “There’s no time. ’Tis the only way. Are ye ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Toran didn’t hesitate but leapt, arms around his cousin, into the rubbish pile below. They landed with a thud and a disturbing squish.

  Archie groaned. Toran ignored the jolt of pain in his back from the landing. “Come on, we’ve not much time before Boyd tries to find out where we’ve gone. He’ll send out every man with a pistol he’s got to shoot us on sight.”

  Archie rose to his knees, gagging at the scent.

  “There’s no time to retch. We’ve got to run.” His hands under his cousin’s arms, Toran hauled him to standing, thanking the heavens the men had not been shackled at the ankles.

  “Have ye a key for these?” Archie asked, holding out his hands.

  “Nay, and I’ve had to leave my horse behind. Damned fine horse, too.” Thankfully anything incriminating he always kept on his person, sewn into the lining of his waistcoat—close to his heart, rather than with his mount.

  “Thank ye, Cousin.”

  “Thank me later. Now run.”

  Grabbing hold of Archie’s elbow, he dragged him out of the muck. They ran without looking back, keeping to the woods and hiding behind boulders to catch their breath. Toran had learned over his years of espionage that looking back only got a man killed. They ran for a mile or two following a familiar path, one Toran often took from the garrison to Fraser lands. Any other night he would have been glad for the fullness of the moon to light the way. But tonight he knew it gave them away, two hunched figures running for their lives.

  Archie stumbled over pebbles, roots, his own feet, often falling to his knees, and Toran continued to lift him up.

  “I canna, Cousin. Go on without me.” Archie sank to the ground, defeated.

  “I didna save ye from the English only to let ye die on the road.” Toran scanned the moors, waiting for the shadows of their pursuers to make themselves known. “We’ve got to get this muck off us. Boyd’s dogs will be following the scent.”

  Archie lifted his head. “Ye’re no’ going to leave me?”

  “Of course no’. Where’re your Fraser ballocks? Come on.”

  Archie mustered the strength to stand, but they weren’t going to be moving very fast. Thankfully, the sound of rushing water filtered from ahead. “Hurry, we’re close to the river.”

  Less than five minutes later, they were at the river’s edge. The glossy black depths reflected the moon and a sprinkle of stars. Holding onto Archie’s arm, Toran pulled him into the chilly water.

  “Ye didna drag me all this way just to see me drown, did ye?” Archie asked.

  Toran chuckled, feeling the weight of his kilt increase as water soaked into the wool. The river bottom sucked at his boots, but he waded in until they were waist deep. That was where the river bottom went out beneath them, and he had to swim the rest of the way across with his cousin in his grasp. “I’d not have risked my own arse only to drown ye in a river.”

  Once on the other side, Toran wrung out their kilts and shirts, dumped the water from their boots, and used the sharp tip of his sgian dubh to fiddle with the locks on the shackles, but the small dagger wasn’t narrow enough to fit.

  He pulled the pin from his neckerchief and despite the dark was able to use it to free his cousin from the chains, which he tossed into the water.

  Archie’s teeth chattered. “I dinna know how much further I can go.”

  “Only a little more,” Toran said.

  He had no idea wh
ere to take his cousin, but he did know staying this close to Boyd was a death sentence.

  Dressed again, they continued on their way. Though it was summer, the night air was cool, chilling their sodden clothes and shoes. Another thirty minutes or so passed while Archie’s gait continued to slow. Toran led his cousin to a good hiding spot behind a thick boulder that shielded them from view.

  “We’ll rest here a mo—” But he cut himself off at the sound of a stick breaking.

  Toran jerked around. Suddenly, figures melted out from the shadows. Scots, but in the dark and dressed as they were, he couldn’t make out what clan they hailed from. At the center of the five men stood a lass. Aye, she wore trews and had her hair up under a cap, wisps of golden strands peeking through, but there was no hiding the curves beneath her shirt and waistcoat. In the moonlight filtering through the trees, she looked bonnie—high, arching cheekbones, a mouth that puckered into a frown. But what struck him most was the spark of fire in her gaze. Her eyes reflected the light of the moon, almost making her look like she was glowing.

  And the muzzle of her pistol was pointed right at him. Outlaws… Of all the bloody luck. He reached for his own pistol tucked into his belt.

  “Dinna move,” the lass said. Her voice was throaty, sensual. “Else I put a bullet through your heart.”

  A slow grin formed on Toran’s face. “What’s to say I won’t put a bullet in yours first?”

  The lass looked down at Archie and then flicked her gaze back to his. “Ye’re outnumbered. Let’s say ye were willing to pull your weapon before I took my shot, and then ye were to waste your bullet, there’d be five more cutting through ye before ye were able to see the result.” Again, she looked at Archie. “And your friend doesna seem like he will be much help.”

  “We’re verra close to the English garrison, lass. Any shot ye make will be a beacon to the dragoons lurking about. And trust me, there are hundreds of them headed this way as we speak.”

  “Is that so?” She glanced at Archie once more. “A prison break? So ye two are rebels, aye?”

  Toran didn’t answer. Let her come to her own conclusions.

  “We have horses.” She kept her gaze on his, and he had the intense urge to draw closer. “Ye and your friend can have one when we return to my camp—for a price. Why not donate your coin to the cause and join us? We’ve a need for more rebels.”

  Toran did not want to join her. Now, if she’d asked him to join her for some mutual warmth under a plaid, that would be another story. Then again, she had a point about the bullets. And he truly did not want to die.

  “I’m guessing from your current circumstances ye are in need of a helping hand, sir.” Her voice was smooth, even melodic, but still filled with authority. And considering that she was the one speaking, she certainly gave the impression that she was the one in charge. Fascinating.

  A group of men led by a woman? Not a common thing, and intensely intriguing. Whoever she was, she had ballocks as full of steel as his own. And if he weren’t trapped in the woods with her, a hundred redcoats on his tail, he might have asked her to join him for a dram.

  “Who are ye?” Toran asked.

  A soft laugh escaped her, and her hand waved dismissively. “Not yet, sir. Ye’ll have to prove yourself first.”

  Prove himself? He gritted his teeth. “All right, we’ll join ye.” There really was no other choice. He and Archie needed a quick escape, and her horse would provide that. Just because he was taking her up on the offer now didn’t mean he had to stick it out. In fact, as soon as he could, he’d steal the horse and somehow get Archie back to Fraser lands where he could make certain the rest of his family was safe from Boyd.

  “Good.” She nodded to Dirk. “Search them for weapons, and then help the wounded man onto your horse.”

  Toran stood still for the inspection, gritting his teeth as his weapons were removed. “I’ve said we’d join ye. Why then are ye treating me like a prisoner?”

  The lass cocked her head to the side, a slight grin curling her upper lip. “We must first see that ye are trustworthy.” With an added challenge echoing in her words, she said, “Ye can ride with me. And dinna try any tricks, else ye find yourself verra dead.”

  The lass didn’t beat around the bush, and there was no hint of humor in her tone at all. She meant what she said.

  Toran climbed onto the back of her horse, his cold, wet body flush to her warmer, dry back. Beneath the icy exterior was a lass full of lush curves. Mo chreach… Good heavens, but she felt good. Hesitantly, he placed an arm around her waist.

  She shuddered. “Blast, but ye’re soaked,” she hissed. “Ye should have warned me. And ye smell like the devil’s own chamber pot.”

  Toran chuckled. “A hazard of escape, lass.”

  Her back straightened, and she leaned forward, away from him. “Ye can call me Mistress J.”

  Mistress J? Why did that sound familiar?

  “And ye are?” she urged.

  “I’m called Toran,” he said slowly as realization struck him. The night had taken a very interesting turn. For he was holding onto the woman he suspected might be responsible for his mother’s death.

  Two

  The ride back to the abandoned croft on Mackintosh lands seemed interminable. Behind Jenny, the strange warrior—who smelled as though he’d swum through hell before she’d found him—kept a firm grip around her waist.

  Despite his stench, his grasp was warm and powerful. Was it because he was a complete stranger that his touch, as simple as it should be, felt…different? Plenty of other men had touched her when they were training, and she’d never felt so…warm. There really was no other way to describe the sensation that toyed with her than that. Warmth. Desire.

  “Ye ride astride, like a man,” he pointed out, interrupting her disconcerting line of thought.

  Jenny wanted to ignore him, but it was too hard. Besides, she took offense to him saying only a man could sit a horse in this fashion. “I ride as I please.”

  He only grunted by way of answer, leaving her bristling. Maybe if she tossed him off the horse and put her boot to his throat, his grunt would turn to praise. Devil take it, what did she care about his approval?

  Why exactly had she forced him to join her? Absconding with men in the night, strong-arming them into her company was not her normal style of recruitment. So far the men she’d raised for the prince’s army had volunteered, all willing to fight for the cause. But she’d heard wind of a group of rebels planning a break-in at the garrison, and he and his companion had clearly escaped, which meant they knew the lay of the fortress, valuable information she could use.

  More than half of her senses were stuck on Toran, distracting her from the ride. His touch at her waist, the breadth of his body behind her, the low scrape of his brogue against her ear. If the situation—and his current unwashed state—were different, she might think he had a mind for seduction. If so, she might just have taken him up on it, if only to escape for but a moment from the world and thoughts of death.

  Dirk was giving her side glances from where he rode next to her, clearly questioning her motives. He thought her addled. But what other choice had there been? If she’d not taken them, the two strangers might have given her and her men up to the dragoons, even if it was unintentional. The one was badly injured, and they weren’t going to be able to outrun the bloody English bastards for long. If they’d been caught, there was no telling what they’d say to get out of it. She just couldn’t risk it.

  So here they were, with two recruits who may or may not be loyal, one of whose hard chest was pressed so flush against her back their breathing could have been from one body. Jenny purposefully changed the rhythm of her breathing, but he continued to match hers. She didn’t know whether to be irritated or find humor in it. She decided irritation was the safest emotion and forced herself to focus on the road. She urged her
mount to go faster. The sooner they arrived at the croft, the sooner she could have the blasted man off her back. Literally.

  The hours did not fly by as she’d hoped, but eventually the familiar trees and rising crags came into view, and not a single dragoon had been sighted along the way. As they passed key lookout points, Dirk mimicked a bird of prey. The calls he sent into the air were answered by someone in the distance—announcing their presence so they would not be shot by the scouts she had strategically placed to guard the croft they’d commandeered as the rebellion’s headquarters.

  When they eventually reached the croft doors, another signal would be given to those within by a certain knock at the door. A signal that they’d have to change if Toran and his companion chose to flee. Maybe she should change it anyway once he was returned to wherever his clan was, even if he did commit to the cause. And with that notion she paused, realizing she didn’t know what clan he was from as his plaid was plain and covered in muck.

  A cold knot formed in her belly. Every other recruit she’d picked up had been known to her, from conversation before the request or personal referrals. But Toran was a mystery.

  She would find out before this night was through.

  The farm’s main yard had a low stone fence surrounding it to keep in the animals, though the sheep often hopped over the enclosure without effort, as did the horses if the keepers weren’t careful. This particular croft held about ten acres of land, with a forest along the left side that curved around the back and acted as a natural barrier. The rest of the acres were covered in lush green grass for the few cattle and sheep they had to graze.

  The thatched-roof house was just a main room with a cot, a table and cooking area, and a back chamber whose walls were lined with more cots. Above was a loft where the men who worked the croft lived.