Page 15 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)
14
A ngus slowly raised his hands and stared into John MacGillivray's dark eyes for what seemed like half a lifetime. There was a slight breeze blowing, and it ruffled some of the long brass-colored hair that hung below John's bonnet, but other than that, the Highlander was still as a stone.
“Ye're that lucky I didna shoot ye for a thief,” MacGillivray said finally. “Or a spy.”
“I came to see my wife, nothing more.”
“Aye. So I gathered. I had men watchin' the forest an' they told me they saw someone sniffin' around the cottage. Ye'll be warmed to know there were twenty of us standin' outside the door, ready to break it down on the instant.”
“What stopped you?”
“We found yer manservant in the trees, shiverin' his teeth to nubs. He told us who ye were.”
“Hardy? Is he alright?”
MacGillivray scowled. “He's a damned sight better than he would be if he were still waitin' on ye in the cold.”
The subtle snick of both hammers being uncocked eased some of the tension in Angus's chest, but he was careful to wait for permission—which came in the form of a casual nod—before he lowered his arms.
“Where is he now?”
“We're keepin' him warm for ye. The horses, too. We were not too sure how long ye'd be.”
Angus heard the soft rustle of more footsteps and turned to see two more figures melt out of the trees beside him. He recognized one of them instantly, despite the suspended blue gloom of the air, for he had met Alexander Cameron some years before during his travels around Europe. Only slightly less unforgettable was his friend and clansman, Aluinn MacKail.
“Cameron.” Angus nodded to acknowledge their presence. “MacKail. It has been a long time. Still tilting at windmills, I see.”
“Call us hopeless romantics,” Alex said. “Not too dissimilar, however, from a man who rides into the heart of an enemy encampment just to speak to his wife. Although—" he paused and cocked an eyebrow toward the cottage— “from the sound of it, you were enjoying more than just conversation.”
Angus glanced at MacKail, who was grinning above the tartan he had muffled around his throat. “Thatch roofing,” Aluinn explained. “Keeps the weather out, but I would not trust it for keeping secrets in.”
Angus expelled an angry stream of misty breath. “I trust you all enjoyed the entertainment.”
“I have no doubt we would have,” Cameron said, “had there not been other diversions.”
He pointed behind them to the road. Dawn was beginning to smear across the horizon, lifting the gloom enough to reveal the sprawled bodies of several clansmen rolled in their tartans who had staggered away from the tavern and not thought the effort worthwhile to find their beds. Lying together in the middle of the road, the one draped across the other's chest, were Struan MacSorley and Gilles MacBean. The bigger man was laid out like a starfish, obviously the first to go down; MacBean looked as if he'd had time to sit and enjoy a laugh before he careened over on top of him.
Cameron clucked his tongue. “That is twice now, including Count Fanducci,” he said, nodding at MacGillivray. “Struan will be as pleasant as a bear when he wakens.”
Angus was the only one who did not laugh. “May I ask what happens now? Am I to be marched to some puppet court as your prisoner?”
“Actually, we thought we would be neighborly an' provide ye with an escort back as far as Dunmore,” MacGillivray said. “We wouldna want it on our conscience if ye were picked off by one of our own lads.”
“You are letting me go?”
“If yer wife could no' persuade ye to stay, we didna think we'd have any better luck.”
“Just like that? No questions, no appeals to my loyalties or honor, no attempt to get any information from me?”
“Ah, well, now.” Cameron propped one booted foot on a rock and draped an arm over his knee. “Since you mentioned it, we are a little curious about a few things.”
“I am sure you are. Just as I am sure you know that as an officer in His Majesty's service, I am not obliged to tell you anything more than my rank.”
“Captain MacKintosh, is it not?” Cameron asked with an easy smile. “First Royal Scots Brigade under the command of William Keppel, Earl of Albemarle. I understand your personal regiment has become somewhat depleted—fewer than forty men all told?—and will likely be incorporated into the ranks of the Argyle militia. A prized command, since Albemarle and Hawley answer only to Cumberland himself. How is the earl anyway? Is his stomach dyspepsia still troubling him? He should not be so insistent upon eating so many raw eggs in the morning. Two dozen at a seating would have any man blowing sulfur.”
Angus was irritably impressed with the extent of Cameron's knowledge, as he was meant to be. “Since you seem to be well informed already, I fail to see what possible curiosities might yet remain.”
“That is exactly what we are: just curious. Mainly about why Hawley has not moved to establish his position yet. There are few places between here and Falkirk large enough to accommodate two armies. A prudent general would take the precaution of staking out the only high ground.”
“One could make the same observation about the prince.”
“One could,” Cameron agreed, “if one was not aware of the four thousand men on the march even as we speak.”
“Your army is on the move? Today? But Hawley assumed—” He bit his lip and stopped, but the damage was done. He could see it in Cameron's widening grin.
“He assumed we would behave like perfect gentlemen and wait for him to amass all his supply wagons, artillery, and ammunition carts? He thought we would wait for him to address the time and place for the attack?”
That was precisely what Hawley had thought, Angus acknowledged inwardly. He had surveyed the high ground on the moor and pronounced it “suitable,” but had taken no further steps to establish a royalist position apart from a few sentries and patrols. He had retired to his billet confident to the point of arrogance that the rebels would never dare initiate an attack. Moreover, he had dispatched a courier the previous evening with a message stating that he thought it uncivilized to plan any sort of military engagement that might spill over onto a Sunday, and if it suited the prince, Monday morning should do nicely.
“I imagine it would do no harm now to tell you our men were rousted two hours ago,” Cameron continued. “The rest will be in their boots as soon as the sun is up. By noon Lord George will hold the high ground.”
Angus felt a second chill trickle down his spine, this one far more ominous. If half the prince's army had left camp during the night and the other half was taking to the road at dawn, it would set the stage for another surprise attack like the one at Prestonpans, when the Jacobite army had circled around behind the Elector's troops and launched their attack from the primordial ooze of a seemingly impassable swamp.
Hawley had vowed not to make that particular mistake again and, to guard against it, had camped with the choppy waters of the firth at his back and a sodden moor on his flank. But he had grievously underestimated his enemy's ability to rebound from a disheartening retreat that might well have demoralized any other army.
“If you actually do prevail at Falkirk,” Angus said, “have you given any thought to what Cumberland's reaction will be? Despite your efforts to stymie him with nonexistent French fleets and Dutch treaties, he will be returning from London within a fortnight with over five thousand Hessian soldiers, none of whom are hampered by treaties and all of whom are huge ugly brutes who sharpen their bayonets with their teeth.”
Alexander Cameron's eyes glittered. “So Cumberland is in London, is he? We were wondering where he had gone, and since none of our people could seem to find him, we were worried he might have been creeping up on us by way of Rutherglen.”
Angus's brow folded sharply.
“Moreover, if he is bringing five thousand troops back with him—and I thank you for the advance warning—it should put him at least two weeks out of the hunt. As to his reaction should Lord George Murray prevail yet again, I would say he would piss out a stone or two. Aluinn?”
“Aye,” MacKail agreed amiably. “Two at the least. John?”
MacGillivray nodded. “Aye, mayhap more.”
Angus stared. Cameron had effortlessly extracted exactly the kind of information he had so boldly declared he would not give them. Great care had been taken by the English generals not to divulge the Duke of Cumberland's whereabouts, and the news of the Hessians had been delivered orally by courier with nothing trusted to paper.
“No need to fall on your sword,” MacKail said, reading the look on Angus's face. “Alex does that to everyone. It is a knack. When you have been with him as long as I have, in fact, you expect to walk away scratching your head at least once a day.”
“Yes, well, I would rather not be around long enough to test your theory, if it is all the same to you.”
“Aye.” Cameron shifted, squinting up at the sky. “I can smell rain in the air. You had best be on your horse and away from here before the weather turns.”
Angus followed his glance and saw that what he thought had just been a reluctant dawn was in reality a low, dark ceiling of cloud hovering over the tops of the fir trees. The wind was beginning to gust as well, snatching at the wings of his cloak, driving the dampness straight down the nape of his neck.
“I'll show him the way,” MacGillivray said. “I've an escort o' MacKintosh men waiting.”
“I will say good-bye here, then.” Alexander Cameron straightened, and without the smallest trace of malice or mockery extended his hand. “I wish you Godspeed and good health, MacKintosh. It is a true pity you have chosen to take your stand on the wrong side of the field, but I bear you no personal ill will. Oh, and by the way, if you intend to look for General Hawley upon your return, I am afraid he might have overslept this morning. Knowing he detested camp cots and damp canvas so much, we persuaded the Lady Kilmarnock to offer the hospitality of Callendar House for the comfort of him and his senior officers. They threw a little party in his honor last night, and the spirits may have gone to his head.”
“I have seen Hawley drink a quart of brandy without batting an eye,” Angus commented.
“Laced with opiates?”
Angus shook his head. “May I ask why you did not just poison him?”
“The thought did occur to us, but that would not have been sporting, now, would it?”
Angus laughed despite himself and clasped Cameron's outstretched hand, reminded once again that he was trusting Anne's safety and well-being to the hands of these reckless madmen. He did not want to dwell on the dangers she would be facing in short order, but how could he not? She had promised to stay well out of harm's way, but how could he know for sure she would honor that promise?
Deep in thought, he followed MacGillivray along a path that would take them through the woods, but as soon as the village was out of sight behind the trees, the tall Highlander stopped and swung around.
“I want ye to hear it from ma own lips that I never touched her. I wanted to. I came damned close more times than I care to admit, but she has never broken faith with ye an' I'll not hear it said from any man's lips that she did. Not even yours.”
“I believe you. Just as I believed Anne last night.”
"Aye, last night we were both drownin' our sorrows in ale an' uisque . I was the more fool for lettin' slip something I've been carryin' around on ma tongue like a red-hot brand, but it was damned near burnin' me. I would have let it burn her, too, an' the Devil take ye, Angus Moy, if she'd given me the smallest sign that she could live with herself afterward.”
John stopped to take a heave of breath, the bulk of his shoulders and chest making him look as dark and threatening as the firs that loomed on either side of the path. Having made the comparison, it occurred to Angus that a body could be thrown under those trees and lie there undiscovered until the spring thaw.
“Aye,” John said, reading the wariness in Angus's eyes. “Have ye any idea how lucky ye are? Do ye ken how many times I've thought just to take ye in hand an' crack yer spine over ma knee? Ye'd snap like a twig, ye would. An' then it would be over an' done, an' I'd not have to look into her eyes an' see the hurt ye've caused. I'd tell her every day how brave an' beautiful she was, an' if she once … once looked at me the way she looks at you …” He had his hand raised for emphasis, but when the words and all their unspoken possibilities failed him, he curled his fingers into a fist and looked away, looked anywhere but into the face of the man whose betrayal had made Anne cry herself to sleep nearly every night at Dunmaglass.
In the end, he settled for spitting an oath into the ground as he turned away.
“John, I know how you feel. And I know how Anne feels, but you have to understand—”
The fist came up again in warning, still clenched, though the Highlander did not look back. “Enough. Ye've said enough. Another word, I might just as well spare the clan the shame of seein' ye across the battlefield wearin' Hanover colors.”
“Then you might just have to do that because by God—" Angus raised his voice to compensate for the distance MacGillivray's huge strides were putting between them— “I have stood here and listened to you declare your love for my wife, the least you can do is hear me out. If not as your chief, then as someone who was once your friend.”
MacGillivray stopped. His upper torso swelled as he sucked in a deep breath, then he reached up and snatched the bonnet off his head, throwing it down with another curse. He shrugged off the length of plaid that had been wrapped around his shoulders, and reached with two hands to grasp the hilt of the clai' mór he wore strapped across his back. The sound of five feet of honed steel sliding out of its studded leather sheath shivered through the cold air and sent Angus's hand to the hilt of his own slim saber.
He did not draw it, however, knowing it would be like matching a sapling against an oak tree, and when MacGillivray stalked back, close enough to touch the point of steel to the hard ridge of Angus's windpipe, the hesitation was mocked with a sneer.
“Ye want to say yer piece, say it.”
“As simply as I can, then: The reason I will be standing on the opposite side of the battlefield today is not that I want to be. It is because Forbes gave me his word … in writing and stamped with the royal seal… that as long as I served in King George's army neither Anne nor my mother, nor any man who refused to take up arms would be in any danger of arrest. It was a guarantee of immunity, and had I not agreed to the terms, the opposite result would have been the immediate signing of warrants for them, for you, Fearchar, MacBean, and about two dozen other lairds of Clan Chattan. He did not give me any choice in the matter, just as he did not give much choice to other lairds in my position. We were all issued ultimatums. Raise the clan for the prince and see every member of our families hung from the nearest gibbet."
He let those words sink in for a moment before continuing. "Luckily, I was warned ahead of time and managed to convince him my years in Europe had left me indifferent to the political intrigues. To my shame, I even led him to believe I was indifferent to my marriage, and that Anne's arrest would be more of an inconvenient blot against the noble name than anything else. But in the end, it appears not to have mattered because here you are and there she is, both of you leading our clan into God knows what manner of hellfire and if you still want to take my head off my shoulders. Well, here! I will make it easier for you!”
Angrily, he tore at the fastening of his cloak and ripped it aside along with the underlying edges of his tunic and waistcoat. So vigorously did he yank open his shirt and invite a quick end, he scraped a peeling of flesh from his chest, deep enough that it turned instantly red with blood. There he stood, his legs braced apart, the wind against his back, the dark locks of his hair blown forward over his cheeks, and waited for his fate to be decided in MacGillivray's eyes.
It seemed to be a long time coming, but in the end, John slowly lowered the point of his sword. His eyes were narrowed, glittering like two shards of glass, and his eyebrows drew together in a deep furrow that only grew deeper and darker as he absorbed what Angus had said.
“Immunity? Ye've whored yerself to the Sassenachs to win us all a promise of immunity?”
“Bluntly put, but yes.”
MacGillivray glowered a moment longer. “Why, for the love o' God, did ye not tell us any o' this? Ye've put Annie through royal hell, ye bastard, and ye've turned half the clan lairds against ye. They'd sooner spit than say yer name.”
“It was a chance I had to take. And as I have just tried to explain to Anne...can you imagine the leverage Forbes would have had if he knew how desperately I loved my own wife?”
The admission, as much as the raw honesty in Angus's voice, set MacGillivray back another step. “What about the others? Gilles? Fearchar? Do they no' deserve to know why their laird is wearin' the Hanover cockade?”
Angus drove his hands through his hair. “No. No, it had to be my burden alone, and if you doubt me, just look at yourself. Ten seconds ago you were ready to split me open like a melon. Now you have that same noble look on your face that you had when we were boys and Ranald MacFeef threw me in the bog. You had no use for me in my satin breeches and gold braid, but you stood over me like a bloody great wolfhound prepared to fight them all if they dared toss another plug of dung. Tell me now, if you can, that you would have made a different choice, that you would have stood up to Forbes and watched your family thrown in chains and dragged through the streets like dogs. For that matter, tell me you would not come to Falkirk with me now if I asked you to guard my back?”
MacGillivray glared. His lip curled as if he were about to deny the charge, but in the end he only spat out an oath. “Ye could always just turn around an' go back to the cottage. Then I'd guard yer back through the gates o' hell if need be. I'm of a mind neither Forbes' nor Loudoun's guarantees will be worth the paper they're written on.”
Angus cursed his way through a sigh of exasperation. “Suppose—just for the sake of argument, if you will— that the prince is captured or slain today, and his army is driven from the field in defeat. Anne's cousins safeguard her as they would a younger sister, and I have no doubt that every man who sees her riding before them like a Celtic Jeanne d'Arc would sooner drive a red-hot stake into his own eye than let a hair on her head be harmed. But if the British win, they will not stand on ceremony. Men will be hanged, executions will be rife, and any woman found wearing the white cockade, regardless of who she is or what noble quest brought her to the field, will be treated like spoils of war.”
“That will never happen,” MacGillivray said, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword again.
“Can you guarantee it? Can you absolutely guarantee you will walk off the field alive and victorious? If so, you are a better man than I, for I have seen a full British volley, and I have seen a battalion of cavalry at full charge, and I am not foolish enough or arrogant enough to predict my own odds of survival at the end of the day. But if I do come through this alive, I have a better chance than you, with your pride and your broken sword, of stopping my wife from being raped to death by a corps of triumphant dragoons.”
MacGillivray bared his teeth in a snarl and started to say he would never surrender his sword, not while his body still drew breath, but another, calmer side of him could see Angus's reasoning. Much as it galled him to think of the consequences of defeat after they had waited so long to take part in the rebellion, he had to admit the possibility was abhorrently real. He also knew full well how murderous a British volley could be. Anne believed he was immune to fear, but fear was something he simply pushed to the back of his mind and refused to look at it too closely.
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 important day ahead. With the camp spread so far, the sounds came from all directions, pipers from each clan playing their distinct piob' rachd to stir the blood. The MacGillivray's personal contingent comprised about eighty men, who, together with seven hundred other men of Clan Chattan would be in the front ranks on the field of honor.
"If ye're going back to the English camp, ye'd best be on yer way."
Angus extended his hand. "I would appreciate it if you did not tell Anne that we spoke."
MacGillivray exhaled slowly and only after a full minute of silence had passed did he clasp the offered hand. “Ye have ma word I'll not say anything to Annie about this. Mainly because 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 sheathed his sword and fetched his bonnet from the forest floor. “She's no' completely daft. Besides, she might be the only one who'll be able to keep Fearchar off the line.”
“Good God, he is over a hundred years old! You are not suggesting—”
“Aye. The old fox is barely strong enough to lift a dirk without topplin' over from the weight, but he's determined to stand in the front rank. It'll be on Annie to see him safe away where he'll not 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.”