Don’t miss out on Eliza Knight’s new and exciting series — Prince Charlie’s Angels!
These heroines risk their lives to protect Jacobite soldiers. Hiding them, healing their wounds, and aiding in their escape from enemy forces, puts these fiery ladies in harm's way, but their loyalty wins out over fear every time.
Toran Fraser is hell-bent on taking down the Jacobites. On a late-night mission, he's intercepted by a woman known only as "Mistress J" who's determined to put Prince Charlie back on the throne of Scotland. Toran can't resist her appeal—especially with her pistol pointed at his heart—and suddenly finds himself joining the rebellion...
By day, highborn Jenny Mackintosh runs her estate in the Highlands. By night, she raises coin, delivers weapons, and recruits soldiers for the Jacobite rebellion. When she encounters a handsome Highlander who is clearly on the run, she is more than a little intrigued. She isn't expecting to become the target of his sworn enemy...
"THE REBEL WEARS PLAID is fabulous—bold, adventurous, and brimming with intrigue and memorable characters."--Cathy Maxwell, New York Times bestselling author
"An admirably courageous heroine, a wonderfully hot hero, impeccable history, well-crafted characters, and edge-of-your-seat adventure makes this Highland romance irresistible. An excellent beginning to an engrossing series. I can’t wait for the next one!" --New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Ashley
"Outlander fans will be thrilled by Eliza Knight's perfect mix of history and romance."—Jennifer McQuiston, New York Times bestselling author
"The intrigue and historical details are captivating, but readers should be prepared for an excruciatingly slow burn in the love story, which remains relatively understated for a large chunk of the novel. Fans of strong female protagonists and subtle passion will be pleased." --Publisher's Weekly
Excerpt from Chapter One © 2020, Eliza Knight
Inverness, Scottish Highlands
Late June, 1745
Wind whipped at Jenny Mackintosh’s hair as she raced for her life to escape from the English. She and her small band of men pushed their mounts to the limit, flying across the moors, the crack of pistols cutting the night air behind them. At any moment, she’d feel the sting of a bullet in her back.
What else should a rebel recruiting an army expect?
Sweat beaded on her brow and dripped down her back, and her hands trembled against the leather straps of the reins.
“To the forest,” she called to her five partners in rebel- lion following behind her, but her words were lost in the noisy thrum of pounding hooves against the earth. Leaning to the right, she urged her horse down a slope, over a boulder, and onto an unmarked path that led toward the forest, hoping they’d lose the redcoats.
The shouts of the dragoons behind them were fainter now, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger.
She burst through the trees, and a twig caught in her hair, the wrench stinging her scalp. Still, she didn’t cry out.
Once she knew they were out of sight, she reined in her horse, her heart racing. Jenny tugged the twig from her hair and threw it on the ground, wishing it were the bloody English so she could stomp them into dust as easily. She stroked her mount’s mane, patting his neck in thanks for the hard gallop, then reached up to rub at the tightness in her own.
They waited in silence, their breaths growing slower as the minutes ticked by. The shots had ceased the moment she and her soldiers had been able to break away from their enemies’ sight, but the pounding of the horses’ advance still thundered in her ears—or was that her heart?
Jenny focused her gaze through the foliage and waited for the dragoons to catch up. They’d only been caught once, a few months ago. Jenny had escaped with her life that time, but there were several others who hadn’t been as lucky. King George, the usurper, had sent his dragoons to apprehend anyone with sympathies to Prince Charles Stuart, the rightful heir to the Kingdom of Great Britain. King George had given Charles the moniker the Young Pretender, and his father, the Old Pretender.
Prince Charlie’s father, King James, had named him Regent of Great Britain, and regent was the name under which she and other Jacobite supporters were bent on returning the prince to the throne. King George would be tossed back to Germany where he had been born and raised and should have remained.
Despite the brightness of tonight’s moon that allowed them a good view of the road, the brambles and pines were thick, veiling her and her men’s massive horses from their enemies. When the first half dozen redcoats rode past, they did not see the Scots hidden just a few feet away. They barely slowed, too busy chasing phantoms.
As soon as they passed, Jenny and her men let out a collective sigh, only to freeze as several more dragoons rounded the bend and headed right for them. Eyes wide as the moon above, she watched them advance. The gold buttons on their muted red coats glinted in the moon- light, as did the muzzles of their muskets, their pistols, and the hilts of the thin swords at their hips.
Their dress was so different from that of the Scots. They wore starched white breeches, where her men were allowed freedom of movement in their plaids. Stiff tricorns covered their heads, while the Scots wore soft woolen caps that were broad and flat on the top. When Scots were feeling particularly rebellious, they pinned white rosette cockades on them in support of the Stuart line.
The redcoat leader issued an unintelligible order, and for a second, she thought the dragoon was staring right at her. Would he order his men into the forest? Her lungs burned for air, but she couldn’t risk even the tiniest sound be heard by these bloodthirsty monsters.
She touched her pistol, prepared to shoot if needed, but then he was pointing and shouting for his men to continue down the road. Jenny watched them kick their horses into a gallop, clouds of dust following in their wake.
Only once the dust settled did Jenny allowed herself a moment to exhale. Despite the risk she was taking every time she came out here, there was no way she’d stop her nightly missions. The fate of the entire Mackintosh clan was now Jenny’s responsibility. She would not let her brother’s betrayal destroy her clan.
Which was exactly why, on this night—while her brother was busy with his nose up an Englishman’s arse—she found herself a few miles from an English garrison and several hours from home.
For three generations, her people had been trying to reclaim their country. Jenny, along with all the other Jacobites, had a restless need to do something to aid in bringing the rightful heir home to Scotland. Soon there would be a war, and she knew on which side she’d stand— with Bonnie Prince Charlie, the regent of Scotland. She’d made a vow a lifetime ago, it seemed, to support the Stuart line, and she planned to keep it—to follow in her father’s and grandfather’s footsteps and honor the warriors who had died for the Jacobite cause. Even if it meant going sword to sword with her brother in battle, a notion that made her stomach sour. At least she was faster and more agile than he was and had bested him more than once in the past because of that.
“We should turn back, my lady.”
Jenny glowered at the shadowy figure on the mount beside her. Her cousin Dirk was always with her on these nightly raids. “What did I tell ye about calling me my lady when we’re out?” She glanced back at the road, her hand on her pistol, ready to strike should a redcoat suddenly leap out in front of her.
“Apologies, Mistress J.”
Jenny couldn’t help but smile at the affectionate moniker her people had given her. It took away her title of lady and also didn’t give away her given name, keeping her identity shrouded in secrecy. It’d only been a few months since she’d taken up her most sacred duty, and in that time, she’d gained a reputation as a leader.
“We canna go back now,” Jenny said. “My brother will return any day now, and there is every chance Hamish will allow the English to billet at Cnàmhan Broch. That’ll be a death sentence for me, for ye, and for all loyal to the true and rightful Scottish king.” Jenny shuddered at the thought of dozens of redcoats flooding her family’s castle.
The bastards had already done enough damage.
Dirk shifted uneasily in his seat. “Aye, but—” “Cousin, ye grew up with me,” Jenny interrupted, running her fingertips over the initials carved into the hilt of her broadsword: JM—Jon Mackintosh. Her voice grew hoarse with emotion. “Ye were beside me listening to all the tales of our clansmen fighting for the Jacobites.” Both her father and her uncle had joined the rebellion some thirty years before. Labeled traitors, they had been hunted down and eventually executed by English loyalists and their Scottish supporters when she was still a young lass. “We have to honor them.”
Dirk sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. It was the same conversation they’d had many times. “But not by getting yourself killed. Ye ken the danger of being so near the Sassenach garrison.” Dirk grumbled something that sounded a lot like he was warding off the devil, a sentiment echoed by the four men grumbling behind him.
Jenny couldn’t blame them. The English dragoons were known for their brutality. Raping, pillaging, and destroying anything on a whim. That was precisely why she had to stand against her brother. How could she wait idly by and let him consign his people to a lifetime of terror? He might have pledged his loyalty to the King George loyalists, but that didn’t mean the bloody devils would ever treat them as equals.
“If we’re caught, Mistress, they’ll not hesitate to shoot us.”
Jenny inhaled deeply through her nose. The dragoons had been searching for her for going on two years now, and what Dirk said was true. Even still, she put on a confident front. “We’ll just pretend we’re looking for a wee one gone missing. They canna fault us for being out late in search of a bairn.” They’d used that tactic before.
Dirk nodded, but the air was thick with unspoken words. She knew he wanted tonight’s recruitment to come to an end, but she was the leader of these warriors, and she would make that call when she was ready. And something in her gut told her it was not yet the right moment.
“One more village.” Dirk rubbed his fingers over his jaw. “But if there is any danger...”
“We’ll turn back, I promise.”
“We trust ye, Jenny. And we believe in the cause as much as ye do,” Dirk reassured her.
If her brother had any idea what she was doing, at
best she’d be locked in a dungeon, and at worst she’d be hanging from the ramparts for the crows to eat. The soldiers would suffer certain death, and her mother would be devastated. Already her son’s betrayal was enough to have her mother take to her bed and rarely come out.
“I’ll never be able to thank ye enough.” She reached over and patted Dirk on the shoulder and then eyed the men behind them. “And when the regent is on the throne, we’ll see that every risk was worth it.”
“Ye needna thank us for being loyal Scots,” Dirk said. “Aye,” the four men murmured in unison.
Jenny straightened in her saddle, the creak of the
leather mingling with the sounds of insects and the distant birds of prey. “All the same, I’m grateful to have ye by my side. The prince regent will land in Scotland in less than a month. The more soldiers we can gather, the more coin and weapons we present him, the better.”
She glanced at Dirk and then the men behind him. In addition to the other two Mackintosh warriors, tonight they’d only gathered two new recruits—the lowest number of any night since she’d started a few months before. And the coin they’d gathered was barely enough to buy a meat pie and ale at the local tavern.
The last village she wanted to visit tonight happened to be closest to the English garrison. Most of the men and women who lived there had been treated cruelly by the soldiers. There had to be at least half a dozen men she could sway to the cause, if for no other reason than the fresh rounds of arrests that had taken place just that morning.
Jenny returned her attention to the road. Not a single redcoat had passed in at least a half hour. “Are ye ready?”
“Lead the way, Mistress.”
Jenny grinned, excitement thrumming in her veins. She had no doubt she was doing the right thing. Soon she’d be bowing before the regent, a leader who could oust the English from Scotland for good. And then she’d look into her brother’s eyes, and instead of executing him for his betrayal, she’d sway him back to the cause. Wishful thinking, aye.
For now, she needed to focus on what lay ahead. The risks she took could get her killed, and yet she seized them boldly. Fear had no place in a rebellion. Well, per- haps that wasn’t entirely true. But one had to master their fear. And if there was one thing she’d been good at since she was a bairn, it was taking control over anything that scared her.
“We ride.” Jenny took the reins in both hands as she nudged her heel into her mount’s flank.
“Bloody hell,” Toran Fraser muttered under his breath. It was nearing midnight as he stood in the center of the English garrison’s courtyard, working hard to hide his alarm. His cousin Archie stood among the condemned. The men had been dragged behind horses, hands shackled in front of them, and in the torchlight it was clear they’d been viciously beaten. Each of them was still dressed in his traditional Highland attire—kilts, shirts, waistcoats, boots. But they’d been stripped of their weapons.
And in mere moments, they’d be stripped of their lives. This was not what was supposed to happen. Aye, he’d intended for the rebels to be caught...but executed? He’d been naive to believe Boyd when he’d said he’d use the men to extort information. Served him right for trusting a bloody Englishman.
Of course Archie recognized Toran. The surprise and hope in his gaze quickly turned to outright disgust when he realized that Toran was standing beside the very English Captain Thomas Boyd.
Toran shifted uneasily. He, too, wore a kilt in Fraser colors. Boyd believed him a loyal deserter, taking up the position his father had vacated upon death, but under- stood Toran had to play the part of a Scotsman to gather information to hand over. Even so, if Archie let slip that he’d just spoken with Toran about Boyd’s plan to trap the rebels, then he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the English captain. It was a careful line to walk—having betrayed one allegiance meant that his new one would always be suspicious, and with good reason.
But family was family despite allegiances. Toran followed in his father’s footsteps, solidly on the side of King George’s government, while some of his family had chosen to support the Young Pretender, Prince Charles.
Toran had cautioned Archie to stay out of the rebels’ planned break-in, refusing to relay how he knew of Boyd’s plan. His cousin had obviously ignored his warnings. Maybe Archie had not believed him, or maybe he’d warned the men that it was a trap, and they’d devised a new foolish plan. It didn’t matter. The English had won this fight.
Bloody hell!
The only reason that his cousin was imprisoned at all was due to the information Toran had seeded for the rebels, who believed him to be one of them, about the garrison’s weaknesses.
Archie was knocked to his knees by a boot to the back of the leg. His gaze never left Toran, silently declaring him a traitor to his country and his own family. Could Toran really stand there and watch his cousin be hanged?
Disgust at himself made Toran’s insides burn. He cleared his throat. The knot of his neckerchief grew tighter and tighter, cutting off his air supply. Never once since he’d made his choice had Toran regretted dancing on this double-edged sword. His mother had been sacrificed by Jacobite rebels she’d trusted. How could Toran not try to seek vengeance in her name?
But now, watching Archie face death at English hands, his choice looked more and more like a foolish one.
Captain Boyd paced in front of the condemned. “You have all been charged with treason for betraying King George, your rightful monarch. Do you confess?”
Not one man opened his mouth, and a prickle of pride slid along Toran’s spine.
Boyd appeared surprised at the silence. “Then you are all sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. The sentence shall be exacted...” He checked his pocket watch as if trying to determine a time and then said, “Why wait? Let’s do it right now.”
Toran grimaced. Archie’s gaze never left his, and if one could be killed by a glower, then Toran would be lying in a bloody heap. Hell, he would deserve it.
Captain Boyd turned his gaze toward Toran and the other men standing beside him—some Scots, some English, but all known supporters of the English throne.
Toran cleared his throat. “Captain, if I may?”
Boyd narrowed his eyes, probably never having been interrupted during one of his sentencings before. Depending on the man’s mood, Toran could very well end up on his knees beside his cousin.
“What is it?” Obvious irritation dripped from Boyd’s words.
“I recognize that one.” He pointed at Archie. “Might I take him inside for questioning?”
Boyd raised a brow. “You think he knows something?”
“Aye.” This was a lie, and Toran was acting as fast as he could to save Archie from death. While he wished he could save them all, that was impossible. Even this hasty plan could fall awry. There was a very high prob- ability that they were both going to die tonight, but at least he’d go to his maker knowing he’d done the right thing.
“Fine. But as soon as you get what you need, bring him back out here to be dealt with.”
Dealt with, like rubbish in need of disposal. The sour taste in Toran’s mouth grew stronger. After what he was about to do, he’d not be safe anywhere near the English. He’d be labeled a traitor, and the bounty on his head would likely be enough for even his own mother to turn him in, God rest her soul. Hell, he’d not be safe near the Scots either.
Boyd flicked his hand, dismissing Toran, who walked over to Archie and yanked him up by his shackled arms.
“Dinna say a word,” Toran warned quietly against Archie’s ear.
“Where are ye taking me?” Archie shouted, ignoring Toran’s request.
“If ye want to live, ye’ll shut your trap,” Toran warned once more, then nodded to Boyd. He half-dragged, half-carried his cousin back into the garrison, once a well- fortified Scots castle, the tenants long since evicted. Archie had been badly beaten, both lips split, one eye swollen shut, and a cut above his forehead that dripped down his face. An odd bump on his arm hinted at the broken bone beneath. He didn’t know if Archie wasn’t walking properly because of an injury, obstinance, or exhaustion. And there was no time to figure it out.
Toran dragged Archie through a musty corridor dimly lit by a few torches. He nodded to the guards they passed, praying that no one asked questions.
“What are ye doing?” Archie asked. “Ye want to kill me yourself?”
“Keep quiet,” Toran ordered.
“I’ll not.”
Toran pushed his cousin against the wall beneath a torch so Archie could see his eyes. Manhandling his cousin appeared to be the only way to get his attention. He gripped the front of Archie’s shirt and leaned in close to whisper. “I’m getting ye out of here. A task that will cost us both our lives if ye dinna shut your mouth and listen.”
Archie’s one working eye widened, and then he nodded in understanding.
Toran dragged him up a set of dark stairs, pausing to listen every half dozen or so, and then hurrying his cousin as much as possible considering the shackles. At the top of the stairs, he tossed his cousin over his shoulder—not an easy feat since Archie was nearly as tall and easily just as full of muscle. He whispered prayers up to a God he wasn’t certain would listen, given his many sins.
But at last he found the door he was looking for, one that led to nowhere.
“This will hurt,” Toran cautioned. “We’re at least fifteen feet in the air, and once we land, they’ll be able to smell us for miles.”
“What?” Archie didn’t sound convinced by his plan.
“There’s no time. ’Tis the only way. Are ye ready?”
“Aye.”
Toran didn’t hesitate but leapt, arms around his cousin, into the rubbish pile below. They landed with a thud and a disturbing squish.
Archie groaned. Toran ignored the jolt of pain in his back from the landing. “Come on, we’ve not much time before Boyd tries to find out where we’ve gone. He’ll send out every man with a pistol he’s got to shoot us on sight.”
Archie rose to his knees, gagging at the scent. “There’s no time to retch. We’ve got to run.” His hands under his cousin’s arms, Toran hauled him to standing, thanking the heavens the men had not been shackled at the ankles.
“Have ye a key for these?” Archie asked, holding out his hands.
“Nay, and I’ve had to leave my horse behind. Damned fine horse, too.” Thankfully anything incriminating he always kept on his person, sewn into the lining of his waistcoat—close to his heart, rather than with his mount.
“Thank ye, Cousin.”
“Thank me later. Now run.”
Grabbing hold of Archie’s elbow, he dragged him out of the muck. They ran without looking back, keeping to the woods and hiding behind boulders to catch their breath. Toran had learned over his years of espionage that looking back only got a man killed. They ran for a mile or two following a familiar path, one Toran often took from the garrison to Fraser lands. Any other night he would have been glad for the fullness of the moon to light the way. But tonight he knew it gave them away, two hunched figures running for their lives.
Archie stumbled over pebbles, roots, his own feet, often falling to his knees, and Toran continued to lift him up.
“I canna, Cousin. Go on without me.” Archie sank to the ground, defeated.
“I didna save ye from the English only to let ye die on the road.” Toran scanned the moors, waiting for the shadows of their pursuers to make themselves known. “We’ve got to get this muck off us. Boyd’s dogs will be following the scent.”
Archie lifted his head. “Ye’re no’ going to leave me?”
“Of course no’. Where’s your Fraser ballocks? Come on.” Archie mustered the strength to stand, but they weren’t going to be moving very fast. Thankfully, the sound of rushing water filtered from ahead. “Hurry, we’re close to the river.”
Less than five minutes later, they were at the river’s edge. The glossy black depths reflected the moon and a sprinkle of stars. Holding onto Archie’s arm, Toran pulled him into the chilly water.
“Ye didna drag me all this way just to see me drown, did ye?” Archie asked.
Toran chuckled, feeling the weight of his kilt increase as water soaked into the wool. The river bottom sucked at his boots, but he waded in until they were waist deep. That was where the river bottom went out beneath them, and he had to swim the rest of the way across with his cousin in his grasp. “I’d not have risked my own arse only to drown ye in a river.”
Once on the other side, Toran wrung out their kilts and shirts, dumped the water from their boots, and used the sharp tip of his sgian dubh to fiddle with the locks on the shackles, but the small dagger wasn’t narrow enough to fit.
He pulled the pin from his neckerchief and despite the dark was able to use it to free his cousin from the chains, which he tossed into the water.
Archie’s teeth chattered. “I dinna know how much further I can go.”
“Only a little more,” Toran said.
He had no idea where to take his cousin, but he did know staying this close to Boyd was a death sentence.
Dressed again, they continued on their way. Though it was summer, the night air was cool, chilling their sodden clothes and shoes. Another thirty minutes or so passed while Archie’s gait continued to slow. Toran led his cousin to a good hiding spot behind a thick boulder that shielded them from view.
“We’ll rest here a mo—” But he cut himself off at the sound of a stick breaking.
Toran jerked around. Suddenly, figures melted out from the shadows. Scots, but in the dark and dressed as they were, he couldn’t make out what clan they hailed from. At the center of the five men stood a lass. Aye, she wore trews and had her hair up under a cap, wisps of golden strands peeking through, but there was no hiding the curves beneath her shirt and waistcoat. In the moon- light filtering through the trees, she looked bonnie— high, arching cheekbones, a mouth that puckered into a frown. But what struck him most was the spark of fire in her gaze. Her eyes reflected the light of the moon, almost making her look like she was glowing.
And the muzzle of her pistol was pointed right at him. Outlaws... Of all the bloody luck. He reached for his own pistol tucked into his belt.
“Dinna move,” the lass said. Her voice was throaty, sensual. “Else I put a bullet through your heart.”
A slow grin formed on Toran’s face. “What’s to say I won’t put a bullet in yours first?”
The lass looked down at Archie and then flicked her
gaze back to his. “Ye’re outnumbered. Let’s say ye were willing to pull your weapon before I took my shot, and then ye were to waste your bullet, there’d be five more cutting through ye before ye were able to see the result.” Again, she looked at Archie. “And your friend doesna seem like he will be much help.”
“We’re verra close to the English garrison, lass. Any shot ye make will be a beacon to the dragoons lurking about. And trust me, there are hundreds of them headed this way as we speak.”
“Is that so?” She glanced at Archie once more. “A prison break? So ye two are rebels, aye?”
Toran didn’t answer. Let her come to her own conclusions.
“We have horses.” She kept her gaze on his, and he had the intense urge to draw closer. “Ye and your friend can have one when we return to my camp—for a price. Why not donate your coin to the cause and join us? We’ve a need for more rebels.”
Toran did not want to join her. Now, if she’d asked him to join her for some mutual warmth under a plaid, that would be another story. Then again, she had a point about the bullets. And he truly did not want to die.
“I’m guessing from your current circumstances ye are in need of a helping hand, sir.” Her voice was smooth, even melodic, but still filled with authority. And considering that she was the one speaking, she certainly gave the impression that she was the one in charge. Fascinating.
A group of men led by a woman? Not a common thing and intensely intriguing. Whoever she was, she had ballocks as full of steel as his own. And if he weren’t trapped in the woods with her, a hundred redcoats on his tail, he might have asked her to join him for a dram.
“Who are ye?” Toran asked.
A soft laugh escaped her, and her hand waved dismissively. “Not yet, sir. Ye’ll have to prove yourself first.”
Prove himself? He gritted his teeth. “All right, we’ll join ye.” There really was no other choice. He and Archie needed a quick escape, and her horse would provide that. Just because he was taking her up on the offer now didn’t mean he had to stick it out. In fact, as soon as he could, he’d steal the horse and somehow get Archie back to Fraser lands where he could make certain the rest of his family was safe from Boyd.
“Good.” She nodded to Dirk. “Search them for weapons, and then help the wounded man onto your horse.”
Toran stood still for the inspection, gritting his teeth as his weapons were removed. “I’ve said we’d join ye. Why then are ye treating me like a prisoner?”
The lass cocked her head to the side, a slight grin curling her upper lip. “We must first see that ye are trust- worthy.” With an added challenge echoing in her words, she said, “Ye can ride with me. And dinna try any tricks, else ye find yourself verra dead.”
The lass didn’t beat around the bush, and there was no hint of humor in her tone at all. She meant what she said. Toran climbed onto the back of her horse, his cold,
wet body flush to her warmer, dry back. Beneath the icy exterior was a lass full of lush curves. Mo chreach... Good heavens, but she felt good. Hesitantly, he placed an arm around her waist.
She shuddered. “Blast, but ye’re soaked,” she hissed. “Ye should have warned me. And ye smell like the devil’s own chamber pot.”
Toran chuckled. “A hazard of escape, lass.”
Her back straightened, and she leaned forward, away from him. “Ye can call me Mistress J.”
Mistress J? Why did that sound familiar?
“And ye are?” she urged.
“I’m called Toran,” he said slowly as realization struck
him. The night had taken a very interesting turn. For he was holding onto the woman he suspected might be responsible for his mother’s death.
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