The Rebel Wears Plaid Page 8

Toran grinned, proud of the backbone his sister had—another trait she’d inherited from their mother.

  Camdyn stopped a couple of feet away, nodding to his brother, though Toran saw a yearning for an embrace in his eyes as well. Staring at his brother was like glancing into a looking glass, the same dark hair falling around their shoulders and eyes that were blue as an afternoon sky. With a year or two more to grow, Camdyn might end up being as tall as Toran himself, but for now he came just about up to his chin. His body was lanky, not yet filled in with a man’s muscles, and his face was smooth of any of the hardness war would soon give him.

  “Ye look well,” Toran said.

  “Ye look alive,” Camdyn replied with a quirk to his lip. “We thought ye were dead.”

  Toran clapped his brother on the back, squeezed his shoulder, and then rubbed his hand over the lad’s hair.

  “Why are ye not dead?” their uncle said from across the room.

  Simon slinked into the great hall then, leaning against the wall by the door, a grin of evil satisfaction on his face.

  Toran faced the man who’d raised him after the death of his father. “Uncle.”

  “Leave us,” his uncle demanded, and those at the table leapt up. “Ye too,” he instructed Camdyn and Isla. “Go with Simon.”

  Toran offered his siblings an encouraging smile, not willing to let them know how much the escalating situation worried him. Nor did he want to let on his feelings to his uncle and cousin.

  No matter how careful Toran had been, with his uncle’s constant spying, the chief of clan Fraser would have figured out at least some parts of Toran’s dealings. The problem was, though the old Fox had made his declarations to the Jacobites, it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d done so and then swung round to the usurper’s side. It always came down to whomever was willing to give him a better deal. Aye, Toran had lied when he’d agreed to join the Jacobite cause with his cousin Archie, but how was that any different than what his uncle was doing?

  Revenge was a seed Toran had kept hidden in the shadows, along with his irritation at the old Fox for doing nothing about Toran’s mother’s death. She’d been his niece, daughter to his own sister, and married to one of the Fraser men, Toran’s father. Her naked, battered body, covered in bloody gashes, swollen and bruised, hair torn from her head, had been delivered to the castle doors in a pine box carved with the name Mistress J and with a note pinned to her bare breast that simply read Traitor.

  The morning of Toran’s mother’s death, the old chief had aligned himself once more with the Jacobites and wasn’t willing to question them about her death. For it was they who had killed her, his uncle and Boyd had confirmed that. His uncle’s lack of interest in avenging his niece’s brutal murder felt like a stab in the back, and Toran had decided to take matters into his own hands.

  When Toran kept silent, the tension in the room became palpable. By now his uncle would have heard what had happened at the prison, though not necessarily which side Toran had been on. Clearly he’d presumed Toran dead as well, along with the others.

  The Fox drummed his fingers on the table, gaze boring into Toran. But he didn’t squirm. Instead, he sauntered toward the table and sat down casually at the other end. He’d subsisted on dried meat and bannocks for days, and the scent of the stew made his mouth water. But the first bite tasted bitter as he remembered those he’d left behind and the threat of his presence here became more than clear.

  “Do ye know what a traitor’s death is?” the Fox asked, swirling his spoon slowly in his stew.

  Mo chreach, so this was how it was going to be. How easily his uncle had given him up. “I dinna know a man who doesna.” Tied around the ankles, a traitor would be dragged to the hangman’s noose by a horse, where he’d be hanged until he was only mostly dead. Then cut down, still gasping, body filled with pain, he’d have his twig and berries chopped off and his guts pulled from his body to be burned before his still-breathing body. Only then would he have his head chopped off and his body quartered. For certes, it was not a good way to go.

  “So ye understand, then, what ye’re risking. That it is not just your life in danger.”

  Isla and Camdyn. Toran’s heart kicked against his ribs. “When will Boyd be here?” He was done playing this game. He’d not let the man intimidate him. It was clear from Simon’s warning and from his uncle’s cryptic talk that he planned to give Toran over.

  “Soon.”

  Toran slowly stood, keeping his face a mask of disinterest. The Fox stared up at him but didn’t move or signal anyone to apprehend him.

  “I believe we’ve overstayed our welcome,” Toran said.

  “We?” his uncle challenged.

  “Aye. I’m taking Isla and Camdyn to the MacGillivrays. We’ve not visited with my mother’s clan for some time.” That was of course a lie, but he wasn’t about to give his uncle any further information.

  Toran expected the man to argue, to demand more information. But he only nodded slowly, eyes studying him with the practiced ease of a man used to lies. His silence was more terrifying than if he’d ranted. Fortunately for Toran, he’d been thwarting that gaze for more than two decades.

  “Simon will go with ye.”

  Toran ground his teeth. “Nay.”

  “He’ll go with ye or ye’ll not go at all.”

  It was a trap. A guard and spy for his uncle. So though he was going to let Toran out of here, to let him live a little longer, he wasn’t letting him go completely.

  Sly bastard.

  He was lucky that Boyd had not yet come for him. It would only be a matter of time, which meant he had to leave as soon as possible, and with his siblings. They would be punished in his place if he were to go. He knew how Boyd worked. The man was an evil bastard. He also knew very well how cold his great-uncle’s heart was, and Simon wasn’t any better. His cousin would twist a dagger in Toran’s chest the first chance he got.

  Toran would not go down without a fight, and neither would his siblings. Though he was young, Camdyn was skilled with a sword. Hell, Isla could gut a man if given the chance.

  Toran grinned, though it wasn’t truly a smile. “Fine.”

  And where the hell was he even going to go? A flash in his mind of beautiful and angry emerald eyes nearly stopped his heart. Jenny. The way she’d blasted him with that heated look when she’d believed him to have betrayed her. He didn’t blame her—she’d been right. That was clearly not an option.

  Then again she might be the perfect option. Archie had sworn he’d keep Camdyn and Isla safe and at the very least would offer to take them in. And Simon might prove to be useful. As the son of the Fox and newly on the side of the rebels, he’d be the perfect peace offering for Jenny, at least on the outside, in order to gain her trust. There was always the chance that she would see Simon as a potential threat, and in that case, he’d be imprisoned, and Toran could brush his hands of his wretched cousin.

  Despite what had happened, Toran still had a personal mission to figure out who was responsible for his mother’s death. The loss of her left a gaping wound in his chest that would continue to bleed until he got to the bottom of it. He needed to make one last attempt to infiltrate the rebels. He’d offer his apologies, even accept her tossing him into her version of a prison, if he had to prove to her that he was true.

  If there was one thing Toran had learned over the years, it was how to play each side just right.

  * * *

  Jenny’s muscles screamed from exertion, midnight long since come and gone.

  They’d managed to move all of their stores from the compromised croft and grounds to Cnàmhan Broch and done so without encountering any redcoats, which might have been more effort than the actual manual labor.

  They’d had to do it one wagonload at a time and with satchels packed to the brim strapped to their backs. They’d sent a few things on horseba
ck but with only a limited number of riders so as not to draw attention. Every step had been an effort, but Jenny had borne it without complaint, taking fully loaded sacks just like any of her men.

  She’d made it a point since she’d first begun never to let herself falter in any task simply because she was a woman. Aye, there were some things she physically couldn’t do, such as take two satchels at a time like Dirk, but she damned well wasn’t going to go empty-handed. Her men respected her all the more for the efforts she put into pulling her own weight ten times over.

  Sneaking the items into the castle had been something else she’d worried over. Despite their use of the hidden tunnels, they’d still had to do a lot of carrying through the castle stairs and corridors. The few men who still supported her brother couldn’t be made aware of their presence. In fact, it had been Mac’s job to find them, ply them with whisky laced with a sleeping agent, and put them to bed so they’d be none the wiser. But secondly, where could they hide the coins and weapons so that Hamish wouldn’t happen across them if he made a surprise visit?

  At first, she’d thought of the dungeon, but while she didn’t plan to have to toss anyone into its dark depths, she didn’t want to cut it off from use completely should they have need to confine someone.

  Someone like Toran. She had a vision of him standing in the croft, arms crossed and the muscles of his corded shoulders and biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt, his ice-blue eyes watching her every move. Blast it all, but he was a handsome, dangerous devil—and it still rankled her something fierce that he’d been able to trick her. If she ever got her hands on him… Nay, when she got her hands on him, she was going to make him pay.

  Was Toran going to be that one problem she envisioned?

  At least with Hamish off kissing Sassenach arse they were safe for now. As long as he stayed away. She could never really be too sure about his movements since he rarely wrote home, save for when he was demanding supplies for his men. It had been two years since she’d last seen him, luckily, but the threat of his return was always hanging over her head.

  They’d decided on the chamber in the highest part of the tower in case the tunnels were breached by the enemy, one that had been used as storage for old gowns, weapons, supplies, pieces of furniture. A place to keep things no one wanted and subsequently a place where no one went.

  With the last of her satchels stored behind the slats of an ancient bed upstairs, Jenny collapsed into an old oak chair in the great hall, the same chair her grandfather used to sit in and hold her on his knee as he regaled her with stories of the first Jacobite uprising, when he’d been a young man.

  “Ye shouldna have sneaked off like ye did,” Dirk said.

  Jenny blinked at her cousin, so exhausted she’d not even noticed he’d entered. She was too tired to even roll her eyes at him.

  “What are ye talking about?”

  “This morning. Mac told me what happened. Are ye all right?”

  Jenny tapped nervously on the arm of the chair. She’d hoped that he’d not have found out about Captain Boyd, but there was nothing for it now. “I’m fine. Besides, I’m glad I went out there, or our men and our hidden stores would have been depleted.”

  Dirk grunted. “Ye know what I’m going to say.”

  “Aye, and I’ll tell ye again that the cause is worth more than my life.”

  “A point we will always disagree on.”

  Jenny leaned forward and held out a folded piece of paper. “I need ye to get this to Fiona.”

  Their dearest friend Fiona’s role in the rebellion was as a courier, delivering secret messages and packages between the clans. No one would ever suspect a lass of such a task, and so far she’d been able to get away with it. Of the three of them, Jenny often thought, Fiona’s choice of position was the most dangerous.

  “She’ll pass on the message that we’ve…moved.”

  Dirk took the piece of paper. “What does Lady Mackintosh say about all this?”

  Jenny glanced up toward the rafters, imagining what her mother might be up to at that moment. “She’s asleep. Has no’ come down. But given she was devastated when Hamish left us, I dinna think she will object.”

  Dirk raised a brow. “About which part?”

  Jenny bristled at the implied threat of exposure to her mother of her position within the Jacobite army. “Leave off it, Cousin.”

  “She will worry.”

  “As would any mother, but what I’m doing is the right thing. The prince needs all the support he can get so future mothers dinna have to worry over their daughters.”

  “I did no’ say otherwise.”

  “Ye implied.”

  Dirk held up his hands in resignation, the folded missive pressed to his palm by his thumb. “I imply nothing other than my admiration for ye.”

  “Och, I dinna have time for your games, Dirk.” Jenny pushed out of her chair, prepared to stalk away from him, irritated more so than usual by her exhaustion.

  He stopped her, his voice softening. “Answer me one more thing before I’m on my way.”

  She waved her hand in permission, too tired to speak.

  “We rounded up two new recruits the other day, but alas, there seems only to be one left.”

  Jenny regarded Dirk, waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, she found the energy to reply, “Is there a question in your comment?” She knew exactly what he was after, but at least she didn’t have to answer right away.

  Dirk crossed his arms over his chest. “Where is he? Will he be a problem?”

  Jenny stiffened, narrowing her gaze on her cousin. She loved the man dearly, but he was in a combative mood, and she needed to stand her ground. “I questioned Archie. He says Toran went to their uncle’s holding to get his siblings. That they’d be in danger after what happened at the garrison. The man is not safe on either side. He’ll not bring us trouble, especially when he could have already. Besides, he left his cousin with us, and we have to trust that after saving him from the garrison, he’d not want to bring harm to Archie.”

  “What do ye mean ‘could have already’?”

  “When the dragoons were at our door, he didna call them in.”

  “He was a fugitive.”

  “We knew that.”

  “So ye trust him.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “I didna say that.”

  “What makes ye think we can trust Archie?”

  “I didna say that either, but so far he’s given no cause not to trust him.”

  “Other than being the relation of a blasted liar.”

  Jenny sighed. “The fact that he stayed when he could have run.”

  “As a spy. The Frasers are all spies.”

  “He’s got a guard on him at all times, Dirk. I’m not going to toss him out and risk him running to the other side. He already knows too much. Instead of labeling him an enemy, why not embrace him into the fold? He may end up being one of our best soldiers.”

  Dirk’s frown gave away everything he wasn’t saying. “When did Toran run? Before or after the captain touched ye?”

  Jenny’s face heated with both anger and embarrassment from the memory. “Ye’re a prig, Dirk.”

  Dirk’s arms fell to his sides, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry, lass. I shouldna have brought it up. I’m just… There’s no excuse for it.” He took two wide steps, closing the distance between them, and pulled her into his arms.

  She was stiff at first, angry and hurt, but then softened. She couldn’t stay angry at Dirk for long, even if he did let his mouth fly more often than he should.

  “Forgive me,” he said, his voice full of emotion. “I just wish I could have been there to protect ye. I am angrier with myself than anyone else.”

  “Ye’d have gotten yourself killed, and then I’d never forgive ye. But for your angry words, aye, all is par
doned.” Jenny pulled away from Dirk, patted his chest. “I dinna know what I’d do without ye, Cousin. But for now, let us keep our eyes and ears peeled for Toran—though I dinna expect to see him ever again. We’ve no way of knowing if he made it to his uncle. In the meantime, we’ll pray for the Green Lady of Cnàmhan Broch to protect our treasures.”

  All their precious supplies were waiting, piled almost in plain sight, high in the tower. Jenny prayed that the stories of the Green Lady’s ghost would help her keep the room as deserted as it should be. But more than that—a dozen of her recruits had been smuggled in as well, now dressed in local fashions and hiding in plain sight. When her brother’s men, who’d been drugged to keep them from finding out what they were up to, woke tomorrow, she feared the questions they’d be asking.

  * * *

  Wisps of silver clouds danced across the beams of moonlight overhead.

  “It’s an abandoned croft,” Simon said accusingly. “What the bloody hell are we doing here?”

  Toran narrowed his eyes. Indeed the croft did appear to be abandoned. But that didn’t mean it was. It could also mean that Jenny and her men had signaled one another of their approach.

  Without answering Simon, Toran dismounted from his horse and told Isla and Camdyn to stay put.

  Cautiously, he approached the dark and quiet croft, keeping his footsteps light. His sword weighed heavy at his side, but he didn’t pull it out for fear whoever was watching might take that as a sign of attack, which this wasn’t.

  Recalling the signal Jenny and Dirk had used, the bird of prey, he pursed his lips and made the same call.

  But there was no answer. Reaching the croft door, he pressed his fingers to the wood and pushed. The hinges were silent as the door creaked open to reveal that the croft was indeed empty—even the furniture was gone.

  What the devil… Toran ran a hand through his hair. This was the right croft. He’d have known it anywhere.

  But the rebels had clearly abandoned it after Boyd’s visit. This did not bode well for him. How was he going to find them?

  The slightest whisper of a running figure caught Toran’s attention, and he whirled around, half expecting to find Simon charging him, but his three companions still sat on their horses. Behind them, however, he caught sight of a darting figure.