Jenny grinned, excitement thrumming in her veins. She had no doubt she was doing the right thing. Soon she’d be bowing before the regent, a leader who could oust the English from Scotland for good. And then she’d look into her brother’s eyes, and instead of executing him for his betrayal, she’d sway him back to the cause. Wishful thinking, aye.
For now, she needed to focus on what lay ahead. The risks she took could get her killed, and yet she seized them boldly. Fear had no place in a rebellion. Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. But one had to master their fear. And if there was one thing she’d been good at since she was a bairn, it was taking control over anything that scared her.
“We ride.” Jenny took the reins in both hands as she nudged her heel into her mount’s flank.
* * *
“Bloody hell,” Toran Fraser muttered under his breath.
It was nearing midnight as he stood in the center of the English garrison’s courtyard, working hard to hide his alarm. His cousin Archie stood among the condemned. The men had been dragged behind horses, hands shackled in front of them, and in the torchlight it was clear they’d been viciously beaten. Each of them was still dressed in his traditional Highland attire—kilts, shirts, waistcoats, boots. But they’d been stripped of their weapons.
And in mere moments, they’d be stripped of their lives. This was not what was supposed to happen. Aye, he’d intended for the rebels to be caught…but executed? He’d been naive to believe Boyd when he’d said he’d use the men to extort information. Served him right for trusting a bloody Englishman.
Of course Archie recognized Toran. The surprise and hope in his gaze quickly turned to outright disgust when he realized that Toran was standing beside the very English Captain Thomas Boyd.
Toran shifted uneasily. He, too, wore a kilt in Fraser colors. Boyd believed him a loyal deserter, taking up the position his father had vacated upon death, but understood Toran had to play the part of a Scotsman to gather information to hand over. Even so, if Archie let slip that he’d just spoken with Toran about Boyd’s plan to trap the rebels, then he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the English captain. It was a careful line to walk—having betrayed one allegiance meant that his new one would always be suspicious, and with good reason.
But family was family despite allegiances. Toran followed in his father’s footsteps, solidly on the side of King George’s government, while some of his family had chosen to support the Young Pretender, Prince Charles.
Toran had cautioned Archie to stay out of the rebels’ planned break-in, refusing to relay how he knew of Boyd’s plan. His cousin had obviously ignored his warnings. Maybe Archie had not believed him, or maybe he’d warned the men that it was a trap, and they’d devised a new foolish plan. It didn’t matter. The English had won this fight.
Bloody hell!
The only reason that his cousin was imprisoned at all was due to the information Toran had seeded for the rebels, who believed him to be one of them, about the garrison’s weaknesses.
Archie was knocked to his knees by a boot to the back of the leg. His gaze never left Toran, silently declaring him a traitor to his country and his own family. Could Toran really stand there and watch his cousin be hanged?
Disgust at himself made Toran’s insides burn. He cleared his throat. The knot of his neckerchief grew tighter and tighter, cutting off his air supply. Never once since he’d made his choice had Toran regretted dancing on this double-edged sword. His mother had been sacrificed by Jacobite rebels she’d trusted. How could Toran not try to seek vengeance in her name?
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?”