with high cheekbones, plush rose-colored lips, and light-blue eyes.
At his side was a pretty woman a few years older than Jenny, her dark curls styled in delicate ringlets that hung to her shoulders. She wore an elegant gown of creamy silk, embroidered with roses. It made Jenny feel only slightly self-conscious of her trews and frock coat.
When Jenny was announced, the prince looked up from his conversation, his eyes scanning her with what could only be called amusement, and he beckoned her forward. The crowd parted, allowing her to come closer.
“Your Highness,” Jenny said, starting into a low bow but then quickly changing to a curtsy despite her lack of gown.
The prince laughed. “Ma chérie,” he said. The prince had been raised in Rome and spent some time in France, but she had supposed that he would have spent all his time in the company of his own courtiers and developed their accents, for his was a mixture of Italian and French.
His eyes widened in recognition. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Jenny, though I have heard that I should instead call you Mistress J. I still owe you and your clan a visit.”
A giddy pleasure rippled through her at his use of her title and the fact that he respected her enough to say it as though it were a truth. And she supposed it was now, if the prince was declaring it so.
“Aye, I am one and the same. We’d be honored for ye to visit us.” She felt the color rising in her cheeks. “I’ve brought ye over three hundred soldiers to aid in the fight as well as wagons of weapons, coin, and other provisions. Will ye accept our gifts, Your Highness?”
“I am more than honored, my lady. We are extremely pleased with your gift and to name you our royal subject.” He took her hand in his and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “A formidable adversary you will be to our friends in the south.”
“Not only those in the south,” she said. Her stomach twisted at what she had to tell him. But it was like any wound that needed tending; ignoring it wouldn’t make it better. “I must tell you that my brother Hamish, the former Lord Mackintosh, fights for Cumberland.”
“Ah, well, I have heard this much. Brother against brother, father against son. And for you, sister against brother—this will be hard, no?”
“Aye, but I know I’m on the right side. When he meets his maker, my brother will regret the choices he’s made.” She only hoped she didn’t have to be the one to deliver him there.
“He will, my lady. You will be a valuable asset to Murray who commands my troops.”
A man approached, speaking softly to the prince in an Irish brogue. One of his seven men of Moidart, no doubt—men who had come over from France with him, a mixture of English, Scottish, and Irish subjects.
Dismissed, Jenny returned to her men to find Annie and Lady MacPherson, her mother, sitting with Dirk inside her tent. Jenny embraced her friend and then looked for Fiona, but their third was not yet present.
“Jenny,” Annie said, gaining her attention. “We’ve no’ many men in our contingent, and they all get along well with yours. We all fight under the direction of General Murray.” She gestured at the dozen MacPherson warriors who mingled with the Mackintoshes.
“Aye, I’m glad.”
Their rest in Glasgow was not long. They stayed a few days, their time filled with hours of training, the regaling of tales from the battles of Prestonpans and Derby, and Jenny’s nerves growing thinner and thinner. She met often with Murray, learning as much as she could about battle tactics. While she would take direction from him, her men were to take direction from her. And so after her meetings with Murray, she gathered her men to discuss the tactics they would take in the coming days—in particular that the prince had informed Murray the Mackintosh army was to be at the frontline of the battle.
She longed for a moment alone with Toran. Even a brief conversation would have been nice.
And then the horn blew—a sound they’d all been eager to hear.
It was time to march into battle.
* * *
Jenny’s heart thrummed like the pounding of imaginary drums as they made their way toward the battle point. The moment of attack had been chosen, a strike when the English would be least expecting it. A surprise attack. She and her three hundred men were