Claire wheeled around to look at Lise. Lise who stood with her back as straight as a rod and looked Foster dead in the eye. A small smile was painted on her lips, and her eyes cold, hands folded neatly in front of her as she walked soundlessly towards the men.
"We thank you for your kindness, but please be assured that Mrs Beauchamp, and I, are quite content in the company of the Mackenzies." Lise still spoke in that formal, light and very English voice. Then it hit her. Lise wasn't just speaking in an English accent, but in Claire's accent.
"I'm glad to hear it," Foster said, moving closer to the younger woman. "I'd be even gladder to hear it from the lady herself."
Lise's eyes flashed, her fingers pressing into her hand, still folded in front of her skirts. She sucked in a breath to speak once more, but Claire had found her voice.
"My friend is quite correct," Claire moved to stand by Lise. "The MacKenzies have been very kind to us, and so there is no honour to defend here."
Foster's face twitched, a disagreement flickering across his face as both women held him to the spot, ensnaring him with a gaze.
"As you wish." His head tilted as though to acknowledge and accept their argument. "Although, I still believe my commander will wish to speak with you. He's presently in residence in the Inn at Brockton. Will you accompany me?" Foster spoke only to Claire. His eyes fixed only on her, his pleasant smile only for her.
Lise and Dougal were having none of it.
"Well, if the lady goes, I go."
"She will go nowhere without me."
They spoke in unison, Dougal's comment at least holding the mask of civility. Lise all but drew her knife, her words flying out quickly and fiercely.
"You're gained quite the bodyguard," Foster commented dryly. His smile was still very much in place, but it wavered as it slid over Lise. There was something in the ferocity with which she guarded Claire that reminded him of a fox guarding its den.
"Very well then," Claire said, and the politely pleasant face Foster wore cemented itself back in place. She hitched her skirts slightly and strode up the bank towards her horse.
Lise fumbled, as though she'd tripped. When she straightened up, her knife had moved from boot to skirt, the handle hidden under the woollen shawl's peak.
"Would one of you gentlemen be so kind as to allow me to ride with you?" She asked as she followed Claire. "I'm not particularly adept on a horse."
"Ride wi' me." Dougal's comment was brusque, there was no room for argument. Lise nodded at him, and moved towards his horse without meeting his gaze.
As she passed Claire, she hissed in a voice so low that Claire nearly missed it.
"If you hesitate again either the redcoats will kill us, or the Scots will. Get your shit together."
It was jarring to hear Lise's usual accent back, before she turned to Dougal and asked him to help her on to the horse, once more borrowing Claire's voice.
Claire's face gave away her relief as they rode across the sweeping hills, her shoulders relaxing slightly. She followed the redcoats with a friendliness that Lise hadn't seen in her yet, her jaw less prominent as she finally released the tension from it. Her thoughts were her own, but her relief was evident to anyone with half a brain.
And Lise's discomfort was even more obvious. She was stiffer than a corpse, and more dead inside too. Dougal's body was warm against hers, and had it been anyone else, she'd have welcomed it. A dreary afternoon in the Scottish Highlands made any source of warmth welcome. But it was too soon, too familiar and too reviling.
At one point, she shifted slightly further from him in the saddle, and his hand loosened on the reins, pressing into her belly.
"Dinnae touch me," she growled to him. The hand moved back to the reins. But his face moved closer and that was far worse. His breath on her neck, his hands touching her – she felt the bile rise in her and choke everything worth knowing out of her.
"Which is the lie?" He murmured in her ear, his coarse beard brushing against the soft skin of her neck.
"I speak Gaelic," Lise spat, her shoulders aching from the tension they held. "Which do you think is the fucking lie?"
"You could have learnt the language when you learnt the accent."
"I'm a good mimic, that's all." Lise was increasingly aware of how they dropped back from the redcoats a fraction, letting Claire and her fellow Englishmen creep away. Increasingly aware of the gap between them. Dougal was deliberately letting it grow, so there was no risk of the redcoats overhearing their conversation. She swallowed, hard, then added: "Look. I was born and bred in the lowlands, moved to Italy when I was 13 and learnt the language o the local by imitation. I can do a Glasgow accent, Doric, Newcastle accent, Yorkshire and Fife. I'm no even sure how long I can do Claire's accent- if they talk to me too much, it'll fail because this is the first I've tried to do one."
Her pounding heartbeat worked in her favour, the trembling of all her limbs finally breaking out.
Foster was polite as he guided them into the building. His back straight as only a solider of the English army's would be. He didn't look over his shoulder as Claire, Lise and their sullen guard, Dougal, trooped along behind him. Foster's boots pounded out a military rhythm on the stone floor, Dougal's footsteps creaking quietly, stalking along behind him. The only reason Claire knew Lise followed them was due to her repeated mutters, in too low a voice for Claire to hear them. Her mutters were all in Claire's voice still, the act very much up.
The door at the end of the hall was opened without a knock, Foster swinging it as he turned the handle, introducing his company all in the same moment.
Claire smiled warmly at the man that greeted them, his warmth obvious. Dougal looked suspiciously at each of the men sat around the table, his face dark. They moved into the room together, Lise a heartbeat behind, the knife in her skirt digging into her ribs slightly.
"This is a happy surprise." The wigged man said, moving to Claire with the simpering sycophancies pouring from him like water from a drowned man's mouth. "The lieutenant here claims you have quite the story to tell."
"I'm so grateful you're willing to listen to it." Claire smiled warmly at the man, a small laugh tangled in her breath.
"Oh nonsense, I love stories. I've not heard a good one since I first set foot on this blasted turf." He spoke conspiratorially to Claire, as though the men behind him did not exist. As though there was not a riled and irritated MacKenzie within arms-reach. As if there was not a young woman stood behind Claire, perfectly aware of the attempt to gain Claire's trust that was happening.
It was only Claire that was invited to eat. She was given a space at the table, and Lise was left to seethe in anger as she stood next to Dougal, arms folded in front of her skirts in that same oh-so-polite manner. That same oh-so-polite smile on her face that screamed her urges to stab each and every one of these men in the trachea then steal their dinner. Dougal moved to stand behind Claire, literally her righthand man, his face remarkably placid as he glanced warningly at Lise. She clenched her teeth, and swallowed the smile, replacing it with a less feral one.
"Now, Foster, you were going to introduce me to this noble Scottish gentleman." Lise cleared her throat delicately as Lord Thomas ignored her yet again. "And of course, this young woman."
Foster inclined his head slightly. He opened his mouth to speak but Lise couldn't stand any more polite drivel.
"Dougal MacKenzie, War Chief of the MacKenzie clan, brother to its laird and Elizabeth Stuart." She spoke quickly, the English accent becoming increasingly clipped. Her face twitched before she smiled at the Lord, remembering at the last minute to dip in a small curtsey – more a bob than anything else.
Lord Thomas tried to smile in the face of such brazen impertinence, and failed completely when Lise asked: "And you are?"
Lord Thomas stiffened, and Foster stepped forwards to speak for him.
"You have the honour," the emphasis of the word was not lost on Lise, "of meeting Brigadier General Sir Oliver Lord Thomas, Knight of the Bath and Commanding Officer of the Northern British Army."
Foster had moved off the wall and now stood a hairbreadth from Lise. She almost smiled at the discomfort of the men in the room, almost smiled at the way she was eyed up, almost smiled at the thought that she was the threatening one in the room.
Lord Thomas inspected Dougal, from his boots to the plaid draped over his shoulder.
"War Chief, eh?" He adopted a light tone. "I'll say this for you, you look the part."
The man who dared to speak up from around the table was met with a hostile look from Lise and a neutral, watchful glance from the War Chief himself. He truly was a 'fine specimen of the local inhabitants', with a better ability to bite down retorts than most. Dougal's only words since arriving where to tell Lord Thomas to call him either MacKenzie or Chief MacKenzie, whichever suited him more. His words were perfectly clear to Lise, and to Claire, but when Lord Thomas turned away, he sniggered.
"I don't know about the lot of you, but I failed to understand a word the creature said."
"Perhaps if you listened to the people you're parading over, you'd get to grips with the accent," Lise snapped, smiling despite herself. "Or does your English arrogance deny you that skill?"
"Elizabeth." Claire hissed. The apology for Lise was already forming when she stepped around Dougal and faced Lord Thomas.
"But if you need a translation, here you go." Still in that impeccable English accent, Lise shifted to Gaelic. "Go fuck yourself with a caber, you insufferable, arrogant little man."
Dougal's impassable face almost betrayed his amusement.
It didn't stop the English from mocking the man, or Lise and her knowledge of the Gaelic tongue. It didn't stop Claire reaching such a point where she felt obliged to point out that the Newcastle accent was almost as unintelligible as Highlanders. It didn't stop Lord Thomas commenting that the world would be a better place if only everyone spoke like Londoners.
"If ye'd like to be in a world where everyone spoke like Londoners, perhaps ye should've stayed in London," Dougal said evenly, though the anger throbbed in his head. For the first time, Lise found herself wishing nothing more than to be alone with Dougal – just to rant about the arrogance and distasteful hatred of these men. She bit her tongue, literally, as Lord Thomas moved back towards the Scot.
"I would be more than happy to oblige, sir, if only you behaved like the loyal British subjects you're supposed to be. That way my troops and I could return to more civilised environs." He spoke slowly, carefully, moving towards Dougal in such a way that made his wish to gut him there and then clear. His gaze slid to Lise. "And I must say, madam, it is a surprise to find an Englishwoman such as yourself defending them. Speaking with their tongue, even. Such an effort to learn such a backwards language."
Lise held his gaze evenly, cold in her hatred.
"I believe it's worth the effort. To learn about a culture before you engulf it into your own, and not just to stamp out any fragment of difference you find in the world," She answered, fierce in defiance. Her fingers curled, urging her to take something in her hand and bash it into his face. To hit him until his wig was as red as his blood.
Lord Thomas turned away and backed down. But his dismissal of Dougal and Lise was clear enough in his venomous apology. Dougal retorted, but left.
Lise stepped closer to Claire's chair.
"You'll forgive me, Oliver, but where Claire goes, I go," she said, folding her hands on the back of the chair. Claire turned to her and murmured.
"I'll be fine, Lise, just go." Her voice was strong, despite its softness. Lise met her gaze and shook her head.
"I don't trust men who don't take off their weapons to eat," Lise hissed back. "And I don't want to be alone with Dougal. Please, Claire, let me insist I stay."
Lise's request failed. Whilst Claire dined and was complimented and fawned upon, the star of the meal, Lise dropped her false accent and stropped at Dougal. She hissed about the indignity of their treatment. Dougal listened to the rant in silence, only occasionally looking at her with a weary glare, but never once interrupting it.
She cut off herself when she saw Captain Randall glance half-heartedly into the corner where they lurked, twitch in displeasure and storm up the stairs towards Claire. Her breath hitched and she stared at him as he stalked the whole way along the corridor.
"Guessing following him would end badly for both of us?" Lise spoke tightly.
"Mistress Beauchamp is surrounded by her own people. I'm sure he'll mind his manners," Dougal said, but his hand drifted towards the sword at his hip. He glanced up at the closed door, eyeing it suspiciously.
A long five minutes passed before Claire appeared, rushing towards the man with a bullet lodged in his arm. Her warning for both Lise and Dougal to make themselves scarce wasn't needed as the man began to scream.
Lise lurked by the door as Claire shut herself in with Randall. She didn't quite press her ear to the door, but she may as well have. She burned at the accusation that Claire was a prostitute, her gut roiling in a way that she didn't quite understand. Breaking into the room would not end well for her, or for Claire, but god, she wanted to rush in, place herself between the two of them.
Dougal pulled her away from the door, telling her not to draw any more attention to themselves. Lise resented the hand on her arm, the tight grip and her own helplessness in being pulled away.
"Lass, we'll no be any help if we get arrested lurking in the doorway," He hissed at her. When Lise still resisted. "We'll no help her if we're dead before he's finished talking. Now git down those stairs and act like the polite English lady you're claiming to be."
Lise gritted her teeth and followed him back down the stairs, straining her hearing still.
"If he lays a finger on her," Lise began.
"Aye."
"I'll gut him."
"There'll be a line waiting to help ye," Dougal growled. Lise lifted her head in surprise, looking at him with wide eyes. He met her gaze for a split second, then shoved a flagon of ale into her hands, drinking from his own before speaking once more. "I've seen that bastard at work. I was there when he tore Jamie's back tae shreds – dinnae fret, lass. He's getting what he's owed."
There was a small sound from upstairs, a small thud. As though something soft had fallen from the table. So small that Lise missed it.
Dougal did not. His stool skidded back on the stone floor, scraping loudly away as he leapt up and rushed towards the stairs. In a flurry of kilt and man, he was at the top of the stairs before Lise could blink. By the time she'd followed him – a heartbeat ahead of the redcoats – he was already hauling Claire to her feet.
"Hold!" He snapped at the men behind Lise, staring straight past her as she rushed to Claire, replacing his hands with her own. "I didnae come here tae fight. You tell yer wee laddies here to step aside before I lose my temper."
Black Jack Randall smiled.
"You have no right to that woman, not while she's being questioned by a British officer," he said, controlled and calm.
Lise spat at him.
"Wha' aboot when she's being questioned by the scum o the earth?" She growled, pushing Claire slightly behind her, freeing her hand. "How's the hand, Randall? Do ye want the other broken to match it?"
Randall turned his venomous smile to her.
"Here I was, believing we had two English subjects in our midst. My mistake," he drawled. "That woman is an English subject before anything else, you, MacKenzie, have no right to her."
Dougal stepped forwards. His shoulders were tense, his fist furled in on itself.
"She was brought here for fear she was being held prisoner by my brother. Now, she will have assured ye that that is no the case, and by right, must be returned to me for protection." The words were filled with fury, but delivered with an emphatic clarity.
"I'm afraid further questions have arisen," Randall countered. Lise drew her knife.
"I can give ye an answer to them if ye wish answers." She stepped towards Randall. "But if ye dinnae let her go, I'll start this war for ye." Her knife glinted in the light filtering in from the window. "I have friends in every single clan, friends with the French and the Italians – ye kill me here, and this will end oh so badly for the English, I promise you."
Randall looked at the young woman.
"I suppose we're done for the day. Be sure to deliver her to Fort William by sundown tomorrow," he allowed. "If she is not present at the appointed time, you will be accused of harbouring a fugitive from English law, and you'll be hunted down and punished, even unto death. Both of you."
Lise sheathed her knife.
Dougal guided Claire out the room, the woman still coughing slightly from her assault. They had just passed through the door when Lise paused and turned to look at Randall. She didn't saw a word, but the look between them promised vengeance.
"How many times must I answer that same question?" Claire snapped at the rushing water below her. "I am not a spy. I am plain Claire Beauchamp and nothing more. There. Can we finally be done with it?"
Dougal inspected her closely, as though weighing her words in the air. Lise cleared her throat from against the rocks, the sound bouncing towards the water.
"I," she faltered as four eyes turned to look at her. "I am a spy though. No for the English or the French, I'll admit."
Dougal's knife whipped around in front of him and was sheathed in a brief singing of metal.
"Were you planning on using that on me?" Claire asked, outraged. Lise twitched an eyebrow, impressed that Dougal even considered killing either of them.
"I wouldnae have liked it. Ye're a handsome woman," he shrugged. He glanced across at Lise. "Jacobite?" She nodded curtly.
"My brother is a moron, but he is mouldable."
"Drink," Dougal commanded. Lise obliged and he was convinced.