“Sounds like a good woman.”
“She is.”
They finished saddling the horses and brought them to the courtyard as the men approached with satchels of supplies and skins of water.
From the darkened windows of the manor house, shadowed faces appeared, almost as if floating above bodies that couldn’t be seen. The men moved out in silence, taking their time in the woods and checking for any hints of movement and all the tracks they could find. The sounds of the battle had ebbed, which wasn’t a good sign. It meant the redcoats would soon be scanning the surrounding areas looking for survivors they could murder or take prisoner.
“Prince Charles would be smart never to return to Culloden House,” Sorley offered as they went down the road, riding beside Brogan at the head of their pack, the lass centered between them.
“Aye,” Brogan said.
“Where do ye think he’s gone?”
“My bet is on where he landed. Ship’s still there.” Brogan slid his glance toward the lass to see if she reacted, but she kept silent. She wasn’t going to spill a word until he’d helped her deliver her message to the men at Ruthven.
“Ye think he’ll flee the country?”
“Nay, but he’ll seek refuge in a place he knows Cumberland will have a harder time finding him.”
“Then do ye no’ think that Cumberland would look there first, at his ships?”
Brogan didn’t answer, hoping to gain some clue from the lass between them. The sound of approaching riders had them all on alert.
They edged off the road, taking refuge in a copse just a few feet away and not as well hidden as Brogan would have liked. Hell, it was damn near impossible to hide seven men, a woman, and eight horses, but they did the best they could.
Six redcoats barreled past them as if their lives depended on it. Coats flapped against the flanks of their horses, making them all a windswept blur as they went.
“Messengers,” Sorley said.
“How do ye know?”
He shrugged. “I can just tell.”
Brogan narrowed his gaze. “Who are ye?”
“I’m really no one, trust me. Though I’ve been called the Retriever before.”
Brogan snorted.
Sorley rolled his eyes. “Ye’re lucky to have me with ye. I’ve retrieved any number of people from where they’ve tried to hide.”
“Might ye retrieve King George and send him back to Hanover?”
“I’d have loved to do that, man, trust me.”
Brogan grunted, and they all moved back out onto the road.
“But I’m willing now to put my skills to use in finding our prince.”
“And so ye think he’s gone to his ship?”
“I wager he’s headed there.”
“Ye’re the retriever, after ye.”
“I’ve a feeling I’ll regret telling ye that.”
“Ye might.”
Behind them, the men snickered, not to be outdone by the derisive snort of the imp between them. And just as suddenly, all of them stopped. Carried on the wind was the unmistakable sound of men…marching. Only one troop of men would be marching so loudly through these woods—dragoons.
The lass’s head whipped backward, staring down the road in the opposite direction, at the same time Sorley let out a low whistle.
“Come,” Brogan muttered under his breath, hurrying his mount up the incline and into the trees where they could easily watch the road below but not be seen. Sorley and the men followed.
The imp didn’t argue, surprisingly.
As the troop of dragoons passed, the eight of them remained utterly silent, their horses complying to the silent command as well.
About two dozen redcoats marched, their uniforms mucked from battle, faces smeared with soot and blood. Not a single one of them was clean, each of them having participated in the slaughter of the Jacobite army. It took every ounce of willpower that Brogan had not to leap from his position and tear into them. Slice them into ribbons and stomp on their still-beating hearts.
But he remained where he was, stiff as a board, angry as a bear.
The dragoons slowed as they reached the bend in the road, staring at the tracks in the dirt. Tracks that led north, south, and up the rise into the woods, where Brogan and the others stood. Debris had been dislodged from the embankment, scattering onto the side of the road.
The dragoons looked as tired as Brogan felt. But that didn’t mean they’d simply pass up the opportunity to fight.
Two men conferred, pointing at the tracks, both of them avoiding looking up. The leader whistled, and a man from the back of the pack of mongrels hurried forward, given orders that Brogan couldn’t make out.
The man bent and touched the loosened dirt, sniffed.
“Jacobites?” the leader asked. “Every rebel is to be killed on sight, per the duke’s orders.”
Killed on sight? So now they were simply to be murdered. Rain started to pelt once more, icy and stinging in its force. Would they never get a rest from it on today of all days?
“Deer,” the dragoon determined, glancing up the embankment to where they were hidden.
He was lying. Had to be. Curious. Why the hell would he lie? Unless he didn’t like the odds of a band of Jacobite rebels hiding above them where they’d have the clear advantage.
Brogan grinned. Come on… Call out the order to investigate. Let us smash in a few more dragoon heads…
But the leader of the regiment called for them to move forward, and the man who’d declared Brogan and his men to be a bunch of deer watched their hiding spot surreptitiously through the rain as he marched back to his place in line and they continued on. Brogan committed the man’s face to memory. If he ever came across him, he’d thank him. Maybe even let him live.
None of them moved as the line of dragoons continued to pass. Even as the last of them faded into the distance, only leaving their footprints in the road, Brogan and the others remained still, just in case the troops were inclined to circle back. All of them knew this game, and Brogan found himself particularly impressed at how well the woman knew it too.
Given he’d met her under suspicious circumstances twice now and she seemed to hold fairly important information, she wasn’t just some silly maid. He was pretty certain of that. How deep into the well of spying had she fallen?
“What is your name?” he asked in a low whisper, eyes still on the road.
“I told ye once afore it was best ye no’ know.”