Whoever it was sprinted toward the woods, their speed increasing with every step, but Toran too could run like the devil. The kilt-wearing devil was a man, or at least appeared to be one, from the back. Tall and lithe, his hair covered by a cap, and a sword whacking against his thigh as he ran.
Toran caught up to the fugitive, tackling them to the ground, with both of them grunting at the impact.
“I’m not going to hurt ye,” Toran growled. Slowly letting up his weight on the fellow, he rolled him over, recognizing him instantly. “Mac.”
“I told ye not to come back.” Mac shoved away from Toran.
“And yet here I am.”
“Go back to where ye came from.”
“That is impossible. Besides, I only left to bring more recruits back.” He nodded toward his family.
Mac studied the three of them with narrowed eyes. “How do I know ’tis not a trap?”
“Come see for yourself. If it’ll make ye feel better, ye can hold a blade against me.”
Mac grunted and pushed himself up. “Maybe I will.”
Toran walked in front of Mac to make the man feel a little more at ease, though he was surprised to find that Mac didn’t take him up on the offer to hold a blade against him.
At the horses, Mac glanced up and demanded, “Who are ye?”
“Simon Fraser.”
“Isla Fraser.”
“Camdyn Fraser.”
Mac groaned. “Ye brought me a bunch of bloody Frasers?”
“Frasers’ll—” Toran cut off whatever threat Simon was about to spit out.
“My cousin, Simon, is son of the Fraser chief. Mistress J could use someone like that on her side. And these two are my brother and sister. Young, impressionable, and with a great interest in seeing their country restored for future generations.”
Mac hesitated, his body still tense. “I’m not the one to make the call. I’ll bring ye to Mistress J and let her decide whether to toss your arse into the dungeon. Pardon my language, Miss,” he said with a doff of his cap in Isla’s direction.
Toran nodded. “Good. I think she’ll see reason.”
“I doubt it. Ye forget I know what happened inside the croft. I’m hoping she puts your arse in the dungeon.”
“If she wishes to see me rot, I will do her bidding if only to prove my loyalty.”
“Brother,” Isla said with a gasp, but one stern look from Toran had her quieting.
“If it pleases ye, Mac, take us to Mistress J. We beg an audience.” Then, gaze locked on Simon, he said, “Dinna make me regret taking ye along.”
“Ye didna have a choice,” Simon scoffed.
“There is always a choice.”
“Quit your griping else I change my mind. And ye’ll have to wear these over your head.” Mac pulled several sackcloths from inside his saddlebag. “Dinna need ye running off to tell where we’ve gone. And trust me, in this, ye have no choice.”
Six
Every crack of thunder outside the castle had Jenny wincing. Less than a day after the massive move, a letter arrived from Hamish that he was sending a contingent of his men home to gather fresh supplies and horses.
She should be grateful that he wasn’t coming himself and that with the advance warning she could get the supplies ready and send his men on their way as quickly as possible—along with three from home whom she knew to be his staunch supporters. They’d woken up with wicked hangovers from the sleeping draught she’d had slipped into their drinks, and Dirk and several other men had pretended to wake up the same way, so as to put them off from thinking they’d been singled out. Not one of them seemed to notice the new people in attendance, which was perfect.
Jenny was trying to look at Hamish’s demands as a blessing in disguise, since they gave her an excuse to send away the men who made her nervous. The problem was that every extra pair of hose, every bullet, every ration of grain that she piled into the waiting wagons felt like a betrayal to her cause.
There was no choice. If she refused to send her brother what he requested, then he would suspect her of treason and tear the castle apart looking for evidence. Risking their entire mission and the safety of her men was not worth the price it cost to her heart to load up the wagons. So she’d make certain they worked hard to whittle down the list of her brother’s demands.
The place at the head of the table reserved for the laird sat empty, though she longed to