Midnight Honor (47 page)

“Aye. We spoke with Colin Mor.”

“It was for the best. We got as far as Knockanbuie when they realized it was hopeless. As bad as this bit is, the river is flooded up ahead, an' the horses were sinkin' up to their bellirs. The men, too, for that matter. Gillies here thought he felt a snake crawlin' down his leg, but it were just the mud hangin' off his willie.”

MacBean was too exhausted to even blush.

“Here.” John handed Gillies his musket and cupped his hands. “Give us yer foot: We'll give ye a leg back up.”

“No, I can walk. The Bruce is about done in anyway, and there might be someone needs the ride more than me.”

MacGillivray did not even have the breath to argue; he simply took the reins and turned the gelding around.

When the sloping parkland around Culloden came into view, it was nearing six in the morning. Most of the men simply fell down in the grass and slept where they lay. Hundreds more never made it farther than the first point of the road where they could glimpse the roof of the Lord President's manor house. Anne stumbled as far as the same barn she had slept in the previous night; there, she and fifty other MacKintosh clansmen curled themselves into the hay. Most of them were asleep before their heads even touched the ground, but Anne found herself sitting with her back against the wooden slats, unable to close her eyes or even pretend to avert her gaze as MacGillivray stripped out of his coat and leaned over the water trough to scrub the mud and sweat away.

It seemed like months ago that she had stood in an upper window at Dunmaglass while he doused himself after a hard bout of practice with his men. Then his golden hair and muscled body had gleamed against the whiteness of the snow; there had been laughter and energetic camaraderie, and they had been preparing to set out on a great adventure to reclaim Scotland for their royal prince.

Now they squatted in dark, ugly places, most of the clansmen too tired to care about such mundane things as mud or how they might stink to the men lying next to them. She suspected that if she were not there, insisting unto the last on maintaining her role as colonel of the regiment, John might have flung himself down in all his glorious filth and been snoring as soundly as the others. Or he might even have been discouraged enough by the night's fiasco to keep going on to Dunmaglass, where his new bride would offer warmth and succor.

No, she thought, watching him as he flicked the water from his hands in a shower of bright droplets. John MacGillivray would never quit just because the odds were horrendously against any chance of succeeding. He had committed his men, his life, and his honor to fighting a battle he
had been reluctant to join in the first place, but now that he was here, there would be no turning back. No compromising. No easy surrender.

Lord George had tried desperately to convince the prince to fall back beyond Inverness where they might rest, fill their bellies with hot food, and recoup the strength they needed to fight Cumberland's fresh, well-rested troops. The argument had overtaken Anne and MacGillivray where they trudged along the tract, and if not for her restraining grip on his arm, John would have taken out his gun and shot the Irishman O'Sullivan who, as soon as Lord George was out of earshot, began spouting more accusations of cowardice and betrayal.

But the prince refused to retreat again. He insisted his brave Highlanders would rally and fight, if only their leaders showed faith. “The Scots,” O'Sullivan had said, “are always good troops until things come to a crisis, then the only word they know is retreat.”

It was enough to send nearly every man's hand to his sword, and some to even want to turn around and march right back into Nairn.

“You should be trying to get some sleep,” MacGillivray said, startling her away from her thoughts. He stood in front of the stall the men had set aside for her privacy, and fished a cigar out of his saddle pouch.

“I will. I'm just… trying to work the knots out of my legs,” she said, rubbing the backs of her calves.

He watched the movement of her hands a moment, then leaned over and lit his cigar off the pale flame flickering inside a lanthorn. The smoke rose around his head in a cloud. When he had puffed a good enough glow at the end, he dropped the shield back into place and savored a long, deep draw.

“May I?”

He looked down at her and frowned. “May ye what?”

“May I try it,” she said, pointing at his cigar.

“No, ye may not. It's bad enough ye dress like a man an' ride like a man; I'll not be the cause of ye horkin' an' spittin' like a man.”

“Then will you at least come and sit beside me for a minute? I have grown quite fond of the smell of those things
and it would be a vast improvement over whatever occupied this stall before us.”

He smiled, but still hesitated. “Annie, I—”

“Yes, of course, how selfish of me. You need your sleep as well. Please, go ahead. I'll just close my eyes and think of heather after a summer rain.”

“That was no' what I was about to say.”

She glanced, as he did, at the rows of sleeping men on the barn floor. The area was dark save for a few cracks in the boards where daylight sliced through in dust-laden slivers, but no one else appeared to be awake, or if they were, they were thinking of their own blistered feet, not the impropriety of a whispered conversation in a hay-filled stall.

MacGillivray exhaled another stream of smoke and lowered himself gingerly past the cramps in his own legs to sit beside her.

They were both silent with their thoughts for a few moments, listening to the patter of the icy drizzle that had begun to fall.

“I never had the chance to thank you.”

“Thank me for what, lass?”

“For bringing Angus home to me that night.”

“Ah. That. An' here I thought ye were goin' to thank me for puttin' ma name on that petition so ye could be here with us, freezin' off yer … well, freezin'.”

“You are an impossible man to flatter, John MacGillivray.” And before she could think about what she was doing, she leaned over and laid her hand on his cheek, turning his head so that his lips were a mere inch away. A kiss, given thus, would not have been interpreted by anyone as being anything other than a friendly, playful gesture, but there was suddenly a wealth of caution in his dark eyes.

“You have been a good and dear friend to me, John,” she said softly. “I don't ever want that to change.”

“It never will, lass, ye have ma oath on that.”

She smiled and reached down, plucking the cigar out of his unresisting fingers.

The end was damp and tasted slightly bitter when she put it to her mouth; it drew easily enough but she knew the instant the smoke was on her tongue that it was probably the least
pleasant sensation she'd experienced since the twins dared her to lick a toad when she was small.

MacGillivray grinned. “Dinna swallow it, lass,” he warned.

“Mmm?”

“Let it out. Blow it out afore it goes up yer nose.”

She expelled the smoke on a “Bah” and handed the cigar back quickly enough to earn an amused chuckle. “I may no' take flattery well, but ye were always the one who had to hold her finger in the flame to believe it was hot. Are ye happy now that yer mouth tastes like the backside of a scorched log?”

She smiled “yes,” but her eyes filled inexplicably with tears. They were hot, stinging two silvery paths down her cold cheeks; try as she might, she could not stop them.

MacGillivray swore and stubbed out the cigar. Then, heedless of who might or might not be taking notice, he opened his arms and drew her against his chest. Anne went willingly, even a little helplessly, and it was John, gently stroking the damp tangle of her hair, who went straight to the heart of the matter.

“He'll be all right, lass. He's no' half so soft as ye think he is.”

She shook her head, keeping her face buried against his throat. “I just wish I knew where he was this very minute, what he must have thought when we failed to attack the camp.”

“He probably thought the prince came to his senses. An' he's likely still warm in his bed, or havin' a good stretch an' tuckin' into a hot meal. Right the now, he'll be thinkin' what a bluidy fool he was for goin' back; that he should have stayed here with you instead of leavin' ye in the care of a rogue like me.”

She made a strangled little sound that was half sob, half laugh, and he tried not to hold her too tightly, to give away too much of his own weakness as she curled herself gratefully against the warmth of his body.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry for being such a burden.”

“Och, ye're no' a burden, lass,” he said, pressing a kiss into the soft crush of her hair. “A trial, sometimes,” he added with a crooked grin, “but no' a burden.”

Anne did not know how long she had slept, or when the heat had left her side. It was the pipes that woke her. Pipes and the
paradiddle of beating drums that called the Highlanders to arms, warning them that Cumberland's army was approaching Drummossie Moor.

Anne shook herself awake in time to see MacGillivray strapping his great broadsword across his back and fastening the wide studded leather belts that held his arsenal of smaller, lethal weapons, including a brace of claw-butted pistols. Gillies was beside him, kicking awake some of the men who had not yet stirred.

“Wh-what's happening? What time is it?”

“Gone eleven,” John said, his voice as raw as his mood. “The first four brigades o' the duke's army are already on the field, with more comin' up behind. Half our men are still dead asleep; the others have wandered away in search o' food.” He looked at the barn door and bellowed, “Is ma horse saddled yet? I'll only need him as far as the moor.”

Someone shouted back and he acknowledged it with a grunt.

Anne scrambled to her feet, earning an instant, ominous glare from MacGillivray.

“Ye're stayin' right here, lass, make no mistake. Try so much as to breathe a quarrel with me an' I'll have Gillies tie ye to the post.”

“He wouldn't dare.”

Both men answered in unison, one saying “He would,” the other saying “I would,” and she knew they meant it.

When the last clansman was rousted, the last sword and musket retrieved from the hay, MacGillivray sent them out on the run. Unable to find his own bonnet, he snatched another from beside the trough and waved it at Gillies as a signal to go on ahead.

“If things go bad,” he said, cramming the bonnet over his blond hair, “I want ye up on The Bruce an' riding hard for Moy Hall. 'Tis where Lord George has said the clans are to rendezvous if we have to take the prince up into the mountains.”

“Promise me you will be careful.”

“Ye could have five thousand men there by nightfall, so ye'd best make preparations. There will be wounded.”

“Promise me you will not be one of them,” she said, shivering.

His gaze held hers for a long moment before he turned away.

He managed two long strides before a curse brought him sharply back. With his hands taking a fierce hold on her shoulders, he dragged her up and kissed her hard and full on the mouth. It was not a friendly kiss, nor could it ever have been mistaken for one. It was a kiss full of passion, exploding with the pent-up hunger of a man who understood he might never have the chance to do so again—not because conscience or morality might stand in the way, but because he knew the odds were not in his favor to leave the battlefield alive that day. He had already accepted the inevitability of death, and he was not afraid of it. Moreover, he had lived his entire life expecting it to come at the end of a musket or sword and, as a fighting man, he would not want to cheat the devil any other way.

What he could not accept, what he could not have tolerated, was going through all eternity knowing he had been too cowardly to take one last, glorious taste of life.

“Try to forgive me, Annie,” he gasped against her mouth. “But I do love ye. Know that I've loved ye all ma life, and know that I'll love ye long after ye've forgotten me.”

He released her then, his eyes being the last to relinquish their hold before he turned and ran out of the barn. His horse was saddled, waiting, and he swung himself up on its back, kicking it into a gallop before Anne could even find the breath to gasp his name.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A
ngus had paced in his tent until he heard the signal drums beating the General Call to Arms at four-thirty. He guessed something had gone terribly wrong with the planned attack; his fears were confirmed when he heard men talking calmly outside his tent on their way to muster.

Worsham's body had then become a major concern. It was still dark outside, but within minutes the streets would be filled with soldiers filing toward the central parade ground, there to fall in with their company and begin the march toward Culloden. There would be confusion, but not enough to distract from a man carrying a dead major over his back. Nor could he explain the death as an accident or even self-defense and leave the corpse where it was to be discovered after the battle.

The dilemma of what to do was temporarily taken out of his hands when he peered through the canvas flap of the tent and saw another eyeball peering in.