Blakeney smelled an ally and turned to the Lord President. “We have two thousand men in the garrison. Give me fifteen hundred.”
“To capture one drunken, unprotected prince?”
“Merely a show of force to discourage any outside interference.”
“To cover yer arse ye mean,” MacLeod said dryly, “in case yer source is wrong.”
“If he is wrong,” Blakeney retorted, “a certain Corporal Jeffrey Peters will find his head impaled on a spike and set outside the citadel walls for the Jacobites to use as target practice.”
Forbes exchanged glances with Loudoun and MacLeod, then nodded. “Very well. How soon can you leave?”
“The men can be mustered and on the road within the hour. Within two, three at most, we should be back here with the Pretender and his gracious hostess secured in chains.”
“Lady Anne?”
“She is harboring an enemy of the Crown, is she not? That alone would be more justification than any military court would require to uphold a charge of sedition and treason. Personally, I have never hanged a woman before, but I'm told they bleat and squeal like little piglets—the same as some men I have lifted off their toes.”
The sound of broken glass caused the four men to whirl and stare at Douglas Forbes, who stood all but forgotten in the corner of the room.
“I… I'm sorry, Uncle. The glass slipped. I'll… I'll fetch someone to clean it up right away. I'm sorry. Sorry, gentlemen. Do carry on.”
He backed quickly out of the door, and when he was gone, the Lord President shook his head. “God knows my brother— may he rest in peace—was the same way. Turned pale if the conversation even hinted at violence. Though I do not imagine his reaction to be all that different from that of many. Hanging women is not what this is about, Colonel Blakeney, and would serve no purpose other than to make the young woman a martyr to the cause. Create martyrs and you create sympathy. No, Lady Anne is not to be molested in any way. Her husband is still a loyal officer in His Majesty's service, and I have given him the same guarantees I have given to others”—he looked pointedly at MacLeod—“to ensure his continuing voluntary support. If, as you say, there is a strong possibility of ending this whole sordid affair tonight, we will need The MacKintosh to pull his clan back under tight rein.”
“What of The MacGillivray?” Loudoun asked. “I am of the opinion he has become a liability we cannot afford in war or peace.”
“I gave no warranty against accidents,” Forbes said. “And in the aftermath of hostilities, there are always … accidents.” He looked at Colonel Blakeney, and the decision was made. “Bring me Scotland's prince, sir, and you shall have England's gratitude.”
Douglas Forbes needed a few moments to catch his breath. He had stumbled out of Lord Loudoun's office and barely made it to a supporting wall before his knees gave way.
They were going to arrest Lady Anne! They were going to put her in chains and lock her away in a rat-infested gaol cell until a spectacle could be made of her hanging! It was too much. It was too damned much—and he could not allow that to happen!
Wary of the colonel's adjutant watching him, Douglas straightened himself and his clothes and strode as calmly as he could out of the headquarters and into the yard. Twilight was full upon them, and since the afternoon sun had been strong enough to melt most of the snow inside the fort, the myriad puddles shone like scattered pieces of broken mirror.
Feigning no great hurry, he called for his horse. When it was brought to him, he mounted and waved to the guards on the massive gates as he passed through. Inverness, a mile from the fort, was tiny by comparison to the other major ports of Glasgow and Edinburgh. Of the three thousand permanent residents, many had discreetly vacated their city homes to visit friends and relatives farther north in the more remote regions of Skye. If, as they feared, the final battle for possession of the Highlands would occur here, they would be faced with either a lengthy occupation by the Jacobites or the less than appealing military rule of Cumberland's army.
For all that it sickened Douglas to listen to the plottings and intrigues, he knew his uncle was right. Capture Charles Stuart, and Cumberland would have no reason to bring his army north. Inverness would be spared the reprisals of war, and her residents could return to their normal everyday affairs.
He had no quarrel with that reasoning. None at all. By the same token, however, he had become more and more convinced over the months that Scotland warranted better than being essentially a colony of England. The country was unique, the people were unique, and who were men like his uncle to decide what was best for them? England had surely fought hard enough to defend itself against French and Spanish attempts at invasions in the past, when a victory by either nation would have eradicated their way of life and imposed foreign rule. Why did they then feel it was their right to turn around and dictate to the Scots and the Irish and the Welsh how they should be ruled, whom they should pray to, and how their people should speak or dress?
Douglas realized these were all seditious thoughts, but again, when did pride and honor and a quest for freedom become sedition?
He pulled up sharply on the reins, not even aware of where he had been riding until he found himself at the end of Church Street. There, well back from the road, its windows winking at him through a long avenue of trees, was Drummuir House. The dowager would know what to do. She would know how to get a message to Lady Anne.
He spurred his horse forward and, after explaining to a liveried doorman that there was some urgency behind his unexpected visit, he was taken up the stairs to Lady Drummuir's private sitting room. The ten minutes he was forced to wait seemed interminable, but eventually he heard the rustle of silk petticoats and turned from the window to be greeted by his unsmiling hostess wearing a beaded black lace cap and voluminous bombazine sack dress.
“Well?” The dowager wasted no time on niceties. “I assume ye have a good reason for interruptin' my supper, young man. My soup is growing cold an' I've had to hold up the salmon tortierre, which will not please the cook, who cares more for her pots an' pans than she does her children.”
“Forgive me, Lady Drummuir, but I did not know where else to go. I did not know who else might be able to help me.”
Lady Drummuir's expression softened. “Good God, lad. Ye're shakin' like a palsied leaf. Sit down … no, not there … get yerself over by the fire. Aggie, fetch us wine, then leave.”
The maid who had followed her inside the sitting room did as she was ordered. When she was gone, the dowager nodded at Douglas, who then relayed as succinctly as he could the conversation he had overheard in Lord Loudoun's office.
“I am appalled my uncle would even consider arresting Lady Anne. He gave his word of honor—” He raked a hand through his hair in agitation. “Nay, he gave his oath as a guarantee against the safety of Lord MacKintosh's family and clan, only to turn about now, when he no longer needs the laird's cooperation, and conspire to hang the Lady Anne!”
“Guarantees? He gave my son guarantees?”
Douglas looked over. “Warrants of immunity, my lady, in writing. I saw them myself, stamped with the royal seal of office.”
The dowager turned and stared at the darkness outside the window. “That would begin to explain much. The bloody-minded fool, why he did not tell us?”
“Please, Lady Drummuir, tell me what I can do to help. I have left my uncle's house, and I am yours to command as you will.”
The dowager's blue eyes searched his face for a long moment, debating the wisdom of trusting the Lord President's own nephew regardless how smitten he was with her daughter-in-law. In the end she reached for a small bell on the table beside her and rang it hard enough to bring her maid back into the room on the run. After calling for pen and paper, she wrote out two notes. One she would send by courier to Dunmaglass; the other she gave to Douglas.
“This should pass ye through any sentries that are posted around Moy Hall, an' it should gain ye an immediate audience with Lady Anne. Tell her I
have sent for MacGillivray, an' if he is not halfway to Clunas already, he should be but an hour or so behind ye. No, on second thought, dinna tell her that. Tell her only that I've sent him word. Cut across the way from Meall Moor, the ground should hold well enough, an' get ye to Moy ahead of that poxy Colonel Blakeney. And mind ye have a care, dammit. Ye've as good a chance at being shot for a spy at Moy as ye did comin' here from Fort George.”
Anne was in the drawing room when Douglas Forbes was escorted inside. He was red-faced from the cold, and hatless, and he had been practically carried along the hallway by two of the burliest clansmen he had ever seen in his life.
Dressed in tartan trews, Anne was alone. An assortment of pistols and muskets were laid out on the table before her along with the supplies and implements necessary to load and prime them. The note the dowager had written was lying alongside a small keg of powder, and although she glanced up when Forbes was ushered in, she did not pause in her task but fed a lead shot down the barrel of a Brown Bess and packed it securely in place with an iron ramrod.
“So you have come to warn us about an ambush, have you?”
Douglas swallowed hard. The two stocky Highlanders remained beside him, their expressions as menacing as the muskets they held cradled across their chests.
“You are about twenty minutes late,” she said without waiting for his answer. “One of the boys from the village overheard some whispers and ran straight here with the news. We managed to roust the prince from bed, and Mr. Hardy has led him, along with a few others, up into the hills. Can you load a pistol, sir?”
“I… I… yes. Y-yes, of course.”
She indicated a dozen smoothbore muskets lying on the table alongside the powder, a canister of shot, and a length of silk waiting to be torn into patches for wadding. “I'm afraid we have more guns than men to shoot them at the moment, but best to be prepared.”
“Is it true, then, my lady? You are without protection here?”
“My cousins, Robbie and Jamie, have gone to scout the road, taking the smithy and three of his apprentices along as reinforcements. There are perhaps a dozen ill or wounded men who did not have the strength to walk to Lochaber with their clans, but they have stumbled in here one at a time insisting they can be of help. There are a handful of servants who have perhaps cleaned a gun at one time or another, and two maids who come from a family of poachers.” She laid down the one weapon and picked up another, standing it on end while she measured powder down the barrel, added the patch and shot, then tamped the lot in place.
Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders as she did so, catching sparks of light from the score of candles that had been arranged in an arc around the table to render the working area nearly as bright as daylight.
“You are staring, Mr. Forbes.”
He stammered another apology and quickly picked up an over-and-under double-barreled snaphaunce. “I just cannot conceive of there being so few men left to guard the prince. Where is his army? What madman sent them to Lochaber?”
“That madman would be the prince himself,” she said wryly. “But I am curious to know what brought you riding out here tonight, Douglas. Surely the madness is not contagious.”
“It was not a decision rashly made, my lady. I think my heart was ever more for an independent Scotland than it was for the pleasure of bowing to King George's court. My only regret is that I took so long to fall off the fence.”
“Well, you will be bruised and bloodied soon enough,” she said cheerfully. She cocked the last weapon to check the action of the hammer, then signaled to the two Highlanders to gather up the loaded weapons and follow her outside to where Fearchar Farquharson sat on an overturned bucket, giving instructions to the men and women who showed up in pairs or threes asking what they could do to help.
“Well, Granda'?” Anne looked around as she stepped out into the torchlight. “What is the count?”
“Ye've got twelve men on the road wi' Jamie an' Robbie, anither ten or so in the bushes ayont, an' mayhap the same in the house an' up on the roof. Half o' those are wimmin, more like as tae blow off their ain teats as soon as hit a sojer in the dark.”
Anne leaned over and kissed his wrinkled brow. “Perhaps you should go inside and get behind the barricades, where you can watch them to ensure such a thing does not happen.”
“Bah! I'm no' afeared o' any bluidy Sassenach sojers. I'll stay right here, never ye mind, an' ye'll see: Nowt a one will get past me. Nowt a one.”
“Yes,” Anne said grimly. “Not even if they are on our side.”
“It were dark!” he declared. “He looked like a bluidy Sassenach.”
“Corporal Peters is a bluidy Sassenach,” Anne said gently. “And you recognized him easily enough this afternoon when he brought you a bag of sugared dates. It was only tonight, when he volunteered his help, that he damned near lost an ear.”
Douglas Forbes was staring again. “Did you say … Peters? Corporal Jeffrey Peters?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No. But apparently Colonel Blakeney does. He said they had a spy placed very close to the prince, and according to him it was a Corporal Jeffrey Peters who told him the manor house would be undefended tonight.”
“There ye go,” Fearchar snorted. “I told ye I didna trust the barstard. No' wi' them wee skrinty eyes always lookin' at the Camshroinaich Dubh's wife like as he could lick the skin clear off her bones. Where is he? Where is the barstard, I'll blow him open masel'!”
Anne looked out into the darkness, in the direction of the tall craggy peaks that rose above the tops of the fir trees. “Dear God, he's with them. He's with the prince and Catherine and the others.”
Fearchar pushed to his feet. “Well, dinna just stan' there gawpin', lass! Get some horses. Get some men—!”
The rest of her grandfather's orders were silenced by the sudden popping of distant gunfire. It was sporadic at first, then came in volleys that echoed from side to side down the length of the glen.
“It's the English,” Anne gasped. “They're here.”
Chapter Twenty
John MacGillivray rubbed the nape of his neck, but the irritating prickle would not go away. If it were summer, he would have suspected an insect had crawled under his collar and was enjoying a feast of warm flesh, but it was the dead of winter and even the lice were too cold to forage.
He drew on his cigar and watched the last of the king's cattle being herded into the narrow chasm. The glen on the other side was a natural bottleneck, with a wide, grassy basin surrounded by sheer stone walls too steep for livestock to climb. Countless herds rustled by countless generations of MacGillivrays and MacBeans had been hidden here along with crates of untaxed cargo and black-market goods brought in by smugglers.
John had made a small fortune over the years, adding on to the tidy fortunes his father and grandfather had made before him. He was likely the first reiver with a conscience, however, for he knew these cattle would eventually go to feed the prince's army, and he would be lucky if he earned a smile by way of thanks.
How many fortunes could a man of simple means spend in one lifetime anyway? He had a good horse beneath him, warm clothes on his back, a full belly, and a roof over his head. With that and the right to come and go as he pleased, what more did he need, what more did he want?
Wild Rhuad Annie's face came unbidden into his mind and he clamped his teeth down over the butt of his cigar.
He had vowed not to think about her and, by God, he would not. In fact, he planned to finish up here with the cattle and ride straight on through to Clunas. If his horse didn't break its neck in a frozen bog hole, he would be there by morning, and by noon, if luck was with him, Elizabeth's legs would be around his waist and she would be helping him forget he loved another man's wife.
If only. Was that not what Annie had said? If only he had met Elizabeth first, for she was a lively, dark-haired beauty with a quick smile and a body that gave him no end of pleasure. Like him, she had no fondne
ss for games or pretenses, which was why they usually had their clothes off within an hour of being in each other's company. He knew she loved him. He'd been her first and only lover, and it shamed him that he had waited so long to speak to her father. What had he been waiting for—a miracle?
Elizabeth would make a fine wife, give him fine handsome sons, and he would never give her any reason to doubt she was the most important woman in his life. The only woman in his life. And she would be.
“John! Alloo, John!”
He frowned, looking over his shoulder at the sound of pounding hoofbeats, and recognized Gillies MacBean by the stocky upper body and low silhouette in the saddle.
“Gillies, I told ye to take the men to Moy Hall. What the devil are ye doin' back here?”
“Aye.” Gillies gasped and clutched the knot of reins to his chest as the horse skidded to an icy stop. “'Twas the devil. A devil by the name o' Blakeney. He's taken the whole bluidy garrison out o' Fort bluidy George an' gone tae attack Moy Hall. He aims tae take the prince by surprise.”
He gasped out more, but MacGillivray had already dug his heels into his horse's flanks and was tearing hell for leather back across the moor. The roar of rage was like thunder in his throat, startling the men who were driving the cattle, causing most of them to stop in their tracks and race after him.
They were half an hour from Dunmaglass, another half an hour from Loch Moy.
MacGillivray roared again and bent his head forward over the stallion's neck, his blond hair streaming back like a second mane.
Colonel Blakeney's men had been nervous from the outset. They had all heard the rumors about the huge Jacobite army descending on Inverness, and not one of them believed a commanding general like Lord George Murray would leave his prince alone, unprotected at a country estate less than ten miles from a sizeable garrison of government troops. Some of them had been with Cope at Prestonpans and knew firsthand the treachery of the Highlanders. They knew if a report said a hundred Scots were on the road, it usually meant a thousand. If it said they were in Edinburgh, they could as likely be knocking on the gates of London. Lord George was a master of deception, a brilliant strategist, and his men would walk through hellfire on his orders. Moreover, they did not fight like proper soldiers. They lurked in trees and crouched behind bushes; they waited in the darkness and the mist, then came screaming out of nowhere, their great bloody broadswords aimed straight for the heart.
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