Wind whipped at Jenny Mackintosh’s hair as she raced for her life to escape from the English. She and her small band of men pushed their mounts to the limit, flying across the moors, the crack of pistols cutting the night air behind them. At any moment, she’d feel the sting of a bullet in her back.
What else should a rebel recruiting an army expect?
Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her back, and her hands trembled against the leather straps of the reins.
“To the forest,” she called to her five partners in rebellion following behind her, but her words were lost in the noisy thrum of pounding hooves against the earth. Leaning to the right, she urged her horse down a slope, over a boulder, and onto an unmarked path that led toward the forest, hoping they’d lose the redcoats.
The shouts of the dragoons behind them were fainter now, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger.
She burst through the trees, and a twig caught in her hair, the wrench stinging her scalp. Still, she didn’t cry out.
Once she knew they were out of sight, she reined in her horse, her heart racing. Jenny tugged the twig from her hair and threw it on the ground, wishing it were the bloody English so she could stomp them into dust as easily. She stroked her mount’s mane, patting his neck in thanks for the hard gallop, then reached up to rub at the tightness in her own.
They waited in silence, their breaths growing slower as the minutes ticked by. The shots had ceased the moment she and her soldiers had been able to break away from their enemies’ sight, but the pounding of the horses’ advance still thundered in her ears—or was that her heart?
Jenny focused her gaze through the foliage and waited for the dragoons to catch up. They’d only been caught once, a few months ago. Jenny had escaped with her life that time, but there were several others who hadn’t been as lucky. King George, the usurper, had sent his dragoons to apprehend anyone with sympathies to Prince Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Great Britain. King George had given Charles the moniker the Young Pretender, and his father, the Old Pretender.
Prince Charlie’s father, King James, had named him Regent of Great Britain, and regent was the name under which she and other Jacobite supporters were bent on returning the prince to the throne. King George would be tossed back to Germany where he had been born and raised and should have remained.
Despite the brightness of tonight’s moon that allowed them a good view of the road, the brambles and pines were thick, veiling her and her men’s massive horses from their enemies. When the first half dozen redcoats rode past, they did not see the Scots hidden just a few feet away. They barely slowed, too busy chasing phantoms.
As soon as they passed, Jenny and her men let out a collective sigh, only to freeze as several more dragoons rounded the bend and headed right for them. Eyes wide as the moon above, she watched them advance. The gold buttons on their muted red coats glinted in the moonlight, as did the muzzles of their muskets, their pistols, and the hilts of the thin swords at their hips.
Their dress was so different from that of the Scots. They wore starched white breeches, where her men were allowed freedom of movement in their plaids. Stiff tricorns covered their heads, while the Scots wore soft woolen caps that were broad and flat on the top. When Scots were feeling particularly rebellious, they pinned white rosette cockades on them in support of the Stuart line.
The redcoat leader issued an unintelligible order, and for a second, she thought the dragoon was staring right at her. Would he order his men into the forest? Her lungs burned for air, but she couldn’t risk even the tiniest sound be heard by these bloodthirsty monsters.
She touched her pistol, prepared to shoot if needed, but then he was pointing and shouting for his men to continue down the road. Jenny watched them kick their horses into a gallop, clouds of dust following in their wake.
Only once the dust settled did Jenny allow herself a moment to exhale. Despite the risk she was taking every time she came out here, there was no way she’d stop her nightly missions. The fate of the entire Mackintosh clan was