“He’s gone to the loch, my lady, likely then off to see the healer.”
She nodded, and more of the men filtered into the barracks, including Toran’s cousin Simon with a leering expression.
“Mac, tell him I should like to see him first thing in the morning.”
“Aye, my lady.” Her guard bowed, and Jenny got the hell out of there as fast as she could.
Eight
The dark of night, when all was quiet, was the time in which Toran found his thoughts the loudest, and tonight was not any different.
He’d settled into his cot, surprised at its comfort. The bruises on his face and ribs had been dulled by the three drams of whisky he’d downed with the men who’d attempted to befriend him after Jenny had left the barracks. After he’d made certain she’d not found the coded message he’d yet to cipher. Sneaking past Simon was going to be an effort.
Jenny… What had she been doing with that naked drawing? The idea of her looking at it had aroused him too much. Seeing the flush on her cheeks, the way the pulse point in her neck leapt and her breasts rose and fell at a rapid pace beneath her shawl—the shawl that split apart at her throat, showing just a hint of the soft mounds it covered with every breath she took. It had required every ounce of willpower he possessed not to kiss her. Not to toss her onto the cot or simply bend her back over the one she’d fallen onto.
Had that been her aim? To seduce him so that he didn’t ask questions? He shifted uncomfortably on the cot, something digging into his back.
From what he knew of her, he highly doubted that was true. Only everything about her had his head turning. Even her lingering scent had him lifting his chin to take in a deep draw of floral, spicy air.
It didn’t matter if she wasn’t aiming to seduce him, for it was happening naturally. And it was appalling. The woman had obviously been in the barracks to snoop through his things and happened upon the wrong satchel. The portrait must have belonged to Camdyn, which meant he had some talking to do with the young chap about taking precautions with the lasses.
His brother slept soundly beside him, not in the least aware that Jenny Mackintosh had found his private image. The lad would be mortified. But not half as mortified as she’d been when Toran had spied her looking. It had been fun to tease her, to taunt her and watch her flounder. She had been trying so hard earlier to seem calm.
Knowing sleep wouldn’t come, Toran rose to do what he did best—and to make good on his original vow when he’d first uncovered her identity. Time to do some snooping of his own and to see if he could figure out the missive he’d stolen off the dead dragoons.
Simon snored, laying flat on his stomach, face buried in the cot. None of the men stirred as Toran crept past them. He feared the creaking of the hinges when he opened the door, but for safety’s sake, they kept the joints well oiled. Not a sound was made as he opened it and stepped outside.
Morning mist covered the ground, and the sky was a hazy gray. A raven’s wings flapped overhead, disturbed from its perch on top of the barracks.
The bailey was not guarded, though several men were up on the walls keeping watch, none of whom turned around to see him. The moon was still visible low in the sky, and heaped in the bailey were the sleeping forms of a few of the men who’d stayed up well past midnight preparing wagons for Jenny’s brother.
That had to hurt the lass’s pride. To be a rebel in charge of so many, and at the same time forced to aid her brother who sided with the English. What a blow. He shouldn’t even care, and yet he did. He also cared to find out what exactly was in the wagons.
Toran snuck over to the three wagons, overloaded and covered with woven tarpaulins. On the far side, out of view of the men who slept and those who guarded the walls, he lifted one corner to peer inside. Hard to tell—all he saw were lumpy sacks piled high. He ran his hands over the sacks. Felt like oats and grains. At the other end were large casks, filled, he supposed, with