Read Chapter 14: The Rebel's Confession

The mountain tracks had gone cold by the time Callum reached the rebel camp's outer sentries. Snow dusted the heather, and his breath hung in mist as he raised his hands above his head. Two muskets leveled at his chest from the rocks above.

"MacRae," one of the sentries spat. "What brings a Redcoat's dog to our fire?"

"I need to see Eilidh. Now."

The sentry laughed—a short, bitter sound. "You've some nerve, hunter. After your English masters burned our stores last week, you think she'll—"

"She'll want to hear what I have to say. Before the council gathers." Callum held the man's gaze. "I walked three hours through your territory unarmed. That ought to count for something."

The sentries exchanged glances. Finally the older one jerked his head toward the camp's heart. "Move slow. Keep your hands where I can see them."

The camp sprawled in a shallow bowl between two granite shoulders, sheltered from the wind. Cookfires guttered in the dusk, casting long shadows over lean-tos and makeshift shelters. Men and women moved between them, and Callum felt their stares like splinters as he passed. He'd hunted for some of these people. Tracked deer for their tables in better years. Now they looked at him as they might look at a wolf that had learned to walk on two legs.

Eilidh stood at the far edge of the camp, tall against the fading light. Her red hair escaped its braid in wisps, and there was a new hardness around her mouth that Callum hadn't seen before. Behind her, a handful of rebels watched with their hands resting on pistol grips.

"Well." Eilidh's voice carried no warmth. "The British Army's finest tracker, come to grace our poor camp. To what do we owe the pleasure, Callum? Have you come to arrest us all?"

"I've come to talk. About Duncan."

Something flickered across her face—quick as a trout breaking water—before she smoothed it away. "Your brother is in Inverness, awaiting trial. Nothing I can do about that."

"You know that's not what I mean." Callum stepped closer. A rebel moved to block him, but Eilidh raised her hand. "I know Duncan was your courier. Your best one. And I know you suspect he's turned."

The silence stretched thin as ice. Eilidh studied him with eyes that had seen too much betrayal already.

"Walk with me," she said finally.

They moved to the edge of the camp, past the picket lines and into the birches that bordered the burn. The sentries kept them in sight but gave them space. Eilidh stopped at a fallen log, its bark peeling in long curls.

"You have some nerve," she said again, softer this time. "Walking in here, asking questions about a man who may have sold us all to the English. What makes you think I'd tell you anything?"

"Because I warned you about the ambush."

"You warned us about an ambush that never should have happened." Eilidh turned to face him, and now the hardness cracked, showing weariness underneath. "Do you know what it cost us to learn that lesson? The intelligence came through Duncan. He told us the British were moving south, massing at Fort William. He told us the council should gather at Glenfinnan for safety." She shook her head. "It was a trap from the start. Set by your Colonel Thorne, sprung through your brother's hand."

"Unless Duncan believed the intelligence himself."

"A courier doesn't pass along intelligence he hasn't verified. Not a good one." Eilidh's voice caught. "Duncan was good, Callum. Better than good. He ran messages through country that would kill most men—through bogs and passes and enemy lines—and he never lost a single dispatch. He saved lives. My life, more than once."

Callum heard the grief beneath her words, buried under the anger. "He's still your man."

"He was my man." Eilidh looked away. "Before he sold us."

"You don't know that."

"I know that he sent word of the council gathering, and the very night we arrived, English soldiers came down on us like wolves. I know that two of my best people died in that raid. I know that Duncan was captured—conveniently, alone, with papers on him that led nowhere—and that he's been sitting in Inverness ever since, awaiting a trial he should have faced weeks ago." Eilidh met his eyes. "Why would the English hold a traitor for trial, Callum, unless he was worth more to them alive?"

Callum had no answer. The same thought had gnawed at him since he'd learned of the transfer.

"Did you know about Annabel?" he asked.

Eilidh's face went still. "The factor's daughter?"

"Duncan sent men to ransack her—or so they claimed. Men wearing rebel colors. They took her to the hills and demanded coin for her return." Callum watched her carefully. "I found her. Brought her back. But I never learned who actually ordered that job."

"And you think I did?"

"I think Duncan was your best courier. I think he had access to rebel names and rebel methods. And I think if someone wanted to make it look like the rebellion had turned to kidnapping Englishwomen for coin—to turn public sympathy against you—they'd need insider knowledge to pull it off."

A long pause. The burn babbled over stones, indifferent to their conversation.

"It wasn't us," Eilidh said at last. "I don't know who took that girl, but it wasn't my people." She studied him. "You seem to care a great deal about her welfare."

"She was innocent in all this. Just like the prisoners Major Harbottle's been beating in Fort William."

Eilidh's expression tightened at the name. "Harbottle." She spat the word like it was poison. "That man has hanged three of my friends. He starves his prisoners, beats them for sport, and takes their families' lands while they rot in his cells. If there was ever a man who deserved a bullet, it's him."

Callum heard the edge in her voice and knew an opening when he saw it. "You want him gone."

"I want him dead." Eilidh turned to face him fully. "And I want to know whose side you're truly on." She reached into her coat and produced a folded paper, worn at the creases. "This is Harbottle's route. Next week, he travels to Glasgow to collect new prisoners—rebels he intends to execute publicly, to make an example of them. He'll pass through the pass at Corrieyairack with a small escort. Exposed."

Callum said nothing.

"I'm giving you a chance, Callum MacRae." Eilidh pressed the paper into his hand. "Prove that you're not your brother's keeper. Prove that you're not Thorne's creature. Put a ball through Major Harbottle's black heart, and I'll believe you're still one of us. I'll help you see Duncan. I'll give you the truth of what he was to me."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you walk out of these hills alive—I'll grant you that much out of respect for what you've been." Her voice hardened. "But you'll never see Duncan. You'll never learn what he knows. And the next time we meet, I won't be talking."

Callum stared at the paper in his hands. The weight of it was immense—a man's life, a test of loyalty, the key to his brother's freedom. He thought of Thorne's cold eyes and promised execution. He thought of Duncan, waiting in Inverness with his secrets.

He thought of Harbottle's fists on prisoners' faces.

"He travels next week?"

"Tuesday. At dawn."

Callum folded the paper and tucked it inside his coat. "I'll need a rifle with good range. One of your hunting pieces."

A ghost of a smile crossed Eilidh's face. "I thought you might say that."

She gestured to a figure waiting among the birches—a young man Callum recognized as one of her scouts. The scout stepped forward, carrying a wrapped bundle. Eilidh took it and held it out to him.

"French trade rifle. Sights are true." She met his eyes. "Don't make me regret this, Callum. I've lost too many people to the English already."

Callum took the rifle, feeling its familiar weight settle in his hands. For the first time in months, his path felt clear.

He would kill Major Harbottle. He would earn Eilidh's trust.

And then he would learn what his brother had done—and why.