Page 19 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

18

Inverness

T he retreat from Falkirk began on February 1, the day after a courier brought the startling news that Cumberland had unexpectedly moved his army out of Edinburgh and was marching to Linlithgow. The Jacobites decamped before sunrise; by noon, there was only trampled snow and a few broken carts mired in the garbage-strewn mud of Bannockburn to show they had ever been in the vicinity. In St. Ninians, the departure had not gone quite as smoothly. A careless spark had set off a series of explosions in the village church where the Jacobites had stored the kegs of gunpowder captured at Falkirk. Lochiel was nearly crushed under falling stones and, not surprisingly, Lord George was furious at the waste of valuable powder.

It took fifteen days for the prince's slow-moving column to cross the mountain passes. Half the time the howling wind blew snow directly in their faces, slicing through the layers of tartan, forming thick crusts of ice on beards and eyebrows. The other half of the time they were blinded by the vast whiteness and had to struggle to find the buried roads and tracts. The few cannon that had not been sent with Lord George Murray's column were spiked and sunk in an ice-rimed loch, and not one of the tired, ragged men who had been hauling them over the impassable terrain was sorry to see them left behind.

Cumberland was happy to discover the heavy guns Lord George had ordered drowned, and thought it well worth a two-day delay to winch them back up onto dry land. Hearing his cousin had taken the high road over the Grampians, he wasted another three days trying to follow, but the snow was able to do what the Jacobites could not: It turned the king's son around and sent him scrambling east along the low roads, nearly a full week behind Lord George.

Once over the crest of the mountains, the prince found the going easier. The hills fell away sharply, rolling from one glen to the next until the melting snow and mist emptied into Loch Moy. The surrounding forests were thick with cypress and cedar. Deer and game were plentiful, and the hills were cut by sweet, fast-running burns that never froze. The glens they passed through were still snow-covered, but by inches, not feet. They were dotted with small stone-and-sod clachans whose occupants came out to gawk at the slow-moving caravan of wagons and marching Highlanders. Some cheered and offered what food and clothing they could spare. Others turned and went back inside, closing doors and shutters against the sight.

Meanwhile, Anne had ridden on ahead with MacGillivray and the men of Clan Chattan to ensure the road to Moy was clear, the glen secure, the estate as reasonably orderly as she had left it six weeks before. Robert Hardy was with her, and had barely dismounted before he was shouting at the household servants, ordering fires to be lit, bedding aired, floors scrubbed, and the ovens stoked to capacity. Anne's first priority was a long, hot bath, a true and welcomed soaking wherein the water was replenished three times, each time it cooled. Maids were there to assist, and for once Anne did not offer the smallest objection. She leaned back and let her hair be scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed again until it squeaked. She welcomed the first few drops of scented oil to the water, then snatched the bottle and poured so much, the smell of lilacs permeated the entire upper floor.

Her joy at such small pleasures was dampened somewhat by the fact she had not heard one word from Angus since they had parted at Falkirk. There had been no word of an execution or an arrest, so there was hope he had been accepted back into the ranks without consequence. And of course—as she reminded herself daily—he would have had the deuce of a time sending any letters to an army that was beating a hasty path across a snowy mountain range.

With that thought on her mind, she had ridden the last few miles to Moy Hall in a gallop and burst through the doors with enough anticipation to nearly tear the oak off the hinges. But there had been no letters waiting for her. Not even a message conveyed by word of mouth so that she would at least know he was alive and safe.

When a rider brought news of the advance guard approaching Moy, she chose a gown of pale blue satin with cascades of fine Mechlin lace spilling from the cuffs. Four layers of petticoats in varying shades of blue foamed from the parted V in front, and curled back like the wake of a ship when she walked to the door to greet her regal guests and proudly watch her glen fill with Highlanders. The MacKintoshes and Camerons occupied the slopes that bordered the misty waters of Loch Moy; Keppoch's MacDonalds camped to the west and the Appin Stewarts to the east, forming a tight protective circle around the prince. A lively black-and-white sheepdog marked the arrival of Charles Stuart's personal entourage in the glen, and despite the fact Anne had been in his company many times over the past weeks, she still found there were butterflies in her belly as she watched the royal scion dismount and stride up to the entrance of Moy Hall.

“Your Highness,” she said, offering a deep curtsy. “ Cend mile failte ”.'

“Ma belle rebelle , a thousand thanks for your hospitality in return.” As had become his habit of late, he held a scented lace handkerchief in his hand, its dual purpose being to wipe the constantly dripping moisture from his nose and to camouflage the smell of strong spirits on his breath. His cheeks were flushed with a slight fever that he had been nursing for the past day or so, and the splashes of color looked like pink paint against the absolute paleness of his skin. He was dressed for the weather in black breeches topped by a heavy leather doublet and wool coat. His stock was plain white cambric, not very clean, and his copper-colored hair was dull, plastered flat to his skull by the dampness of the battered wool bonnet for which he had acquired a fondness.

“I have a hot bath waiting and rooms prepared,” Anne said, welcoming him into the elegant foyer of Moy Hall. “If it please Your Highness, my steward will show ye the way and remain to tend to any further requirements ye might have.”

“My thanks, dear lady, but I do not wish to be of any burden. A bath and a bed are all I desire at the moment.” He paused and coughed into his handkerchief, waving away a concerned aide who stepped instantly forward. “Perhaps a bowl of broth, however, very hot and salty. And some beef, or a guinea hen well cooked and dressed with mint, if that is at all possible. Oh, and I should dance a caper for a taste of venison simmered in a wine-and-onion sauce. And chocolate. Stirred to a froth with just a touch of sugar?”

“I shall speak to the cook directly, Sire; if I have it in my house, it is yours.”

He smiled vapidly and nodded to Hardy, who then led the royal entourage up the stairs to the second-floor apartments.

There were more guests waiting outside the door. Alexander Cameron had at first declined Anne's invitation to stay at Moy Hall, but because his wife, Catherine, had seemed to succumb to the same exhaustion and listlessness that was affecting the prince, he had changed his mind and agreed that a warm room with a soft feather bed would be a welcome change from a damp, drafty tent. MacKail's wife, Deirdre, accompanied Lady Catherine and was equally happy to accept Anne's hospitality. Their husbands deposited them into Anne's care before they rode off to see to the placement of sentries.

Underneath several layers of grime, Catherine Cameron was a delicate blonde beauty with the porcelain white skin prized so highly by the English. Her father, Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, was a member of the House of Lords, and not too very long ago she had been the toast of England's upper society. The gossips had not exaggerated when they said she had given up everything to be with her rogue Highland laird. Dressed in woolen trews and an oversized cambric shirt, she looked more like an orphan than the wife of a legend. Standing beside her Anne felt like a too-tall, thick-limbed fishwife disguised in blue satin, her skin weathered by the elements, her nose a crest of freckles, the thickness of her tongue a heartbeat away from what must be indecipherable Gaelic to a refined English ear.

“Lady Catherine,” she began, articulating every word with care. “I am so pleased to have ye and your husband as my guests. You as well, Mrs. MacKail. If ye will follow wee Drena there, she will show ye to your rooms.”

“Please call me Catherine.”

Her smile was genuine and friendly, and Anne felt the first wave of relief since hearing the sheepdog usher the riders into the glen.

“Then ye must call me Anne and we can dispense with all the formalities, shall we?”

“I would like that, thank you. Have you met my brother, Damien Ashbrooke? He was delayed in joining us until we were breaking camp and leaving Falkirk.”

A tall, darker version of Catherine stepped forward, his smile as infectious as his sister's.

“Colonel Anne. I have heard a great deal about you—your name has even made it into the news sheets in London—and believe me, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine.”

Anne might have given her opinion of the London news sheets had Deirdre MacKail not given off a startled little cry. Catherine was swaying, a hand held shakily to her temple, and Damien had to move quickly to catch his sister before she slumped over onto the floor.

“Good gracious,” Anne cried. “Is she hurt?”

“She is merely exhausted and cold,” Deirdre assured her. “She has not been getting the proper rest for several weeks now, and all this horseback riding … astride, no less … 'tis a wonder she has not miscarried!”

“Miscarried?” Anne looked at Catherine' s pale face. “She is with child? Should I send for a doctor?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Catherine gasped. “It was just a little spell of dizziness. Damien, for heaven's sake, put me down.”

He ignored her and scooped her up into his arms, obeying Anne instead as she waved for them to follow her up the stairs to the bedchambers. There, she stood aside and watched him set his sister gently down on the bed. “Is it not exceedingly dangerous to be riding around on horseback in such a condition?”

“I have tried telling her that,” Deirdre said. “But she's as stubborn as a boil. If her husband knew, of course, he would tie her hand and foot to a post and leave her there to rant about the unfairness of it all, but—”

“The Camshroinaich Dubh does not know his wife is pregnant?”

“She claims she has not yet found the right time to tell him.”

“Perhaps a doctor would be a wise precaution, then. Just to make certain everything is alright. I would surely not want a man like Alexander Cameron angry with me should I be found wanting in my duties as hostess.”

“No,” Catherine insisted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Please do not send for a doctor. I have already spoken to Alex's brother, Dr. Archibald Cameron, and he has pronounced me hale and hardy. I am truly just cold and tired. And since everyone under the sky appears to know my little secret now except for my husband, I expect I shall have to tell him before he hears the gossip from Cumberland's drummers!”

“Fine,” Deirdre said, ordering Damien to the door with an imperious wave of her hand. “But in the meantime, you'll take off those filthy rags and get yourself into a proper hot bath. If Lady Anne will tell me how to find the kitchen, I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea and fetch some bread to settle your stomach.”

“Tell Drena what ye require and she will bring it at once,” Anne said, beckoning to the maid. “In the meantime, I will leave ye to rest. Please remember what I said: If ye need anything, anything at all, just tell Drena.”

The two women smiled their thanks. Anne hurried back downstairs, for there were baggage carriers entering the front hall like a row of ants and servants everywhere, some attached to the prince, and others sent by lairds to make requests from the household. The hall quickly filled with noise and confusion, all of which might have grown to unmanageable heights if not for the sudden ominous thundering of a familiar voice.

Anne gratefully located the golden head belonging to John MacGillivray. He was standing in the middle of the foyer, his hands on his hips, his expression promising violence as he directed servants this way and that, dependent upon whether they were making inquiries, bringing deliveries, or were simply underfoot. He must have caught the splash of pale blue satin on the stairs, for he paused to grin up at her—a distraction that cost him in skin and blood as one of the porters scraped his bare calf with the edge of a wooden trunk and sent him dancing up onto one foot.

The prince, true to form, declared himself too feverish to take his meal in the dining room that evening. He begged Anne's pardon, sending his regrets along with a sheaf of dictated memorandums to Lochiel, Ardshiel, and Keppoch, the three chiefs who had been appealing to him to send contingents into Lochaber to oust the government troops from Fort Augustus and Fort William.

They were to get their wish. The prince had decided to dispatch them on the morrow with their respective clan contingents to blow both forts to splinters, if that was what was required to remove the Hanover presence from the Great Glen. Lord George Murray was due in Inverness at any moment and would undoubtedly, in his surly way, demand to know why the prince's forces sat idle. Charles had every intention of assuming command of the effort to take the Highlands, and despite a flurry of responses that came back from the chiefs advising him to wait for Lord George, he stood firm in his decision. Further, he ordered MacGillivray and the men of Clan Chattan to scout the terrain and determine the number of troops garrisoned at Fort George.

“The bastard is gonny put up a fight,” MacGillivray said, buckling on his heavy leather crossbelts. He had come to dinner along with nearly fifty other lairds, only to see the pinch-faced O'Sullivan handing out the prince's slips of paper. There had been no gracious word of thanks for hauling his royal personage safely through the mountains. No courteous acknowledgment of the trouble Anne was taking to meet his every comfort, or of the risk she was taking just letting him sleep under her roof. There was not even to be a full day's rest for the men, who would have appreciated a small respite after the draining march. “Or does he think Loudoun will just hand him the keys to the gates o' the fort?”

Anne watched him struggle a moment with a knotted thong on his gun belt, then gently pushed his big hands aside. “Just be careful. We cannot spare any men at the moment to come break ye out of gaol if ye're caught.”

“I'll be fine. 'Tis you I'm worried about. I'll say it here an' now: I dinna like the idea o' strippin' away nearly a thousand men to send them to Lochaber while ye're left here on yer own.”

“Lord George will be arriving with a thousand more any hour now,” she said, untying the knot and presenting him with both ends of the thong. “And I am hardly on my own.”

John ignored the thong and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face upward. His eyes were so close it was like staring into a bottomless blue well, and his gaze was so intense she actually felt a shiver of fear.

“This is no joke, Annie. We're ten miles from Inverness— not even a hard ride on a good horse. Loudoun's men have not been sittin' idle while we've been away proddin' Hawley up the arse. And aye, ye're as good as on yer own here, with a sick prince, a pregnant woman, an' a handful o' men so tired they can barely keep their eyes open.”

“Lord George is half a day's march away,” she reiterated, frowning slightly.

“A half a day by whose say-so? That bluidy Irish futt-rat O'Sullivan? He wouldna ken how to judge how long it would take to walk from here to the loch.”

He let go of her chin and turned his attention back to retying the pouch that held his balls of shot. Anne continued to stare up into his face, distracted by a cut just below his ear that had not been there earlier in the day. She noticed it now because he must have rubbed it and reopened the wound, leaving a smear of blood on his neck. And she noticed it because it was not ragged, like a scrape. It was clean and even, as if it had been delivered by the slash of a knife … or the point of a sword.

She watched him tying the thong, his fingers still clumsy at accomplishing such a simple thing, and now she could see that the knuckles of his right hand were torn and red-raw, and that he seemed to be favoring the left arm, keeping it tight against his ribs.

“Ye've been fighting again,” she said quietly.

“I fight every day, lass. It's called keeping the men drilled an' primed for battle.”

She reached out and took his hand into hers, flattening it so the full extent of the scrapes and bruising was evident. “Ye drill with your fists?” Her gaze flicked over to his ribs. “What would I see if I asked ye to open your shirt?”

“A fine, braw stoat of a man. What would I see if I asked ye to open yours?” When he saw her surprised glance, he blew his way through a Gaelic oath. “That was a ripe fine foolish thing to say an' I beg yer pardon, lass. It just fell off ma tongue.”

“Ye're forgiven. As long as ye do not lie to me. Ye were fighting again, were ye not?”

His eyes came up to hers again. “'Twas nothing. A wee disagreement.”

“Not with one of our men, I hope?”

He hesitated. When he shook his head, Anne knew better than to probe further. In the long march from Falkirk, she had heard of at least a dozen fights MacGillivray had either participated in or broken up. Her cousins had taken their fair share of bruises as well, most in response to an overheard insult or disparaging remark against the absent chief of Clan Chattan. Cameron had thought it best—safer for everyone concerned—to keep Angus's reasons for returning to Edinburgh confined to just a few people. John and Gilles knew. Her cousins and grandfather knew. Everyone else assumed he had done what many other English officers had done the moment they mouthed their parole: arrogantly dismissed their vow and gone back to their regiment.

MacGillivray and her cousins had closed ranks, hoping to isolate her from the worst of the remarks, but that only made for raised hands and snickers of a different sort. More than once Anne had heard whispered speculation as to the exact nature of the relationship between herself and MacGillivray, and if she had had her full wits about her, she would have kept her distance. But with Angus gone, she desperately needed John's friendship, his strength, his courage. She knew, ever since that night outside the cottage in St. Ninians, that he tried his damnedest never to be alone with her, or if he was, never to allow the conversation to turn personal. But there were times it could not be avoided. There were also times, to her unparalleled shame, it even brought her comfort to know that if she ever cried out in the darkness, he would be there before the breath left her lips.

“Oh, John,” she sighed. “I am so sorry to be so much trouble. I am sorry for everything—for getting ye into this mess, for laying all my burdens on your shoulders. For everything. I just wish there were some way of going back and doing things differently. I wish—”

He touched a finger briefly to her lips, silencing her. “ Wheesht , lass. What would ye wish different? Would ye wish not to love yer husband as much as ye do? Or for him not to love you as much as he does?”

“But if you and I—”

His finger pressed harder and his eyes glittered like two glass beads. “Never say it. Never put that thought into words, for it's the words we hear an' remember, no' the thoughts behind them. A dozen years from now, when ye're plump an' happy with a muckle o' bairns clingin' to yer skirts, ye'll not even remember ye once had a thought o' what might have been had ye done this or that different. But if ye say it aloud, the words will come back to nag at ye. Ye know damned well Angus is the right man for ye. We both know it, an' for all that... it makes it easier.”

He ended his scold with a gentle chuck on her chin before lowering his hand and fussing with his belts again. And she almost believed him.

“What about the fighting?” she asked on a sigh .

“I didna say it makes it easy ,” he said with a grin. “Just easier. As for bashin' a few heads, well… I'd do the same if ye were ma sister. Speakin' o' which—" he paused and frowned his way through another soft oath— “my sister Ruth thinks it's well past time I paid a visit to Clunas.”

“To see Elizabeth?”

“Aye. Gilles thinks I should do it while I have the chance. I think mayhap I should, too, else her father will be after shovin' a musket up ma kilt.”

Anne smiled. “Then ye'd best go. 'Twould be a terrible shame to think of ye gelded.”

MacGillivray grinned. “Aye. Aye, it would at that. Then it's settled. I'm away to Inverness to peek through the hedgerows an' count bog-bins for the prince, then I'll be off to Clunas for a day or so. I'll leave Gilles in charge o' the men. Ye'll be well protected.”

“Have no worries about me. Have no worries about anything. Think about yourself for a change. And take her some flowers. She will like that and forgive ye all your absences.”

“Flowers? Where the devil will I find flowers in the snow?”

Anne laughed and rose up on tiptoes to brush his cheek with a kiss. “That is why she will like it. Much more so than an anker of ale and a sheep's bladder full of blood sausage.”

He did not look convinced--what fool would turn down a log of good sausage?-- but he returned her smile anyway as he crammed his bonnet on his head. “What a strange lot o' creatures you women are.”

Anne was still smiling when she climbed the stairs and made her weary way to bed. Candles had been left burning in the wall sconces for the benefit of the number of strangers sleeping under the gabled roof. Most of the bedrooms on the second and third floor were full, with a few spilled over onto pallets in the drawing room. As she walked quietly along the hallway, she could see by the light of her flickering candle the sleeping forms of servants hunched over in chairs outside their masters' doors .

She went into her own room and stood a moment at the threshold, her gaze going—as it did almost every time she came into the chamber—to the armchair in the far corner. If she tried very hard she could see Angus's ghostly image sitting there, his feet stretched out in front of him, his shirt glowing white against the shadows, a lock of dark chestnut hair curling down over his forehead. Every time she looked, she hoped it would not just be an image she saw there. He had surprised her once, appearing unexpectedly. He could do it again, could he not?

If he was alive.

A draft tickled its way across her cheek and caused the candle flame to splutter. The wind was gusting outside, hard enough to cause a backwash in the chimney and send tiny puffs of smoke and ash curling down over the grate. The fire was high enough not to suffer for it; nonetheless the air smelled of pine knots and charred memories.

“Angus.” Her whisper sounded loud in the silence. “Where are ye? I know ye're alive. I would have felt it if ye were not.”

She pushed away from the door and walked into her dressing room, passing through to the adjoining chamber. Obviously Hardy had not thought it necessary to burn any lamps or stoke the fire in his master's room, and Anne's candle cast the only pinpoint of light through the darkness. It seemed even quieter here. Colder. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, and as she drew a slow, deep breath into her lungs, it was there: the faint tang of sandalwood oil.

She felt the tears coming and did nothing to try to stop them. It was alright. She was alone and it was alright for la belle rebelle to cry. There was no one here to see her or to judge her, no one she had to impress with her wit or her calm demeanor. Here, she did not have to be strong or brave or have all the answers. She did not have to hide the fact that she trembled inside with fear and felt so helpless at times she just wanted to scream. Nor did she have to hide the fact that she hated herself for the envy she felt for Elizabeth Campbell of Clunas, which was so completely unwarranted and unfair to MacGillivray that she sagged under the added burden of shame .

The candle started to shake, and became so heavy she had to set it aside. Blinded by tears, she crawled up onto Angus's big bed and dragged one of the huge velvet cushions to her breast, hugging it there, holding it there until she cried herself to sleep.