He studied the firm set to her jaw and shrugged. “Gillies wagered good coin on the likelihood of ma ears gettin' boxed, but ye have to admit it was worth a try.”
She glanced at the stocky Highlander and saw that MacBean was grinning, rubbing his thumb and fingers together to acknowledge his winnings.
“Give me five minutes,” she said, and dashed up the steps.
“Ye've got one.”
The roads leading out of Inverness were clogged with people, animals, and wagons. The latter, hastily packed with household possessions, were being trundled behind frightened townsfolk who had heard the battle for control of the Highlands was imminent.
Anne had changed into her trews and blue velvet short coat. Sparkling white lace foamed at her throat and cuffs, an incongruous contrast to the two long-snouted brass pistols she wore strapped to her waist. MacGillivray rode at her side; MacBean and the Farquharson brothers flanked them, with about a hundred clansmen jogging along the road behind, muskets and targes slung over their shoulders, their faces grim, their strides determined. They were met on the crossroads outside the city by an open carriage bearing two occupants. One wore the black cassock of a priest, but Anne drew a deep breath, bracing herself for another verbal battle when she recognized the dour countenance of Lady Drummuir. Her fears were groundless, however. The old woman had tears in her eyes when Anne rode up to the carriage. From a huge basket on the seat beside her, she took a white cockade fashioned out of ribbon, decorated with a sprig of whortleberry, and pinned it to her daughter-in-law's breast just below the cameo locket that held Angus's portrait.
“Mind ye stay well back, Miss. I heard what happened at Falkirk, an' ye'll have me to deal with this time if ye dinna listen to The MacGillivray.”
“Aye, you're a fair one to talk,” Anne murmured. “He tells me you've refused to leave the city.”
“Bah. I'm too old to lift ma skirts an' run. If it should come to that, I'm too old for anyone to think o' rape when they come bangin' on ma door. But you, ye old bastard—” She raised her voice and glared at Fearchar, who rode pillion behind Robbie Farquharson. “Where the de'il d'ye think ye're goin'?”
“I'm goin' where I'm goin', ye old dragon teat, an' never think a scowl frae you will stop me.”
It only took a glare, however, for Robbie to nudge his horse to the side of the carriage. After the dowager fastened a cockade on each man's breast, she reached behind the younger man and grabbed the gnarled old face between her hands, kissing Fearchar squarely on the mouth.
“Try to at least stay awake,” she chided. “An' keep yer plaid up around yer ears or ye'll catch yer death afore ye even reach the muir.”
MacGillivray, MacBean, and nearly every other man was called forward by name to have the sprig and cockade pinned to their plaids, then to bow their heads for a benediction from the priest. When the last of the clansmen had moved off down the road, Lady Drummuir remained standing in the open carriage, her lips moving silently in prayer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charles Stuart made his headquarters at Culloden House, a short mile from the moor. Having been apprised by his scouts that Cumberland's cook-fires were in full bloom at Nairn and the soldiers showed no signs of marching out that day, he gladly took the opportunity to ride up and down the field, a heroic figure in his scarlet-and-blue tunic. He brandished a jeweled sword overhead as if victory had already been declared, posturing for the men who stood freezing in their ranks, watching him.
It was late afternoon before the prince conceded and agreed that his cousin was not coming to answer his challenge that day. By then the men were too cold and tired to care. Some had cheered their prince until their throats were raw, others had simply stared and wondered if all royalty was a little mad. They were hungry; most of them had rushed onto the field without so much as a biscuit to break their fast. They wandered back to the parks around Culloden and huddled under what shelter their plaids could provide, or roamed farther into Inverness, where they begged scraps from angry townspeople who blamed them for the false alarm.
The few tents erected on the grounds of Culloden House quickly filled with chiefs and lairds who held heated debates over their prince's choice for a battlefield. Drummossie was flat and treeless, and would afford no protection against Cumberland's artillery. Lord George had found a field a couple of miles to the east that was pitted with bogs and hills, far more adaptable to the Highlanders' way of fighting and far less friendly to heavy guns and disciplined rows of trained soldiers. But his efforts to persuade the prince to change his mind failed and on one of the few occasions since the campaign began, the dejected general was overheard to say: “We have lost, gentlemen. God save us all.”
With nothing to be gained by spending a cold, hungry night out in the dampness, MacGillivray tried equally hard to persuade Anne to return to Moy Hall, but she would have none of it. Nor would she accept the invitation from the prince to dine with him or stay at Culloden House, making the excuse that it was her duty, in her capacity as colonel of the regiment, to remain with her men and keep their spirits high. It was only an urgent summons from Alexander Cameron that brought her away from the barn where a large body of MacKintosh men had taken shelter. Since she was still addressed as “Colonel Anne” by most of the lairds, she supposed another endless round of debates and arguments had begun. Naturally, for such mundane things as diplomacy, MacGillivray had made himself scarce.
Cursing her captain's selective nature—and secretly envying it—Anne tramped through the light drizzle that had begun to fall. The ground had been churned to mud and the wind was shaking the trees with a frosty hand, a harsh reminder that winter was not completely out of the air. The clouds were low and there were no stars, no moon; no pipes played and no singing echoed around the campfires. It was a quiet, forlorn contrast from the night before the battle at Falkirk and Anne shivered herself deeper into her plaid as she walked.
The twins, who had escorted her from the barn, melted away with the aplomb of their golden-haired captain after delivering her to the designated tent. Anne heard voices inside and refrained from sighing before she ducked beneath the canvas. Cameron was there along with his two brothers, Lochiel and Dr. Archibald. Aluinn MacKail was off to one side with Lord John Drummond and another tall Highlander. Leaning over a lamplit table, his hands braced to support his weight, was Lord George Murray.
A gust of wind came into the tent with Anne, causing him to look up from the maps he was studying. A corner of the topmost paper fluttered and curled back; the flame inside the glass candle shuddered and gave off a thin plume of black smoke.
“Anne. I see Monaltrie found you; I trust we have not taken you away from anything important.”
His voice was completely devoid of any sarcasm, and she had no reason to suspect he was anything but tired and frustrated.
“I was just trying to stay warm and dry,” she said with a faint smile. “If that would be considered important.”
“I vow both sensations have become completely foreign to me, so yes. I would regard both as being crucial. Come in, my dear, come in.” Lord George waved her closer to the small brazier that was glowing near the center of the tent. “Warm yourself. I'm afraid there isn't even a dry crust to offer, but lest we be accused of having forsaken our manners altogether,” he addressed one of the other men, “have we something the Lady Anne might sit on?”
Since no one else was sitting and they were surely twice as tired as she, Anne shook her head. “I'm fine, really, I—” She lifted her hand in a staying gesture as the Highlander standing with MacKail turned and she saw his face.
“Ahh.” Lord George followed her startled gaze. “Yes, I suppose that was cruel of us not to warn you beforehand, but even a whisper these days seems to spread like a roar. Angus … come and let your wife pinch you so she knows you are real.”
Angus Moy hesitated as long as it took him to give his bonnet a twist in his hands, then came forward into the brighter light. Since Ann
e had seen him last, the circles around his eyes had deepened, his face was shadowed with stubble, and the rags he wore would have been better suited to a beggar.
“You look well, Colonel,” he murmured.
“You look dreadful, Captain. Have they no barbers in the king's army?”
That caused an eyebrow or two to lift in surprise, since the last thing she was expected to notice was the unkempt shagginess of his hair. Another man's wife might have remarked first upon the long, ragged cut that ran from just below his left ear and disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. The wound was no more than an hour or two old, still leaking fresh blood where it was chafed by the wool of his plaid.
“Perhaps you would like that seat now?” Lord George asked.
She still had her knees, but experience told her that her husband's presence in camp did not bode well. “Thank you. Yes.”
“You have undoubtedly been apprised of the reason Cumberland kept his army at home today?”
“Someone mentioned it was the duke's birthday?”
“Indeed. He gifted his army with a day of warming their toes by their fires, toasting their valiant general's health with half a pint of brandy apiece. Would that I could even remember the taste of fine French brandy, never mind think to spill it down the throat of a common batman. Ah, well. Envy does not win us battles, does it? The way I see it, gentlemen—and Colonel—is that we should thank whatever God we pray to that the battle did not happen today. More men arrived late this afternoon, and Keppoch sends word he is but a few hours away. What is more, the duke may inadvertently have given us the opportunity we need to turn this fiasco into a victory. See here,” he said, leaning over the map again. A long, slender finger touched on the black marking that denoted their present position, then followed a smudge of charcoaled lines to where a second mark identified Nairn.
“I have been told that this is in reality a long wynde that follows the river well to the south of Drummossie and comes out surprisingly close to Cumberland's camp.”
He looked up for confirmation and Anne realized it was one of the maps she had drawn of the area. “Yes, my lord. But it is low ground, doubtless flooded with the spring thaw.”
“But passable?”
“Not easily.”
The general smiled. “Have we done one thing easy thus far? It is my intention to set a proposition before the prince. I am going to press that we attempt a flanking move of our own, leading the army out by two columns, dispatching one here”—his finger tapped the area east of Nairn—“and one here to the west, thereby taking the English camp between us in a pincer that would allow Cumberland nowhere to retreat but into the sea. If the action is conducted in stealth and surprise, we might just be able to catch them nursing their hangovers and yawning over their morning fires.”
“A night march along a boggy riverbank?” Lochiel said, frowning. “Christ, but, ma men have gone without sleep for two days as it is.”
Lord George straightened. “The choice, as I see it, is to draw on our reserves or be prepared to line up on that damned moor again in the morning. The only possible advantage we can hope to gain at this point is surprise, and surprise will require a night march. It is roughly twelve miles from here to there; we could cover it easily enough in, say, four hours. Military etiquette aside, if we catch them abed or drunk as beggars, it can only go in our favor. Angus, you say his artillery park is facing west, toward us?”
“They point the guns in the direction they intend to march.”
“Then it would behoove our vanguard to attack that position first and remove any possibility of their catching us in a crossfire. Alex, I hate to ask …?”
Alexander Cameron merely smiled. It had been solely due to his rash heroics and those of his clansmen that the government artillery had been silenced at Prestonpans. A hundred men had charged a battery of forty guns and captured them, but at a terrible cost in brave lives.
“How many?” The question was directed at Angus.
“Ten three-pounder battalion guns, four signal-pieces.”
Cameron pursed his lips and exchanged a glance with his brother Lochiel. “We'll take Fanducci with us; he's brought us luck before.”
“Which leaves only one other satin-clad prima donna to deal with,” Lord George said wryly. “John?”
Lord Drummond sighed. “Aye. Ye're saddlin' me with the prince?”
“Unless you would rather he come in my column, in which case you would have to retrieve him after the battle, buried up to his neck in a bog and left by the side of the road.”
“Och, he's no' that bad. If ye flatter him all the day long an' tell him ye like the cut of his tunic.”
“Then the only question remaining is guides. We will need men who know the wynde like they know their own bodies. With the mist we have tonight, there are too many chances for error.”
“MacGillivray and MacBean,” Anne said at once. “They practically own the river. My cousins and me as well; we grew up”—she ventured a finger forth and touched the map— “here. Right where the wynde splits away from the bog. John can take the first column; we'll lead the second.”
It was Angus this time, his objection halfway off his tongue, who forced himself to remain quiet. Just as Anne had refrained from crying out with wifely concern over the gash in his neck, he respected the sense of desperation in the group and held his fear in check … for the moment.
“That's it, then,” said the general, rolling up his maps. “I'll take the final proposal to the prince, with the approval of those whose opinions matter, and put it to him in such a way as to leave him no options. I suggest you return to your clans and prepare them for an immediate departure. Angus, I thank you for the final count, and you may consider you have the grateful thanks of the entire army for the risks you have taken. I will have an escort waiting outside to take you back when you are ready. Unless, of course—?”
Angus shook his head, answering the unasked question. Lord George nodded to acknowledge his decision—and his courage—then signaled the rest of the chiefs to give Angus and Anne a few moments of privacy. Angus barely waited for the flap to drop over the door before he tossed his bonnet down on the table and gathered his wife into his arms.
When the first order of business was settled to a mutual, bruising satisfaction, he tackled the second. “I suppose it is my own fault. In the list of promises I extracted from you, I neglected to specify ‘and do not volunteer to lead an army through a bog in the middle of the night.’”
“And you, sir.” She touched the side of his neck, able to show her horror now at how close the cut lay along the jugular. “I suppose you earned this while you were copying out lists?”
“My visit tonight had not been prearranged, so I did not know the proper response to give the sentry. He held his knife to my throat with a little more enthusiasm than was warranted, though not as much as might have been displayed had I not been able to produce my brooch and prove I was who I claimed to be.”
“I thought you were in Skye with Lord Loudoun.”
“I was. Until three days ago, anyway. It seems Cumberland put in a ‘special request’ for myself and a dozen other prominent lairds. He wants all the Highland companies in the front line—and that is not the worst of it. He has deliberately chosen officers with no conscience, like Hawley, and given them command of battalions led by brutes and butchers. I have seen things of late that have left me sick at heart. Men hanged for simply stating their opinion. Women raped because they happened along the road and were wearing the plaid. Farms burned and livestock slaughtered for sport. They call the Scots barbarians, then turn around and disembowel a man for refusing to take a penny for his daughter's virtue. Just yesterday, a thirteen-year-old boy was accused—just accused, mind, not proven—of spying, and was hanged. He swung for over ten minutes before he died; all the while the duke's men took wagers. Another man was given eight hundred lashes in the morning and made to stand his post at night or receive eight hundred more. T
hese are the men who want to bring the Highlands to heel, to make them bow to English discipline and order.”
“Then what can you possibly hope to accomplish by going back? You are only one man, for pity's sake.”
“Prince Frederick was only one man, yet he has refused to allow his Hessians to fight under such barbaric conditions. Perhaps there are more. Perhaps there are enough of us to stop the bloody sword of Damocles before it descends.”
Anne was not entirely sure who Damocles was, but if Angus feared him, it did not bode well. “You sound as if you do not believe we can prevail.”
“My belief, my faith has already been shown to be a poor thing next to yours.” He sighed and took her face between his hands. “I suppose the best I can hope for at this juncture is that you will trust MacGillivray and take your lead from him. If he says it is lost, believe him and run. Run for your sake and for mine. Will you promise me this?”
The tremor in his voice, in his hands frightened her, and she nodded. “I will trust MacGillivray. I will do as he says.”
Even that much was a blessing and he closed his eyes, angling his mouth down to capture hers. The kiss was tender and poignant and conveyed a wealth of emotion in a simple gesture that had to end far too soon.
“I have to go. If Lord George prevails with the prince, I may be of some help at the other end.” He hesitated a moment, then reached under his coat, withdrawing a silver brooch embedded with a large cairngorm, engraved with the MacKintosh motto: Touch not the cat bot a glove. “Take this. It is only fitting that the colonel of Clan Chattan wear the proper badge of office.”
She said nothing as he pinned the badge solemnly to her plaid, but when he was finished, she slipped her arms up and around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin.
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