Without the youngest of their men to defend the castle, they were left in the care of older warriors and young lads who’d been forbidden to go to Culloden. Being so close to the battlefield, she was surprised to find the castle had not yet been infiltrated.
“Have any of Cumberland’s men demanded entry?” Fiona asked.
“No’ as yet. Hoping they think we’re too small. But in case they do, we’ve hidden away anything that might name us as Jacobite supporters.”
Fiona slid a glance toward Brogan, who was assessing the men in attendance; he nodded at Uncle Tam’s statement. The rest of the men gathered around them in a half circle, making her feel equal parts safe and closed in.
“Good.” Fiona gravitated toward the heat from the hearth, tearing off her gloves, dropping them on the warm stones, and holding out her frigid fingers to the warmth in an effort to get away from everyone and to get warm. She’d forgotten how it felt to not be cold. For a split second she considered stripping off her boots and hose and holding her feet up to the flames, but she refrained. The older gentlemen in the clan would likely be horrified. It was bad enough she traipsed around the countryside unescorted, but to start stripping in the great hall… She didn’t want to give anyone a fit of apoplexy, especially her uncle whom she knew felt a massive amount of responsibility for her.
Fiona glanced behind her at the seven men, all of them looking exhausted and battle weary. “The lot of ye should burn your clothes. We’ll give ye something less…rebel-like to wear.”
“I’m no’ burning my clothes.” Brogan spoke in a way that brooked no argument, and she completely understood why he’d not want to. Fabric and clothes were expensive commodities. Likely he didn’t have any to spare. But his were covered in blood and ripped in places. And the men all wore plaids, which was tantamount to telling the dragoons that they were in fact rebels.
“Would ye consider wearing breeches instead of your kilts? The plaids are bound to get us noticed on the road.”
Brogan frowned, staring down at his kilt and then at his men, then noticing that those within Dòchas were all wearing breeches. “Breeches then.”
“Good. And we’ll get the rest cleaned.”
“Have we the time?”
She nodded. “We will ride harder tomorrow.”
As of now, they were only a few hours behind the men on the way to Ruthven, and they had horses. Most of the infantry were on foot and would have to stop from exhaustion soon.
Fiona and the seven soldiers could probably afford to stay the night, and in fact they should. The last thing they needed was worn-out horses and to make mistakes because they were tired. They’d just fought in one of the most horrific battles to date. The fact that they were still standing there alive was a miracle in itself. They deserved a month of rest or more.
“We’ll head out before first light,” Fiona said. “Tonight we rest.” And let the ice melt from our bones.
The warriors’ shoulders visibly sagged with relief, except for Brogan who stood tall, stoic. Almost like a statue. He showed no emotion, no weakness.
Uncle Tam ordered water warmed for the eight of them to bathe, and the clanswomen volunteered to clean the men’s clothes, as well as offered up plain breeches and coats to the seven soldiers.
Other women volunteered to mend their hose, their shirts, and anything else that needed fixing. Mugs of warm cider were pressed into their hands, and Fiona allowed herself to be led up the stairs by Beitris, who clucked her tongue about the state of her mistress’s hair and the dark purple smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes.
As they waited for the bath to be filled, Beitris scooped bites of stew into Fiona’s mouth as if she were a bairn, complete with wiping her lips with a linen napkin.
“I can feed myself.” Fiona grabbed unsuccessfully for the spoon.
“Well I know it,” Beitris said as she shoved another bite into Fiona’s mouth. Sometimes it was nice to let someone care for her, though she was only going to allow it a few more moments before she physically wrested the spoon from her maid’s hands.
At last the bath was filled, and Fiona sank into the heated depths, worried that the cold ice in her bones would turn the water frigid, and blissful when the opposite happened. Beitris washed her hair in silence, giving Fiona needed time to reflect on all that had happened so far and to formulate plans. Of course, with the heat of the water, relaxation set in and none of the planning she’d intended to undertake took place.
She fell asleep more than once during the bath. Lord, she needed a good night’s sleep. She would be helpful to no one if she was too tired when it came time to depart. That was exactly why they hadn’t left already. The men needed to rest. And yet she didn’t treat herself the same way. Somehow she expected herself to be superhuman in strength. Ridiculous. That was one of her faults. Never realizing just how tired she was. Never quitting even when she was on the verge of collapsing.
Out of the bath, Beitris brushed her hair before the fire as Fiona shivered in her night rail, wrapped in a fur blanket. Her nails were turning purple on her prune-like fingertips and toes. The water had only done so much to warm the permanent chill that seemed to have seeped into her body all the way to the marrow. She prayed the fur blanket and the fire would be able to do the rest.
“Let me come with ye,” Beitris was saying. “’Tis no’ safe for ye to be alone with seven men traipsing the countryside.”
“Ye do remember that I’ve been traveling alone for years? That I’ve traveled with the prince and his entourage? As a postmistress, I have often encountered our enemies.”
Beitris frowned. “Somehow this seems different.”
Fiona chewed her lip, imagining her maid’s horror when she’d seen her arrive with seven large and muscular strangers. “I know what ye’re thinking, Beitris, but I trust them.”
But maybe she shouldn’t.
Perhaps trusting them was merely because her only other choice was to face the dangerous roads alone. And though she’d done it a million times on her own, something in her gut told her now was different from before. Hell, her eyes and ears were telling her that much. Cumberland had issued orders for every Jacobite rebel to be executed on sight. She stood a much better chance of survival with seven large warriors by her side than she did alone.
They’d lost the battle. But they weren’t going to lose hope. Not on her watch.
“But we are no’ giving up,” she whispered. “We will keep fighting. Praying. Scotland will be our country again.”
“I ought to advise your uncle to lock ye up.” Beitris wove Fiona’s long hair into a braid.
Fiona sat forward, turning around to give Beitris a suspicious glare. “Ye wouldna.”