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Witch.
Ginny stilled at the word. It wasn’t a thing to jest about. She had no desire to be put on trial. No doubt she’d be convicted in a matter of minutes given she possessed many of the traits considered “evidence” in this time. She was female to begin with, stubborn, and bore a birthmark on her hip they would surely see as proof that she’d made a pact with the devil.
A chill ran over her, lifting the hairs of her arms. Being accused of some sort of espionage was one thing, but how did one argue against such a charge?
“I dinnae believe it was witchcraft that lent the lass her knowledge.” The unexpected defense came even more unexpectedly from MacLeod. She gaped at him as he stared down at the prince with unwavering conviction. “While she’s persisted in crediting her memory for her uncanny recall, I believe there is a far simpler explanation to be had.”
“Is there indeed?”
Indeed? Ginny repeated the prince’s question internally, wondering where MacLeod was going with this.
“Aye, and one cannae blame her for her reluctance in voicing as much aloud. ’Tis a gift oft met by skepticism,” he continued. “The lass is a seer.”
“A seer?” she echoed.
Inwardly she rolled her eyes at the excuse. Had she been a Scotsman passing them by on that road last night in possession of the information she had, they probably would have accepted it at face value. But because she was a woman, there simply had to be another reason. A witch or a seer—what was the fine line that made one okay? Either way, the patriarchy was alive and well in 1746.
She jumped under MacLeod’s pointed stare. “Yes, a seer.”
The prince’s—she couldn’t get over it, Bonny Prince Charlie!—superficial artlessness was belied by the sharp perception in his eyes. He was no fool for all his foppish air. He’d expect some proof before he accepted such a fanciful explanation. Marks on a map wouldn’t be enough.
As she possessed a certain degree of foreknowledge, it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince him. His religious fervor would be a good place to begin.
“I know it is God’s divine will that has brought me to you, to assure that your safety is guaranteed.”
Her thoughts scrambled and Ginny struggled to organize what she’d read about and seen to best validate her supposed talent. Nothing past would do. That he’d never been to Scotland before arriving at Glenfinnan in August of the previous year, that his mother was Polish, or that he’d been raised in Italy might be common knowledge. It had to be something relevant to this moment of his life.
She dropped to her knees before him and stared up at him in earnest. “Your highness left your targe at the battlefield at Culloden yesterday.”
“He disnae carry one now. ’Tis a simple deduction to reach,” one of the men said.
Ginny ignored him and continued. “It is decorated with cast silver emblems depicting shields and weaponry around the perimeter with the head of Medusa at the center.”
“Sire, you’ve been on parade and appeared in Edinburgh time and again,” another of the men argued. “Anyone could have noted the styling, even from a distance.”
“You did not carry it during the battle.” She shot the naysayer a cutting glance. “You left it behind with your other belongings in the baggage train, isn’t that so?”
Prince Charlie drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair thoughtfully and nodded.
“It was recovered by one of your clan chiefs, Ewan MacPherson of Cluny,” she told him. “A simple fact to verify.”
She peered up at MacLeod. He looked somewhat taken aback by her revelation, but also offered a discreet incline of his head. Not that she needed his approval!
“I suppose he has the prince’s sword, as well?” The pinch-faced man seated at the prince’s side was not as overawed by her “sight.” “This is no proof, sire.”
“You mean the sword with the crouching lion of the wrist guard and the pommel of an owl?” she retorted. “The one with the blade engraved with the words Draw me not without reason on one side and Sheath me not without honour on the other? In French? I’d have to be close indeed to have seen that on parade.”
“And where is my sword now, Miss Hughes?” the prince asked her.
“I’m sorry to say it was retrieved after the battle and presented to the Duke of Cumberland, your highness.” The pins and needles that had kept her tense and on edge throughout all this began to fade. He believed her, she could see it, and his was the only opinion that counted. “I would suggest you warn your men to beware of Cumberland, sir. He has ordered that no quarter be given to Jacobite supporters or those who harbor them. He will become known as The Butcher in the days and weeks to come for the way his men pillage, rape, and murder those they happen upon.”
“No quarter?” MacLeod repeated with a frown. “Cumberland is a Sassenach duke and a gentleman. Surely, he will comply with the convention of war.”
“I think you will find he does not,” Ginny assured. “The people should be warned.”
The prince nodded. “Will he do the same with me, then?”
There it was. A personal assurance she could supply.
“Despite the scope of his search, Cumberland will never find you, your highness. Your people will not betray you even for the reward that will be placed on your head. You will evade capture and return to France, just as you planned.”
Astonished looks were traded from one man to the next. Prince Charlie turned his attention to MacLeod who, while looking rather stunned himself, shrugged. “I did no’ tell her, sir.”
The prince looked to Ginny. “What more do you know of our plans?”
“Only that you plan to board a French ship at the same location where you arrived last year.”
“You know where the English outposts are between here and there?” He tapped the map spread out on the table.
“I do,” she assured him. “I’d be happy to mark the map with those locations if you will—”
“If?” Prince Charlie interrupted. “I do not make bargains, mistress.”
“Of course not. It is merely my sincere hope that your highness might find it in his heart to release me so that I might return to my family once the deed is done.” She clasped his hand and summoned every ounce of dewy femininity she possessed as she stared up at him. “They must be terribly worried. How wonderful it would be to return to them with the news that your highness is safely on his way to France.”
“But will return by the hand of God to find victory.”
Ginny blinked at the prince’s addendum but managed an emphatic nod. “Absolutely.”
“Then so it will be.”
* * *
She was lying.
For all the miraculous insight she displayed—and which he, despite his impromptu declaration of her gift, did not believe—this last did not hold the same sincerity. Her explanation in regards to the prince’s sword and targe was remarkably convincing if not a wee bit overplayed. She exploited the prince’s weaknesses with practiced ease. Himself, he’d almost forgotten how fanatical the prince could be about reinstating a Catholic king to the throne. How he was the right hand of God in the sacred endeavor, yet she manipulated those facts with practiced ease.
Why, then, did her assurance that Charles Edward would return to find victory ring false? Why not proclaim it with the same conviction?
Because it wasn’t true.
All the confidence and certainty that had bolstered Coll through the trials of the past year faltered under the supposition. Had he given his fealty and blood to restore his country’s sovereignty only to have the effort fail at the final hour? Had it all been for nothing?
A chilling thought.
With a shake of his head, he banished the thought, the doubt. This woman possessed no true gift to see into the future. He himself had anointed her with the ability as a viable alternative to being labeled a witch. For all Coll questioned the foundation of her knowledge regarding the camps, he wasn’t such a superstitious arse as Strickland to accuse a women of witchcraft simply because he could not imagine a logical alternative.
And he could not.
There was something else at play here. Something he could not put his finger on.
Virginia Hughes. So peculiar to name a Scottish lass after an English colony so christened in honor of an English monarch. It boggled the mind. It was far easier to use her preferred appellation.
Ginny.
How had she known? About their plans? Their destination? About any of it?
Given the way she fought capture, fought him...the way she looked upon Charles Edward with obvious relief as he called for a quill and ink, she hadn’t foreseen any of this. His concession came as a surprise to her. She was no spy. She was no seer.
On the other hand, there was no amount of coincidence or luck to justify it.
What other explanation was there beyond Strickland’s?
The map was turned to face Ginny and she stepped up to the table. She reached for the quill O’Sullivan held out to her. With a silent curse, Coll grabbed her hand. Her left hand. Was the woman mad? He took the quill and pressed it into her right hand.
“Och, ye daft lass!” he growled close to her ear. “I managed to allay their superstitions once, lass. Dinnae gi’ them reason to reconsider.”
Her brow furrowed but her fingers curled around the feathered quill. Dipping it rather sloppily into the inkwell, she marked several spots west of Invergarry not with X's but splotches of black.
“Is that all?” Charles Edward asked when she finished.
She nodded. “There are others farther to the north and south, though they should not affect your journey.”
“Very well.”
“May I have your permission to withdraw then?”
Coll could imagine the prince’s thoughts. A gentleman at heart, Charles Edward would be naturally averse to mistreating a lady and inclined to free her. Contrarily, as a strategist—however inept he’d proven to be of late—he’d want to keep whatever assets he had to assure his safety close at hand.
He’d hesitate to let her go, and Coll found himself hoping that preference would guide the prince. She was an intriguing lass, was Ginny Hughes. After a year with little more than war and strategy to fill his head, having a puzzle as bonny as she to occupy his thoughts was proving a far more pleasant diversion. Not that their interaction itself had been enjoyable, precisely. She’d proven herself to be stubborn and temperamental. Aye, but she’d also displayed hints of a dry wit that surprised him. Combined with the pure mystery she presented, he was reluctant to see the last of her.
To that end, he could suggest they continue to detain her to assure she marked the map accurately. In assuring their safety, she could guarantee her own. A cruel, contrary twist of the knife given his vocal support. She might find her way to break his nose in truth should he do so.
“Ye ken she could have played ye false, sir?” MacDonald pointed out before the prince could respond. “She may have plotted the map to deliver ye directly into the Sassenachs’ laps.”
Charles Edward looked upon Coll to provide his input, forcing him to make his choice. He could concoct a dozen reasons to detain her based upon suspicion alone or he could listen to the instinct that assured him that despite the mystery behind her information, she was sincere in her motivation in forewarning them and deserved a respite.
“I dinnae believe that is the case,” again Coll found himself speaking up on her behalf. “After many hours of interrogation, I’ve come to believe Miss Hughes has been genuine in her desire to aid us, yer highness. She is a loyal Scot at heart, if no’ by birth.”
“So be it,” the prince conceded. “Mark my words, MacLeod, should your faith prove misguided it will be on your head.”
Coll refrained from reminding the prince of the faith he himself had just placed in the lass and offered a stiff bow. With a nudge, Ginny bobbed another curtsey.
“Thank you, your highness,” she gushed, likely heady with her triumph.
The prince extended his hand. She stared at it as if unaware of his expectation.
“Kiss his bloody hand,” Coll hissed under his breath.
“Oh.” She blinked. “Oh, sure.”