Page 13 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

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T hree days later a courier arrived at General Hawley's headquarters informing him that the prince had decamped and was heading east. At the same time, Lord Lewis Gordon had left Aberdeen with upward of thirty-two hundred men and was headed west, hoping to join up with the main body of the prince's army before it reached Stirling.

On January 13, hearing the prince and Lord Gordon were within a few miles of combining their forces, General Hawley sent his second in command, Major-General John Huske, marching from Edinburgh. Two days later, Hawley himself marched, reuniting with Huske's troops outside the city of Falkirk. There he was joined by an additional twelve regiments of Argyle militia, bringing the Hanoverian strength up to eight thousand. For the first time since the conflict began, the numbers were equal on both sides, and both sides were spoiling for a much-needed victory—Hawley to avenge the poor performance of the Elector's troops thus far, Charles to restore the confidence lost on the retreat.

“Will ye take anither dram, lass?” The question was bellowed over the din as Dr. Archibald Cameron lifted a freshly opened crock of uisque baugh to his shoulder. “Yer eyes are barely crossed, an' we've still a blather o' toasts tae make on yer courage an' yer beauty.”

Anne laughed amidst much banging of tankards and cheers of approval. Her eyes might not have been crossed, but her senses were fuddled—wonderfully, dizzyingly so—and she raised her cup for another splash of whisky and a raucous round of supportive foot-stomping.

She was the sole female in a tavern filled to capacity with brawny Highlanders who had marched to the heart of England and back; brave men all, who had not only been forewarned of her presence in Aberdeen but knew the role she had played in removing the Dutch from England. The two factions of the Jacobite army had come together at last near Stirling where the prince's men had lined the approach to the city to welcome Lord Gordon, doffing their bonnets and spinning them overhead like dervishes.

Anne, for one, had never seen such a spectacle, let alone been part of it. Yet there she was, sitting high and proud on her massive gray gelding, fighting hard to keep her eyes dry and her heart from flying out of her chest.

Riding by her side was the golden-maned John MacGillivray, as fierce as ever a black-eyed giant there was, his hair combed into a tail, his personal body armory of guns and dirks and swords glittering in the sunlight. His lieutenants, Robert, Jamie, and Eneas Farquharson, followed, and between them, his face streaked with unabashed tears of joy, the grizzled old warrior, Fearchar of Invercauld. Gilles MacBean rode at the head of his MacBeans, his pipers competing good-naturedly with pipers from the Shaws and Davidsons, MacDuffs, MacPhersons, and MacKintoshes, all of whom marched in strength behind the standard of Clan Chattan.

Charles Edward Stuart, a princely figure in tartan trews and a blue velvet jacket, had been waiting to welcome them personally. A boyishly handsome man of four-and-twenty years, he had greeted each laird in turn, announcing their names aloud to the throngs of cheering Highlanders. When Anne had come forward, he had stopped her from offering a curtsy and bowed gallantly over her hand instead, addressing her as “ma belle rebelle” and causing such a roar to rise into the crisp winter air that casings of ice on the tree branches overhead cracked and fell to the ground.

Behind her, she could hear her grandfather bawling like a child as she was welcomed with an equally unceremonious hug by Lord George Murray. MacDonald of Keppoch kissed her hand, then chucked her on the cheek. Donald Cameron of Lochiel was looking over her shoulder at John MacGillivray, obviously impatient to meet the fighting men and judge their caliber, but he offered a formal bow and took pains to introduce his brothers, Dr. Archibald and—as if she were not already faint enough from having her heart stop so many times—the man around whom the word “legend” was used with genuine awe, the Camshroinaich Dubh : Alexander Cameron.

Anne had listened raptly to the stories told and retold around the campfires in Aberdeen about the bravery of the Camerons and the MacDonalds and Lord George's Athollmen, and the courageous roles they played in defeating the might of the English army at Colt's Bridge, then later at Edinburgh and Prestonpans. How she had wished Angus could be counted among them, all fiercely steadfast in their loyalties, intrepid beyond measure, willing to forsake everything—not the least of which was their lives, properties, and fortunes—in defense of their king and country.

And how she wished he could be here now, in this cramped and airless tavern on the outskirts of St. Ninians, a stone's throw from the sacred field of Bannockburn. How she longed to share with him the excitement of the pipers skirling in the background, the clansmen singing and pounding the tables with their tankards, and men like MacGillivray and Alexander Cameron joined together in toasting the prince's future success.

Easily as tall and broad across the chest as MacGillivray, the Dark Cameron had spent the past fifteen years in exile on the Continent fighting other men's wars. He had returned to his beloved home at Achnacarry only to find his country on the verge of rebellion, and since then had ridden at the right hand of Lord George Murray. It was rumored that he had brought an English wife with him, which did not set well with a clan whose elder statesman, Old Lochiel, had been with the exiled court of James Stuart since the failed uprising of 1715. But it was also said that his Sassenach bride had adamantly refused to remain in safety at her English home and had joined her husband when the prince's forces retreated from Derby.

Another roar sent Anne's gaze to the end of the table, where a mountain of a man had been called forward by the boisterous Dr. Archibald Cameron. His name, Anne recalled, was Struan MacSorley, and as she watched in amazement, he lifted a quart-sized pewter tankard to his lips and began to drink. Eight, nine, ten loud swallows were counted off by the men, after which a hearty clamor saw the good doctor clapping him on his back, then issuing a challenge from a pair of narrowed blue eyes to their prey at the opposite end of the table. Anne leaned forward, grinning when she saw Gilles MacBean push to his feet to accept. Jamie and Robbie stood on either side of him, good-naturedly massaging his shoulders, neck, and belly, and when a brimming double tankard was set in front of him, the twins stepped solemnly back and crossed their arms crookedly over their chests, watching him like a pair of half-sodden bear handlers.

Gilles emptied the cup with nary a batted eye and set it down with a flourish. The crowd went wild for a moment; in the next, like magic, bonnets came off heads and wagers were taken from all quarters.

“I would hate to embarrass our compatriots by robbing of them of all their coin on the first night in camp.”

Anne glanced across the table and smiled at the speaker, Alexander Cameron.

“Indeed, sir, I was thinking somewhat the same thing, only wondering what your reaction would be to our stripping ye of all your coin our first night in camp.”

Cameron leaned back, his midnight blue eyes gleaming. Beside him, his clansman Aluinn MacKail guffawed and fished in his pocket for a gold sovereign. A third gentleman, a flamboyant Italian count in a beribboned doublet and feathered musketeer hat, brought his hand down on the table in a flutter of cuff lace and deposited a second coin just as quickly.

“I'm-a know from-a the first night I join-a this troupe of-a madmen, that you need-a the iron gut to stand-a with MacSorley.”

“As I recall, Fanducci,” MacKail said over his shoulder, “you outlasted him. ”

“Ah, sì, sì.” Another flutter of lace brought a modest hand to the count's breast. “But I'm-a no ordinary madman. I was-a given wine before I was-a given the breast.”

MacGillivray, seated beside Anne, dug two gold coins and his pipe out of his sporran. The coins he set on the table, the pipe was clamped between his teeth while he withdrew a bulging pouch of tobacco and packed the bowl. He saw the midnight eyes show more interest in the pouch rather than the coins and he set it down on the table as part of the wager. “I guess we'll see who is still standin' at the end o' the hour, shall we?”

Cameron tipped his head to acknowledge the Highlander's wager and place two of his own coins beside MacGillivray's. He then withdrew two of his coarsely rolled Carolina cigars out of his coat pocket, placing one on the table beside the pouch.

Gilles and MacSorley, in the meantime, had downed their second full tankard apiece and were both standing rock solid at their respective ends of the long oak trestle. Dr. Archibald Cameron was now up on a chair—which put him on an equal eye level with his champion—and the twins, not to be outdone, hauled over an empty barrel to stand on.

“Your wife is very brave to accompany ye, sir,” Anne said to Alexander Cameron across the din.

“Aye, that she is, Colonel. Brave and stubborn. Not unlike someone else seated at this table.” He lifted his mug in a salute. “And the name is Alex, not sir.”

“Then ye must call me Annie. I fear the rank is only for decoration anyway.”

“Would you prefer ‘ ma belle rebelle’ ? Or perhaps ‘that red-haired Amazon’?”

She laughed and shook her head. The latter appellation had come as a result of a small but vicious skirmish along the road to Stirling. The vanguard of the Argyle militia had crossed Blairlogie just ahead of Lord Gordon's forward guard, and because the latter had consisted mainly of MacKintosh men, Anne had been in her usual place alongside MacGillivray. There had been no time for her to fall back when the Argylemen had attacked, and she had found herself in the thick of things. The Campbells had hoped to slow or delay the Jacobite column, but instead they had encountered such fearsome opposition, they were lucky to escape with only a handful of casualties. One of the fleeing clansmen had spotted Anne, her bonnet gone, her hair streaming around her shoulders, her magnificent gray gelding rearing as she wind-milled a saber overhead.

Word of a “red-haired Amazon” in the Jacobite ranks had spread like butter on a hot pan, even making its way into a report from Hawley's camp that was intercepted on its way south to London. It only brightened the already glowing aura that had begun with her audacious theft of Duncan Forbes's papers, and it made nearly every man present in the tavern that night want to fill her tankard and offer a toast.

“… Seven … eight… nine …”

The crowd howled and she leaned forward again. Gilles was on his fourth tankard, and while the swallows were coming slower, they were still deep and steady, and the emptied vessel met the tabletop with the same resounding thud of satisfaction as MacSorley's had done moments earlier.

“By Christ's holy beard,” Archibald declared, swaying unsteadily on his perch, “he's that good, is Struan. Mayhap we'll be needin two casks soon—one tae drink out o', the ither tae piss intae.”

“I believe I can lead a full life without witnessing that particular event,” Anne said, her head already too light by far. She pushed to her feet, bidding the men to remain seated when all would have risen with her. “It has been a very long, tiring day—” She paused as Archibald Cameron pitched forward off his chair and fell unconscious, plunging facedown into a net of waiting hands. “And I certainly would not want my presence to hinder anyone's more manly pursuits.”

MacGillivray, who had not obeyed her instruction to remain seated, settled his bonnet firmly, albeit askew, on his head.

“There is no need for ye to leave, John,” she said, laying her hand on his chest.

He glanced down at her hand then smiled the kind of smile that, if seen in polite society, would have sent a bevy of virgins into a dead faint.

“I'm no' bothered. I've every faith in Gilles. So much so in fact,” he added, leaning over to pluck the cigar off the table, “I might as well take this now an' enjoy it on the walk back to ma bed.”

Cameron reached for the pouch of tobacco. “And I've enough faith in Struan to collect another come morning.”

MacGillivray glared down for a moment, then bared his teeth in a wide grin. “'Tis a good thing we're on the same side, you an' I. Ye might vex me enough I'd have to reshape that fine nose o' yourn.”

“And you have far too many teeth for my liking; I'd be tempted to put a few of them in your pocket.”

The two men exchanged huge grins and clasped hands. After bidding all a good night, John led the way through the shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, parting them by sheer brute strength. Outside in the clear, cold air, he stretched his arms to the side and back before falling into step alongside Anne. At his insistence she had taken lodgings in a cottage that had been made available for her comfort, and since the entire length of the village was no more than a quarter mile, she preferred to walk rather than force herself up into a saddle again.

“Well?” she asked, drawing her plaid around her shoulders.

“Well what?”

“What do ye make of it all so far?”

“I've not had much chance to weigh all yet, but they seem to be a braw lot o' men back there. More than willing to follow Lord George Murray anywhere he leads.”

Anne noted that he did not cite the prince's powers of leadership and wondered at the tension she had sensed earlier in the day between Charles Stuart and his commanding general. She was told that in the days following the retreat from Derby, when Lord George's logic had prevailed over the prince's passion, they were barely on speaking terms and communicated through brisk, formal notes.

The situation had hardly improved on the march from Glasgow to Stirling. Indeed, Lord George and two hundred of his Athollmen had left that very afternoon for Linlithgow under the auspices of intercepting a supply caravan bound for Hawley's camp.

“How far is Falkirk?” Anne asked.

“A glen, a ben, an' a bog,” he replied. “About ten miles that way,” he added, pointing off into the darkness.

“Do ye suppose the English know we're here?”

“They'd be a ripe daft lot if they did not. I warrant we could climb up the top o' the nearest hill an' see the glow from their fires in the distance...just as they could as likely see ours.”

“Do ye suppose they are making plans to attack?”

“I doubt they're makin' plans to dredge the river, lass.” They walked in silence, listening to their own footsteps crunch across the frozen ground. The echoes of a dozen pipers reverberated along the throat of the glen, for it was a fine, clear night, the sky blanketed in stars. The surrounding slopes sparkled with a hundred bonfires and tents too numerous to count. They were pitched in a wide swath to the meadows of Bannockburn, and even beyond to the banks of the Forth. The camp had been spread thus in the hopes of deceiving the English scouts into vastly overestimating their strength. It was a ploy that had worked so often in the past, it was almost ludicrous.

“'Tis no sin to be frightened,” said MacGillivray

Her steps slowed. “I am not frightened. Not really. Not if I stop thinking about it anyway.”

“An' if ye do think about it? What then?”

“Then … I feel like the world's biggest coward, because I want to run and hide somewhere and hope that no one will ever find me.”

“Bah!” He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and, although he had not intended them to do so, his fingers found their way beneath her hair to the nape of her neck. “We all feel that way sometimes. Ye think I've never lain awake at night wonderin' how it would feel to have the wrong end of an English bayonet in ma gut?”

“I find that hard to believe,” she said on a wistful sigh. “I find it hard to believe ye're afraid of anything, John MacGillivray.”

“Then ye'd be wrong,” he said after a long, quiet moment. “Because I'm dead afraid o' you, lass.”

Anne slowed further, then stopped altogether. She became acutely aware of his fingers caressing the back of her neck. She knew it had been meant as a friendly gesture, nothing more, and yet… when she looked at him, when she felt the sudden tension in his hand that had come with the quiet admission, she knew it was not the caress of a man who wanted only to be a friend.

Perhaps it was the closeness of his body, or the lingering effects of too much ale. Perhaps it was because there were too many stars, or because the skirling of the pipes was throbbing in her blood. Or perhaps it was just because they were alone for one of the few times she had permitted such a lapse in judgment, knowing all too well how the tongues were wagging about them already.

Perhaps it was for all those reasons and more besides that she reached up and took his hand in hers, holding it while she turned her head and pressed her lips into his callused palm.

“"Tis yer eyes, I think,” he said, attempting a magnificent nonchalance. “They suck a man in, they do, so deep he disna think he can ever find his way out again. An' it makes him wonder … about the rest. If it would feel the same.”

Anne felt the rush of heat clear down to the soles of her feet, and she bowed her head, still holding his hand cradled against her cheek. An image was in her head, so strong it sent shivers down her spine, of this hand and the other moving over her bare skin, sliding over skin slicked with oil and warmed by his body heat. Another heartbeat put her against that damned wall at the fairground again, and she knew what he had to offer, knew what he could offer her now if she but gave him a sign.

“It would be wrong,” she said softly.

“Aye. It would.”

“I love my husband,” she insisted, not knowing whether she was trying to convince him, or convince herself. “Despite everything that has happened, all the harsh words, the terrible disappointments … I do still love him.”

“Then ye've naught to worry about. Ye need only leave go of ma hand, walk straight the way into yer cottage, into yer own bed, an' we'll pretend this conversation never happened. ”

“Can we do that?”

“We have no choice, do we?”

Was he asking her or telling her? She tilted her face up, meeting eyes that were black as the night, burning with an emotion she did not even want to acknowledge, for if she did, she would reach out to him with her body and her soul, and they would both lose the battles they were waging within themselves.

“It would be for the best,” she agreed.

“Aye. It would.”

She lowered her hand. He lowered his.

And they each exhaled a steamy puff of breath.

Suddenly cold, Anne hugged her arms and drew her plaid tighter around her shoulders. They had stopped at the end of the little stone path that led to the front of the cottage. A lamp had been left in the window, the latter made of pressed sheets of horn so that the glow was diffused and did not reach past the overhanging thatch on the roof.

The lodgings were simple, one large room with a pallet in one corner, a table in the other. There might have been more furniture—a chair or a stool, and pots on the wall—but at the moment, Anne could only recall the bed.

“I'd best leave ye here, then,” John said, his voice tense with the conflict between loyalty and desire.

“John—!”

He had turned to leave, but at her call, he looked back—so quickly she almost took an instinctive step toward him.

And would that be so terrible? The English army was half a day's march away. MacGillivray would be leading the MacKintoshes into battle. He would be in the front line, the first to step onto the field, the first to break into the charge, the first to meet the awful fusillade from a thousand English muskets. The English stood in disciplined lines five deep like a game of child's skittles, but when the first line fired they stepped back to reload and let the next line move in front, primed and ready to fire. They could keep up a continuous barrage in the time it took for the Highlanders to rage across an open field to meet them. John would be there, in the front rank, through every deadly volley, for it was not the Highlander way to crouch behind rocks or wait in ambush. Honor and tradition sent them charging headlong to meet their fate with the battle cry of the clan screaming from their lips.

Anne would be forced to stay well back out of range of any stray shots or cannon shells. If she saw her brave golden lion go down, would it seem so important that she had remained faithful to the man who might well be the one who fired the fateful shot? The ache was there. The agony of indecision, of knowing right from wrong but still wanting … even if it was just for the one night…

It was not fair , Anne thought. Not to John, not to me, not to Angus .

“Thank ye,” she whispered. “For walking with me.”

“I'll send one o' the lads to fetch ye in the mornin',” he said. “Try to get some sleep.”

She nodded, unable to tell him how absurd a hope that would be, unable to speak at all for the tightness in her throat. His footsteps made a sound like that of crushed glass on the frozen earth, and as she watched him stride away into the darkness, she thought it sounded a little like the brittle cracking of her heart.

With a sigh that seemed to come from the bottom of her soul, she entered the cottage and looked around. Small. Nondescript. Desolate. Exactly the kind of cottage in most respects as the one she had called home throughout most of her young life. She was never meant to be the chatelaine of a grand estate like Moy Hall. She was never meant to wear jewels and fine silk gowns, or to have upward of seventy servants look to her for instruction.

She tipped her head back against the wood of the door frame. Would it have been so terrible to forget she was that grand chatelaine for just one night? The loneliness was like a palpable thing inside her, but so were the feelings and emotions that goverened Wild Rhuad Annie. MacGillivray wanted her; the heat was in his every breath, his every unguarded glance. What woman with any manner of grip on her wits would send him away, he to his cold bed, she to hers? What warm-blooded woman in her right senses would not want to feel those arms around her, hear that voice trembling in her ear, feel that naked body pushing slowly into hers?

She groaned softly and closed her eyes.

Was it possible to love two men at the same time? Would her soul burn in hell for even daring to ponder such a thing?

The sound of a quiet knock on the door sent her jumping forward. She turned and stared at the scarred timber a moment, wondering if John had been thinking the same thoughts. If it was him, if he was standing there, his bonnet in his hand, a curse on his lips, and a careless disregard for eternal hellfire burning in his eyes … then, in fairness or not, the decision had been taken out of her hands.