The English officer's scarlet tunic was concealed beneath a voluminous black greatcoat. He was temporarily hatless, but the fresh white flakes of snow barely survived a moment or two on the dark cap of hair before they dissolved into tiny beads of water. He was clean shaven, his face a hard mask of concentration softened only by the shallow puffs of steam that gave substance to each breath.
“How many more do you suppose are up there?”
“Could be two,” said the Scot. “Could be twenny. MacGillivray is a cautious bastard; I'm surprised we managed tae get as close as we have.”
The major cursed under his breath, for he had not even been aware they were on MacGillivray's land until a few moments ago and he was just thankful he had been cautious enough to order a circuitous approach through the woods.
“Have we any idea who those two riders were?”
“Could ha' been any one of a barrel full o' rebels come tae meet with the auld bastard.”
“You are absolutely certain Fearchar Farquharson is in that cottage?”
“As certain as I am o' the nose on ma face. Lomach saw the youngest Monaltrie in Inverness today an' followed him here, an' if he's inside yon house, so are his brithers, an' so is their granda'. Like apples in a barrel.”
“Yes. And that barrel belongs to Dunmaglass.”
“Ye're leakin' a bit o' piss worryin' about The MacGillivray? He stops a lead ball just as easily as any ither man.”
The English officer turned his head to stare at the Highlander. “I am sure he does. But how many of his men will be spitting lead at us before we even have a chance to get to him? There could be a dozen more burrowed into those blasted rocks, the same again inside the house and barn— none of them chosen for either their poor aim or their reluctance to demonstrate it. We have fifteen good men I would as soon not squander on an attack that holds little promise of success.” He turned his gaze back to the house. “Besides, the old fox is worth much more to me alive than dead, for he attracts these rebels like flies to dung and we merely have to watch him to see who comes to pay homage.”
The Highlander expelled a hoary breath. He knew there was no use arguing with the Sassenach, though it galled him to have to let such a plum opportunity slip through his fingers. He owed the arrogant MacGillivray a scar or two for past insults.
Hugh MacDugal of Argyle was not paid to eat gall, but he was paid—and paid well—as a tracker. His nose was as keen as that of any bloodhound and it was no idle boast to say he could follow an ant through a forest in a rainstorm. Just as the MacCrimmon clansmen were known for piping the sweetest music in all of Caledonia, the MacDugals had bred generations of hunters. Hugh's services, along with those of his brother Lomach, had been contracted by the English within hours of the Stuart prince raising his standard at Glenfinnan.
Major Roger Worsham, on the other hand, had only arrived in the Highlands a fortnight ago. Unlike most English officers who treated the posting at Inverness like an exile, and who familiarized themselves first with the local whisky, second with the local whores, Worsham had remained aloof and apart, preferring his own company when he was not otherwise engaged in army matters. He reported directly to Lord Loudoun, yet he was not yet attached to any specific regiment. Rumor was he had been sent to Inverness by the Duke of Cumberland himself.
Worsham started to edge back into the denser cover of the trees, and with a vigilant glance around the rocks, MacDugal followed, keeping low until the shadows and increasing snowfall were likely to mask any hint of movement. Despite the thickness of the fir trees, the rest of the men were clearly visible, the scarlet of their tunics glowing a dull blood red against the bluish gloom of their surroundings.
“If we're no' gonny attack, we'd best move further back,” he advised. “Otherwise we'll be the apples in the barrel.”
Worsham detected the derision in the tracker's voice and thrust a thumb down between each finger to adjust the fit of his leather gloves. “I have seen enough anyway. It's too bloody cold to stand about watching the smoke rise from the chimney. Keep half of the men here with you, MacDugal, and put them where you will. I'll take the rest back with me to Inverness. When MacGillivray's guests leave—or if any others arrive—I want them followed.”
“By this flock o' bloody lobsterbacks? In this snow they'll stick out like licks o' flame.”
“You have a better idea?”
“Aye. Take the lot o' them back tae Inverness wi' ye. Lomach an' I will manage on our own.”
Worsham searched for the dark blot of the other tartan-clad Highlander, but having no success, settled his gaze on MacDugal. “I don't want to lose Farquharson in these hills.”
“Ye won't. Old as he is, he's nae daft enough tae leave Dunmaglass tonight. No' with The MacGillivray guaranteeing his safety. An' mark my words”—he paused and screwed his eyes upward to look at the sky—“it'll get a fair sight worse out here afore it gets any better.”
Within the hour, Eneas had arrived at the same conclusion. “Snow's gettin' heavier,” he murmured, glancing through a slat in the window shutters. “If ye're determined tae go back tonight, Annie, ye'd best be leavin' soon.”
Since staying away from home all night was not an option she could even briefly consider, Anne looked reluctantly away from the fire and nodded. She had not said much in the past ten minutes or so. Fearchar had dropped off again and the twins had carried him away to his bed. Gillies had volunteered to fetch more wood, though she suspected he only wanted an excuse to remove himself from the tension that had filled the room since The MacGillivray's startling announcement.
“Me? They want me to lead the clan away?” Anne had gasped.
MacGillivray had only shrugged his big shoulders and she had not been sure if the smile playing across his lips was intended to express his amusement or his derision.
She had turned then, to stare at her cousins and grandfather. “You cannot be serious.”
“We're deadly serious, lass,” Fearchar declared. “Ye're the only one can dae it.”
“Surely not the only one.”
“Onliest one the men will listen tae. Ye're the wife o' the chief. Ye're a Farquharson. Ye're ma granddaughter, an' by God's grace ye've more courage in yer wee finger than Angus Moy can lay claim tae in his entire body.”
“He is not a coward, Granda',” she insisted quietly.
“He just disna want tae fight. Well an' good then, we can fight wi'out him. I've gone through all the laws, lassie, an' there's naught says a woman canna lead the clan. I grant ye, it's never been done afore, but then we've never had an army marched all the way tae London afore either! We've never had a prince willin' tae risk everythin' he has tae walk in the mud alongside his troops! We've never had a general like Lord George Murray, nor have we ever had brave men the likes o' Lochiel an' Keppoch an' Lord John Drummond willin' tae risk everythin', tae lose everythin' tae fight f'ae Scotland's freedom. All ye need, lass, is the signatures of a hundred lairds willin' tae acknowledge ye as their leader an' the law says ye can send out the crosh tarie an' call the men tae arms.”
For generations, the burning cross had been sent out across the Highlands as both a demand for clansmen to answer a summons by their chief, and a threat of punishment by fire if they failed to show up at the appointed time and place.
“The signatures of a hundred lairds?” She offered up a sound that fell somewhere between a scoff and a curse. “Is that all? No armor, no mighty Excalibur, no steel helmet with horns growing out of the sides?”
“Ye'd not actually be expected tae ride intae battle,” Robbie said, taking exception to her mockery. “Ye'd have tae appoint a captain wi' hard fightin' experience behind him tae lead the men onto the battlefield.”
“One of you stalwart fellows, I suppose?”
“No' me,” Jamie said, raising his hands in self-defense.
“Damned right, no' you,” Robert agreed. “Ye have enough trouble leadin' the way across a moor.”
Jamie glared. “If ye'
re referrin' tae last week at Killiecrankie, how was I tae know the ground were thawed?”
“Thawed? Ye were up tae yer armpits in bog an' squealin' like a stuck pig when we caught up tae ye. Took us two hours tae haul ye out an' two days afore the stink washed off.”
“Enough.” Eneas's voice cut sharply between the two before addressing Anne. “We didna mean tae spring this on ye so sudden, nor have we come wi' a half-cocked idea. We've asked some o' the lairds what their answer might be if they were given a petition bearin' yer name, an' if it interests ye tae know, we have twenty-seven willin' tae sign already—an' that's no' includin' any man here.”
Anne did not know what to say. Twenty-seven lairds were ready to break their oath of fealty to their chief, and they were willing to do it on her say-so. Part of her was appalled, certainly. Respect and unquestioning loyalty to the authority of the clan chief was ingrained from birth; what they were suggesting was tantamount to treason within the clan. Another part of her—the part that had reveled in riding the moors with her cousins—was admittedly excited, too, for it meant there were at least twenty-seven lairds who had not laughed her grandfather out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
“Ye dinna have tae give us yer answer tonight, lass,” Fearchar said. “Sleep on it. Think on it. Watch yer husband dress in his fine scarlet tunic a time or two afore ye make up yer mind.”
“I don't have to think about it,” Anne said quietly. “The answer is no. What you are asking is … is just not possible. It's utter madness, in fact.”
“Annie,” Robbie began, “it's f'ae the honor o' the clan.”
Her gaze cut to her cousin. “Don't you dare try to justify this by telling me it's for the honor of the clan. It may have worked four years ago, but it will not work now.”
“But Annie—”
“And do not but Annie me.” Her anger flashed in Eneas's direction. “Four years ago you all insisted I marry a man I had never even seen before, a man who had to be threatened and badgered to honor an agreement he had neither sought nor wanted. But marry we did, and you justified the threats and badgering by claiming I had an obligation, that the union was for the good of the clan. Well… you may not take your vows and oaths seriously—or perhaps you only take them seriously when they suit your moods and motives—but I do. Angus is my husband. He is also my laird, and I'll not break the vows I made just because it is no longer of any benefit to the Farquharson clan that I keep them. If you want another Joan of Arc, you will have to look elsewhere for someone to ride the white charger.”
Jamie and Robbie started to retort with arguments in their own defense, but Anne turned her back to the room and no longer listened. In truth, it had taken the combined efforts of all three cousins and her grandfather to coax her into going through with the wedding to Angus Moy. The fact it had not turned out to be the hated, dreaded, feared ordeal she had envisioned had nothing to do with her resentment now. They had used her like a pawn once to get what they wanted; she was not about to let them use her again, especially since it was only her name they wanted, and not even her.
“Dinna let it eat at ye, lass,” MacGillivray murmured, coming up and handing her a newly refilled tankard of ale. “Ye were right to tell them to go to hell. 'Tis a foolish thing they're askin' an' ye're better off stayin' out of it.”
Anne was tall for a woman, and accustomed to meeting most men on eye level, but to look into MacGillivray's eyes, she had to physically tilt her head upward.
She smiled and was about to thank him for the ale when she remembered Eneas had said none of the men in this room had signed the petition. That would include MacGillivray, who had sat like a big cat in the shadows throughout the discussion, undoubtedly harboring his own opinions on the foolishness of what they proposed. On the other hand, there was no lack of respect for him among his peers, and his clansmen were bonny fighters; not a one would remain behind if he gave orders to take up arms. He would have been Anne's first choice to lead anyone into battle, and she could well understand if his pride had been left a little stung that it was not his name on the petition.
The faint grin that had been pulling at his mouth widened, giving Anne the distinct impression he knew exactly what she was thinking.
The proof of it came on a soft laugh. “I aspire to be nothin' more than what I am, Annie. Had they asked me, I would have throfted them out the door on the toe o' ma boot.”
“Yet you did nothing to stop them from asking me.” “Mayhap I was curious to hear yer answer.” His eyes were like deep black pools and, try as she might, she could not look away. Nor could she stop herself from asking, “Had I said yes, what would you have done?”
His head tipped to one side and his gaze made a slow, leisurely study of her face, taking in the smooth curve of her cheek, the slight upturn at the end of her nose, the lush fullness of her lower lip. When he was finished, his smile had been lost somewhere in the stillness and Anne had forgotten what she had asked.
“We'll never know what might have happened, will we?”
Somehow she knew he was not talking about petitions or signatures or rebellions. He was back with her behind the booth at the fairground and his hands were deep in her hair; his hard, oiled body was hotter than the sunlight, and his mouth was introducing her to sensations she'd had no idea she was capable of feeling.
“Ye'd best be on yer way, Annie,” Eneas said from the window. “I'll have Gillies bring the horses round.”
“Yes,” she said, glancing over at him. “Thank you.”
When she looked back, MacGillivray had moved away from the hearth and returned to the shadows, taking whatever memories had been disturbed with him.
Chapter Three
Anne hurried up the darkened staircase to the second floor of Moy Hall. She had removed her boots after squelching two or three steps inside the rear door, and her stockinged feet made no sound on the waxed wooden floors. The ride from Dunmaglass had been without incident, though Eneas, who had elected to act as her escort on the way back, had periodically called a halt to look over his shoulder and study the gusts of swirling snow.
Shivering and red-nosed, Anne arrived at her bedchamber and released an audible sigh of gratitude when she saw a fire blazing high in the grate. She had half unwound her plaid, shedding clumps of ice and melting snow onto the floor all the while, before she stiffened and turned slowly to stare at the fireplace again.
“It is a cold night. I thought you might appreciate the heat. I even had your maid draw a bath, although I expect the water has cooled by now.”
Anne's hands clutched the woolen folds as she followed the voice. Angus was seated in the armchair in the far corner of the room. His coat and waistcoat had been discarded, his fine lawn shirt was loosened in a deep V down his chest, his booted feet were propped on a tapestry stool. Seeing her husband lounging in much the same position MacGillivray had assumed for most of the evening brought the tiny hairs along her forearms standing up on end.
“Angus?”
“You were expecting someone else?”
“No. No, of course not, but—”
He held a crystal glass in his hand and began to swirl the contents round and round. To judge by the near-empty decanter of claret on the table beside him, he had been there for quite some time.
“I… I thought you would have stayed the night on Church Street,” she said lamely.
“My dear mother would not have thanked me for imposing myself on her hospitality.”
“I am sure she does not think upon it as an imposition.”
“It is if she is stockpiling guns in the wine cellar for Prince Charles or hatching plots to storm the citadel at Fort George.” He took a slow sip of wine and let his gaze wander speculatively over her wet and bedraggled appearance. “Besides which, I thought my wife might appreciate my company on such a cold and blustery night. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I found an empty house.”
Anne's cheeks warmed as she draped the heavy tartan
over the back of a nearby chair.
“Granda' is in Inverness,” she said, having no wish to play any more games of cat and mouse this night. “I went to see him.”
The pewter gray eyes narrowed sharply. “Fearchar? He's here? What the good Christ is he doing anywhere near Inverness?”
Anne forced another measured breath between her lips. It was a rare occasion when her husband used profanity in front of her, even more rare than the times he presented himself with the ends of his cravat trailing unwound down his chest and his shirtfront opened haphazardly over the dark swirls of hair beneath. His manners were normally as polished as his appearance, and in four years of marriage she had yet to witness any major disruption in either. This—the gaping shirt, the mud showing on the soles of his boots, the disheveled lock of chestnut hair fallen over the brow, and the near-empty decanter of claret—evoked a sensation not unlike holding a lit fuse in front of a keg of gunpowder.
Nor did his eyes do anything to ease her apprehension. They were fastened on her like gun barrels, following her every move as she took off her bonnet and set it alongside her plaid.
“He came to tell me about the prince's army retreating from Derby. He was surprised I had not already heard the news from you.”
“Your grandfather's sources are better than the Lord President's. The army dispatch only reached Inverness late this afternoon.”
“And you rushed right home to tell me?”
She saw his mouth tighten at her sarcasm and she could have bitten her tongue off at the root, for it occurred to her— too late to save the slow burn in her cheeks—that he might have done exactly that.
He held her in a fixed stare for a moment longer, then resumed swirling the contents of his glass. “You are aware, are you not, of the dangers involved with being caught in your grandfather's company?”
“He was careful, I was careful. No one saw me leave the house and I met no one on the road.”
Midnight Honor Page 4