Midnight Honor (30 page)

A cold, fat droplet of rain splashed on his face. The sky was as light as it was likely to get and he could hear the distant cacophony of pipers skirling the men awake, bolstering them for the long day ahead. With the camp spread so far, the sounds came from all directions, pipers from each clan playing their distinct
piob rach'd
to stir the blood. The MacGillivray's personal contingent comprised about eighty men, all of whom would be in the front ranks on the field of honor.

“All right,” he said with a grim, reluctant nod. “Ye have ma word I'll not say anything to Annie about this. I'll not even tell her we saw ye or spoke, because then she would be hangin' off ma collar wantin' to know exactly what was said, word for word, and I'm no' sure I could lie to her. It will be enough of a trial just gettin' her to stay off the field.”

“You will do it, though. You
will
keep her away from the
battlefield at all costs! In this, I do not care if you have to tie her hand and foot to a tree somewhere. In fact, I would almost prefer it.”

John resheathed his sword and fetched his bonnet from the forest floor. “She's no' completely daft. Besides, she's the only one who will be able to keep Fearchar off the line.”

“Good God, you aren't suggesting—”

“Aye. Barely strong enough to lift a dirk without topplin' over from the weight, but he's insistin' on standin' in the front rank. It will be up to Annie to see him safe away where he willna be trampled to death in the charge. If she canna do it, or willna do it, I'll be after findin' enough rope for the pair o' them.”

Chapter Fifteen

A
nne was in no fit mood for company when Robbie and Jamie Farquharson came pounding on her door shortly after dawn. Angus had been gone perhaps an hour, and she had spent the time sitting alone in the dark, wrapped in a blanket that still held the scent of his hair and body. At first she had only felt abysmally sorry for herself. But knowing that would never do, she allowed anger, then resentment to flood into the empty spaces Angus had so recently filled with hope and promise.

Try as she might, she could not be entirely angry with her husband, for he had made the point well when he asked if his honor was worth any less than hers. It wasn't, of course, and she supposed she had known it all along; it had just been difficult to accept. Oddly enough, it brought some measure of relief, in a way, because she knew she no longer had to question or justify her love for him—to herself or anyone else. He was every bit as honorable as Fearchar or John MacGillivray or Alexander Cameron, and what was more, he loved her despite their opposing politics, despite their different backgrounds, different temperaments, and that was far more than most wives could ever hope to have in their marriages.

The pounding on the door startled her out of her reverie
and she answered it with an irritated yank. “I am awake. No need to bring down the—”

The appearance of the twins stopped the breath in her throat, for they stood under the glowering gray sky and looked more fearsome than usual, with muskets in their hands and broadswords strapped about their waists. They both wore pistols and dirks thrust into their belts, another dirk tucked into the garter on their right calves. They carried targes of wood and leather studded with nails, and even though it clearly threatened rain, they were not encumbered by extra lengths of plaid around their shoulders. Their bonnets had been brushed clean, and new sprigs of red whortleberry—the clan badge—were pinned to the crest. Whatever weariness they might have been feeling from the debauchery at the tavern had been replaced with the hard, bright sparkle of excitement.

“Well?” Jamie demanded. “Ye're starin' at us like as we've got three heads, no' two.”

Anne glanced over their shoulders and saw more men on the road, all of them bristling with guns and swords, pikes and axes. One of the MacCrimmon pipers was coming from the direction of the main camp, leading a hundred or more of his clansmen in a brisk march through St. Ninians. The revelers who had fallen asleep by the roadside were sitting up slowly and scratching their heads, but they seemed to know exactly what was happening and within moments staggered to their feet and were running in the opposite direction, grinning and shouting at their comrades not to kill all the English before they could arm themselves and return.

“What is happening?” Anne asked. “Where is everyone going?”

“Lord George says if the bastard willna bring the fight tae us, we'll damn well bring it tae him. The MacGillivray gave us orders we were tae come fetch ye. We'll be marchin' in the second column alongside the Camerons, by Christ's bonny blood!”

“Aye,” Robbie nodded eagerly. “We'll be wi' them on the field too, an' that's the best place a fightin' mon could hope tae be! Come on, come on, lass! Ye dinna want tae be left ahind, do ye?”

Anne whirled around and flung off the blanket she had been holding around her shoulders. She had swum naked with her cousins more times than she could recall—albeit mostly in their youth—and thus had no reservations about running to and fro in various stages of undress while she found and pulled on the layers of her clothing. She donned trews and a heavy linen shirt, then slammed her feet into stockings and boots. Ignoring an impatient shout from Robbie, she shoved her arms into a long skirted waistcoat quilted in satin, embroidered with sprigs of whortleberry, and added a fine lace jabot around her collar. There was no time to brush her hair properly, but a few savage strokes allowed her to divide it into three thick sections and plait it quickly over her shoulder. When the plait had been pinned, tucked, and crammed under a bonnet, she donned a blue velvet coat with gold buttons and lace on the cuffs, and strapped on two leather belts—one that held her pistols, the other a sword and dirk.

She doubted she had ever dressed faster in her life, but the twins were pacing back and forth like cats with turpentine up their tails. The three of them hastened down the path to where some clansmen were waiting with Robert the Bruce—her heroically and hopefully portentously named gray gelding— but before she put a toe to the stirrup, she gasped and ran back to the cottage. Finding the common clothes she had worn the previous day, she searched an inner pocket and withdrew the cameo locket she carried, with Angus's picture inside. After pinning it over her breast, she drew on her leather gloves and went back outside.

The three Farquharsons mounted and rode off at a quick trot to rendezvous with MacGillivray and the rest of the men from Clan Chattan. The fields were swarming with men, some already formed into companies, brigades, and regiments. The sixty-seven-year-old Lord Pitsligo saw Anne and waved, as did the younger Murray of Broughton standing at the head of his splendidly attired hussars, the latter distinguishable by their fur caps and black leather cross straps. Lord Elcho's company of Lifeguards was composed of gentlemen, all of great fortune; their uniforms were red and blue, and to a man they were well mounted on horses that would not have looked out of place at a race ground.

For the most part, however, the clansmen wore their kilted plaids, warm bullhide doublets, and tartan coats. On their bonnets was the badge that identified their clan, and on their lips the
cath-ghairm
that rallied them for battle. Every clan had their piper to stir their blood to fever pitch and, hopefully, strike a note of terror into the enemy who faced them across a field. The chiefs brought along a bard as well, who would record the day's events in exacting detail so that the valorous acts of bravery would be set down for posterity and the glory of the clan. These were usually men of meticulous memories and sonorous voices who would later compose the songs and poems to be retold around the campfires.

Anne's heart swelled with pride when they breasted the last hill and she saw the men of Clan Chattan. They were waiting for their colonel to lead them to the field, and when they saw her, a great cheer went up, louder than any skirling piper. Some would die this day, others would come away with dreadful, crippling injuries. But to a man they cheered, and half a dozen of them hoisted John MacGillivray onto their shoulders before depositing him on his horse.

MacGillivray was grinning as hugely as his men, his blond hair streaming back in the gusts of wind. He too had dressed with care, substituting for the plain woolen jacket he had worn away from Aberdeen a more regal one dyed a rich crotal blue. His hose and breacan were red with blue and black stripes;
brógs
had replaced his boots, the deer-hide worn fur out, and she knew this would be for ease of running. His bonnet sat on a jaunty angle on his head, the white Stuart cockade prominent beside the sprig of whortleberry. Strapped across his back was the basket-hilted
clai' mór
, deadly enough in his powerful hands without the need for the assorted pistols and dirks that bristled over all points of his body.

He tugged a burnished forelock as a sign of respect as he greeted Anne, then grinned even wider. “Lord George wanted ye to ride with the prince, but I told him we wanted ye here with us, Colonel. With yer men. At least until we reach the moor.”

He said it loud enough to cause another roar of approval and Anne, blinking with her determination to keep her eyes
dry, proudly took her place at the head of the long column of men. The Bruce seemed to know he carried someone very important that day, for his steps were high and sure, his tail held aloft in a fan of gray silk. Unlike other mounts that were unaccustomed to so many men and drums and pipers, he neither flinched nor broke out of line as the prince's army marched to war.

Twelve miles to the south, Adrienne de Boule lowered the delicate china cup from her mouth, leaving a small bead of chocolate on her lower lip. Without preamble, Major Roger Worsham leaned over and licked it away, his tongue continuing the sweep by snaking between her lips and embarking on a deep, prowling kiss.

He had no idea of the time, for the light that came through the window was dull and gray. The wind was gusting, spraying the glass with spatters of rain that seemed to justify a leisurely stretch and subsequent snuggling down onto the soft cushion of her breasts. His head was still fuddled and thick from the wine he had consumed the previous evening—a fact he considered odd, since he could have sworn he only had two, perhaps three glasses. And although he could not recall with any certainty how well he had performed, he assumed he had not left the company flags unfurled, for the minx looked tousled and smelled deliciously of sex.

He let his hand wander along the satiny smoothness of her body, marveling for the thousandth time how such a beauty had come to choose him over the scores of others competing for her attention. When he curled his fingers between her thighs he was rewarded with a sultry purr, and wondered if there was enough time before the rest of the household stirred.

Two doors away in a bedroom decorated in purple damask with pale yellow accents, Major Hamilton Garner was groaning. He was lying facedown on the bed, his arms and legs sprawled, a spidery thread of saliva trickling from his open mouth. The woman beside him moved carefully to extricate herself from the tangle of covers, desperate not to waken him. Her thighs were bruised, her breasts were scratched as if
some wild beast had savaged her, and every orifice of her body ached so badly she wanted to weep.

Accompanying one of the British officers to bed had not been intentional on her part, and she only had herself to blame. The major had been so handsome, his green eyes so boldly seductive, she had been flowing like a fountain all through dinner and could barely wait to feel his hands, his mouth on her body.

Now she moved as quietly and quickly as she could, gathering up her clothes like a frightened mouse collecting crumbs. Not until she stood at the door did she turn and glare at the major's milk-white body. He was groaning again, thrashing out at some unseen enemy. It had been her mistake to waken him after one such nightmare last night, and she had paid dearly for her compassion. He had lashed out at her, calling her “Catherine,” and forced her to do things that made her yearn to take a knife to his body and carve away the offending parts. She felt nothing but disgust now as she gave her long blond hair a toss, bidding him farewell with a crudely up-thrust middle finger.

In the morning room, General Henry Hawley sat at the breakfast table, his head aching, his tongue coated with a sour fur that no amount of chocolate seemed to remedy. He felt groggy and stupid and was certain he was overlooking something vital in his dictations to the aide-de-camp who sat beside him.

“I shall want the linens and the bedding—once it has been laundered, of course—and I imagine the Earl of Kilmarnock must have a respectable wardrobe of clothing. I noticed a very fine library as well; take care to pack the books in sturdy crates, for I should not want them to suffer during transport to Edinburgh. There is a rather handsome repeating clock in my bedchamber, and I am particularly fond of that japanned board—” He paused and indicated the inlaid cupboard on which pots of chocolate, tea, and coffee sat. “Might as well include the china and silver plate. It will make a pleasant gift for my sister-in-law, who puts great store in such things. And check the larder. There seems to be an ample supply of salt beef, sugar, ham, and whatnot for the lady to spare enough
victuals to make the journey back to Edinburgh palatable. Devil me, for that matter: Take the lot. Have the extra sent in care of myself to Holyrood House.”