“Why did ye do that?” she screamed.
Brogan jumped down from his horse and walked around toward her. “If ye want to beat someone up, come off that horse and beat me. But I’ll no’ let ye hurt your mount or yourself.”
Red flamed in her cheeks and she jumped off her horse. Teeth bared, body tight. She was itching for a fight, it was obvious, and he’d let her take all of her rage and pain out on him. She needed it. Needed to get it out so they could continue on smartly. To run in a blind rage would only put them all in more danger, and they couldn’t risk that. Not with dragoons scouring the countryside looking for someone to kill.
“Ye think me so incapable? So reckless?” she shouted. A tiny fist flew at him, hitting him square in the chest.
There was a slight sting with the blow, and he nodded in appreciation. “Aye. Ye’re a reckless wee fool. Hit me again.”
She flew at him, pummeling his chest with her fists, letting all the anger and despair, the anguish and grief out on him. Brogan, not caring about the pain she inflicted on him, knowing later his chest would likely be covered in bruises, held his arms out to the side and let her beat him until he feared she’d split her knuckles. Then he wrapped his arms around her and hauled her against him. She fought against him, calling him every blasphemous word in her vocabulary until she finally went limp.
He held her close, her breaths heavy, heart pounding against his, and he whispered, “Shh…” in her ear. “I’ve got ye.”
Within a breath, she started to fight against him again, but not as hard as she had before, and he murmured against her cheek, his lips brushing her hair, her tears, “Hush, sweet lass, ye’re safe with me…” until she finally stilled, until she clung to him and great sobs racked her body.
Taking note of her emotional destruction, the men turned their backs to afford Fiona and Brogan privacy in the middle of a moor where there was none to be found.
Brogan swallowed the emotion tapping into him. He was a soldier. Soldiers didn’t get emotional. And yet he felt her pain.
When she calmed, Fiona shoved away from him with a frown, and as she glared up at him, face flaming, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, looking like a self-righteous warrior queen, she grumbled, “I’m sorry for… Thank ye…for…” She cleared her throat, her hands on his chest as she pushed away.
“Ye need no’ thank me, lass.”
She swiped at her face, frowning. “I’m no’ a coward.”
“Quite the opposite.” She was incredibly brave.
“I’m no’ going home.” Her shoulders were rigid, and despite that, he could see that she wasn’t as pent up as she’d been before. That she wouldn’t drive her horse into the ground and the lot of them into an early grave.
“I didna expect ye to.”
That wasn’t entirely true.
When he’d first met her, Brogan had one hundred percent expected her to go home, but the more time he spent with her, the more he understood the importance of her position within the rebellion. Only now he knew home was the last place she needed to be.
That very revelation wreaked havoc on his mind.
Women had no place in war. Women were to be protected, not the other way around. And yet in the past few days, he’d seen a woman leading a regiment of men and a woman risking her life to deliver important information—that very same woman’s spying and delivering messages sanctioned by his leader.
The idea that women were just as much a part of this revolution as the men had never occurred to him before, and it still sat uneasily with him. How many other women were a part of the rebellion that he didn’t know about?
Were any of them sisters?
Och, he hoped not.
He’d seen what this war could do to women. Hell, they’d witnessed the execution minutes ago of a woman right alongside the rebels she supported. It made him want to grab Fiona into his arms and carry her all the way back to Dòchas Castle where she’d be safe.
The conflict within him was real, and a damned pain in the arse too.
“What are ye waiting for?” Fiona called down from where she sat, back ramrod straight, atop her horse. He’d barely noticed her climbing up. “We’ve a lot more miles to cover.”
Gone were the tears, gone was the raw emotion that had cut through the attitude on her face. The Jacobite messenger, the rebel spy, was back.
By sundown, they crossed over the arched stone Bridge of Carr spanning the snaking river Dulnain into a nearby village. Brogan stared down at the cobbles of the packhorse bridge. His great-uncle had been the one to commission it, as the river afforded no place to easily cross. So much history in one place. He was proud of it and yet felt infinitely severed. He was a bastard at odds with his father who hadn’t sided with the Jacobites. It was hard to be proud of his heritage when he found himself struggling with so much inner conflict.
The village was quiet. Were they aware of what had happened on Drumossie Moor? Were they fearful of being subjected to the impending cruelties of Cumberland’s army? Culloden was a hard loss for them all.
Ahead, in the waning light, Brogan spotted several men huddled together. He slowed his horse, the rest of his men and Fiona doing the same. While not wearing redcoats, neither were the villagers wearing traditional Highland dress. It was too hard at this vantage point to see if they were enemies or not. But since Fiona had insisted Brogan and his men change before they left her family’s castle, they were not dressed as rebels either, for which he was glad.
The men ahead of them came to stand in the center of the road. One had his hand out to stop them; the others had their hands behind their backs, possibly grappling for weapons. Brogan tensed, prepared for a standoff in the middle of the road. They should have circled the town, not bothered to try to find shelter and food. Every village would be hostile ground now that they’d woken the devil.
“Good evening,” Fiona said, her voice calm and even, a kind smile on her face. If he’d not seen her kill a man a few days ago, he might have thought she was docile. “Might we appeal for your hospitality? Is there a place for us to rest our horses and bed down for the night? Perhaps have a warm meal? We are willing to pay.”
The men frowned and said not a word, their gazes cutting hard across the lot of them. Seeking silent answers to unasked questions.
Brogan gave them the same treatment, staring at their hidden hands, wondering when the weapons were going to come out. As he studied them, their eyes drifted over Fiona. Hunger and lust and something a little more sinister.
“Is that your woman?” the man in the center asked.
“Nay. But she rides with our party under our protection.”
The man’s brow furrowed even further, the derisive curl to his lip giving way to exactly what he thought Fiona’s part in their caravan was. Brogan’s fist clenched and he forced himself not to punch the man in the face. He also prayed that Fiona’s inner wolf stayed caged. Best they leave this town.