Beitris nodded perfunctorily, in a no-nonsense way. “I would.”
“No’ if ye value your life.” Fiona stole the brush and brandished it like a weapon.
Beitris stole back the brush. “’Tis your life I value, my lady. And seeing as how I’m the only one in the room who does…”
“I value my life. I value the lives of all our people, of our country. That is why I must go. This is no’ an argument I care to visit again,” she snapped.
Fiona turned back around, staring at the fire, wishing everyone would just understand how much her part in all of this mattered. She was the prince’s bloody personal messenger, had the ring to prove it. If the prince trusted her, shouldn’t the rest of her clan?
Beitris was quiet for a moment. Then with a great resigned sigh, she said, “One of your hairpins is missing.”
Fiona thought back to Culloden House and the crazed fool who’d been trying to assault her. How she’d had to sink that hairpin through his flesh. How his life had ebbed right there before her.
“Aye.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
“Ye used it? On a man?”
“Aye.”
Beitris mumbled a soft prayer. “I beg ye, my lady, one more time, please stay.”
Fiona turned around and faced her maid, her friend, then pulled her into her arms and listened as Beitris sobbed against her shoulder. “I will be all right.”
“Where are our men?” Beitris sobbed. “Why have they no’ returned with ye from the battlefield?”
“I dinna know.” Fiona bit back tears. “I hope to find them with Ian,” she said, though she had a feeling that what she would find was not something any of them wanted to bear witness to.
Her eyes dipped closed, a tear streaming down her cheek. She feared for her brother. Devastation at what she’d witnessed, the stress of feeling like murderers lurked around every corner, ready to run her through with their bloody traitorous weapons, made her weary. She clung to her friend and let herself cry for the first time in months.
* * *
The ale was good but had nothing on the whisky Uncle Tam poured into Brogan’s cup. The men drank heartily of the smoky spirits, and Brogan went from being quite cold to glorious warmth, like that of a seal laid out on a rock beneath a summer sun.
He sat in a chair, legs spread out. Skin finally warmed.
The fact that he and his men had scrubbed down in the great hall didn’t bother him at all. Though he did keep glancing toward the arched doorway where Fiona had disappeared for her own bath.
He took a long pull of his whisky, dressed now in a clean léine shirt and a short waistcoat in the same faded brown as his breeches. He was quite nondescript.
However unseemly going barefoot among women may be, his boots were before the hearth with the rest of the men’s. The leather had grown quite soaked, and he hoped that they’d be dry by morning, but he doubted it. In fact, he had doubts about the woolen plaids being dried too.
Brogan ran a hand over his face. He was grateful for the warmth, the bowls of stew that were coming out of the kitchen, the dry clothes, and a break from imminent danger, but at the same time he distinctly felt as though he didn’t belong here. He was a bastard, a soldier, relegated to the barracks, stables, and war camps. Not dining in the great hall as though he meant something.
“What are your intentions with my niece?” Uncle Tam stood beside him, arms crossed as he stared into the fire, his white, bushy brows pushed down into his eyes as he made to study the flames.
“We made a deal. I’d accompany her in making a delivery, and she’d lead me to the prince or at least give me directions.”
Uncle Tam glanced up at him. “So ye know about her antics?”
“Antics?”
“Running around the Highlands like a damned messenger.”
Like a messenger. The lass was a messenger, and clearly her uncle didn’t support it. Interesting.
“Aye.”
The old man shook his head and sighed heavily. “She’s been doing it for years. I think even since she was a lass.”
“Truly?”
“Aye.”
“Why has no one put a stop to it?”
“They’ve tried. Does no good. Besides, now she’s got the ear of the prince. If His Highness thinks she should…” Tam shook his head. “Hell, she’s the verra reason everyone met at Glenfinnan. ’Twas she who spread the word of the gathering and the prince’s pronouncement of his intentions. Nobody had laid eyes on him until that moment…”
Brogan was stunned by that news. She’d played an integral part in getting the revolution started, and her uncle wanted her to quit. Wasn’t he proud of her accomplishment? Nay, it wasn’t that, it was fear. Fear that she would die doing her duty like any brave soldier.
“She’s a brave lass,” Brogan said, concerned for the little pique of irritation he felt in his chest at her being admonished.
“Aye,” the old man said grudgingly. “I blame her da.”
Brogan sipped his whisky, trying to understand exactly what the hell the old man meant. He was either proud of her or he wasn’t. “Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Brogan nodded, feeling the pain of loss, though for an entirely different reason.
“In any case, we may be a small clan here, but if any harm comes to her while she’s under your watch, I’ll have my men come after ye with swords drawn. Your ballocks will hang from our gates until they rot away.”
“Understood.” Brogan took another long pull of whisky, irritated.
The man wouldn’t stop his niece from running off into danger, but instead put the entire weight of responsibility on Brogan’s shoulders. That hardly seemed fair.
Besides, he’d not known the wench long, but from what he did know of her, it wouldn’t matter what he did or said; she would do what she desired.
Fiona MacBean wasn’t a team player.
And yet she was. Because if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be risking her life helping the prince or the rebellion. If anything, she was the head of the team. And that thought was rather disturbing.
In any case, Brogan needed to be rid of her soon. Because though he wasn’t afraid of Uncle Tam or Clan MacBean, he was in favor of keeping his ballocks exactly where they belonged.
At that moment, there was a rustling of skirts from the alcove and he whipped his head toward it, his chest doing strange things in anticipation of seeing Fiona’s fierce and beautiful face.