Midnight Honor (5 page)

“Are you one of them? Are you willing to forfeit your home? To lose everything your family has fought so hard to build? Are you willing to have your names struck from the kirk registry, and your children denied their birthrights?”

“Better ye should ask me could I bear tae look in ma wife's eyes if I kept ma sword buried under the thatch instead o' raisin' it by the prince's side,” Eneas said quietly. “Some things are worth fightin' an' dyin' f'ae, Annie. Mayhap ye would understand that better if ye were a man.”

She shot to her feet with enough vehemence to nearly tip the chair into the fire. “My not being a man has nothing to do with what I feel in my heart. I would walk onto the battlefield beside the lot of you if that was what my laird commanded. I would fight as hard and kill as many
Sassenachs
as the rest of you, and I would spill their blood just as proudly, never dare say that I would not!”

“We dinna doubt yer loyalty f'ae a moment, Annie,” Fearchar said, having been startled awake by the crash of the chair against the iron grate. “In fact, it's the fire in yer eyes an' the courage in yer heart that we want.”

“You have always had my heart, Granda'. You have never needed to ask for it.”

“This time we do. Too many o' the lairds willna break their oath f'ae the very reasons ye said, but they might if they had a leader. Nay, nay”—he scrubbed his hand in the air as if erasing words from a slate—“that's no' right either. They blessed
all
want tae be leaders, an' tae that end, they'll fight
themselves bluidy before they're ever out o' the glen. What they need is someone who is as cunning as Forbes, as shameless as Loudoun when he offers rewards o' land an' gold to any man who signs the roster, someone they can trust who has the power tae bring them back intae the clan again regardless who wins an' who loses.”

Anne could think of no one who could fill such an overwhelming charter, but then she frowned and looked at MacGillivray, the tall golden lion of the Highlands, and once again her breath left her lungs on a gust. “You, John? They've asked you to do this?”

Before he answered he drew his legs in and sat straight in the chair. He rose slowly, the top of his head seeming to stretch forever into the shadows near the ceiling before he walked into the brighter circle of firelight. The creamy wool of his shirt took on a luminous glow, the radiance spreading upward to touch the strands of his hair. The blackness of his eyes reflected a sudden wily glint that could very well have come from Lucifer himself.

“Ye give me too much credit, lass. It's not me they're after askin',” he said quietly. “It's you.”

Chapter Two

A
t that same moment, at almost the exact spot in the narrow pass between Garbhal Beg and Garbhal Mor where Anne had stopped to take in the beauty of the glen below, one of MacGillivray's sentries cocked the hammer on his flintlock and aimed at a shadowy figure walking up the hill. The other man must have heard the faint click of the ratchet, for he stopped and held up his hand while he whistled a low trill to identify himself. He was warm, his tunic and kilt dry, his senses keen after a hot meal and couple of hours in front of a crackling fire. The sentry was happy enough to welcome the relief. His beard and eyebrows were caked with crystals of frost and his toes were numb despite the nest he had made for himself in the bracken.

Releasing the hammer again, he shrugged the snow off his plaid and stretched his legs with exaggerated motions to ease the stiffness that had locked them with cramps after several hours in the cold. There would be broth and ale waiting for him in the sheltered heat of the stables—him and the others who stood watch over the snowy silence of the glen.

None of them actually expected any trouble, for it was an ugly night and the English were not known for their eagerness to leave the protected garrison at Inverness after dark. Truth be told, most of the sentries had pulled their plaids over their
heads to seek what comfort they could until it was their turn to be relieved.

The two men said a few words, cursed the thickening snow in hearty Gaelic, then parted company with a wave. Neither one of them was aware of the two other shadowy figures who had crept stealthily to the edge of the fir trees and watched the exchange with narrow-eyed surprise.

Unlike MacGillivray's sentries, they had anticipated no relief whatsoever and were dressed for the cold, each in his own manner. The Highlander wore his breacan belted into pleats around his waist with the ends of the wool wound warmly around his shoulders. His bonnet was pulled low over his forehead; his beard shielded everything below the beaklike nose, leaving only a narrow strip free for his eyes.

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.”