Page 29 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

28

Inverness, May, 1746

T he fear was like a blanket, smothering her. The slimy stone walls of her cell seemed to be shrinking around her, closer each day; the air was so thin and sour she had to pant to ease the pressure in her lungs. The sounds from the other cells were as bone-chilling and piercing as the screams that haunted her dreams day and night.

Cumberland had come to the prison three times over the past six weeks, offering to free her in exchange for giving evidence against the Jacobite leaders. All three times she had sent him away spluttering German oaths under his breath.

Her hair was dull, matted with filth. Her skin was gray. Deep purple smudges ringed her eyes. Her hands were stained black, her nails cracked and torn from repeatedly pulling herself up to the narrow window cut high on the cell wall.

She did not know what she hoped to see, other than a glimpse of the fading light to indicate another day had drifted into night. Both were endless, the one filled with the nightmares of the living, the other with nightmares of the dead. There were times she almost thought it would be a blessing if she simply did not waken one morning. Cumberland said Angus was still alive, but she had no reason to believe it. If he had lived through the fever and putrefaction of a belly wound, if he were still alive, surely he would have found some way to get word to her. Not all of the guards had been chosen for their cruelty. There were some who did not leer and rub themselves when they walked by her cell, some who smuggled in an extra cup of water or, once, a half-gnawed chicken leg in exchange for a rosette button off her bodice.

The buttons were all gone, the silk of her bodice was more gray than pink, and the only thing of value she had left—the one thing she would never part with unless it was removed from her dead body—was the silver-and-cairngorm brooch Angus had given her the night before Culloden. She kept it against her breast, tucked beneath her stomacher, and when she felt herself growing weak, when the despair threatened to overwhelm her and the sounds of the dying men nearly deafened her, she pressed against the metal until it cut into her skin.

She would not give Cumberland the easy way out. If he wanted her dead, he would have to give the order to hang her, and because she was the wife of a prominent chief, that could not be done without taking her first to London to stand trial.

Common soldiers and deserters were not so lucky. Thirty men who had been found amongst the ranks of the Jacobite prisoners but who were recognized as having once pledged to serve the king were summarily tried and hanged, the court-martials taking place on the stroke of one hour while their bodies hung naked and dead the next. One such man was walked past Anne's cell, led out to the courtyard by the drums, and when he paused a moment outside her door, she nearly did not recognize young Douglas Forbes through the blood and filth. He managed a parting smile and a nod to her courage, and she was told later that he walked to the gallows with his head high and refused the blindfold, preferring to stare at the vastness of the sky overhead before the trap was sprung beneath him.

More prisoners were brought in every day, and when the Tolbooth filled beyond its capacity, they were taken to the churches, then onto ships that were subsequently converted to prison hulks.

In the latter days of April, Cumberland posted orders that all known and suspected Jacobites were to be reported to the Crown officers. Ministers were told to make lists of those in their kirks who had been absent during the months of the rebellion. Warrants were issued for all chiefs and noblemen, with rewards offered for their capture and arrest. A price of thirty thousand pounds was put on the head of Charles Stuart, with lesser, but still substantial, sums allocated for those names that had sounded most often on the battlefield: Murray, Cameron, Glengarry, Clanranald, Ardshiel. Regiments of infantry and dragoons were sent out to hunt down the fleeing Jacobite contingents. Lochiel's stronghold at Achnacarry was demolished, the castle reduced to rubble, while the chief and his kinsmen were forced to hide in caves in the hills. Gray clouds of smoke hung over the glens as clachans were burned, the sheep and cattle driven back to Inverness.

Cumberland had been given the authority to do whatever he deemed necessary to suppress the rebellious nature of the Highlands, and in his determination to be thorough, he gave little thought to the innocence or guilt of the general population. With so many prisoners to deal with, a lottery was organized wherein every twentieth man was marked to stand trial. The rest, if they could afford to buy their freedom, were released on the condition they leave Scotland and never return; those who had no money were loaded on transport ships and sent to the colonies as indentured servants.

Four members of the peerage were arrested and slated for execution by the axe. One of them was the Earl of Kilmarnock, whose wife had entertained General Hawley the evening before Falkirk. It was rumored, in the whispers that circulated around the Tolbooth at night, that it was Murray of Broughton, the prince's former quartermaster, who turned king's evidence on the earl in exchange for a pardon. It was also whispered that Lady Kilmarnock escaped the patrol that had been sent to bring her to Inverness by infusing their wine with enough opium to render them senseless.

Anne would have liked a little of that wine now. She was hungry and cold; she knew Cumberland would come again soon, offering her food, a clean bed, a hot bath. She was not sure how much longer she would be able to refuse, or how much longer he would tolerate her insolence, but there were indications the stalemate had to end soon. The king had given him a free hand to deal with the rebels in any way he saw fit, but after six weeks of unchecked slaughter and bloodshed, the atrocities were beginning to have the opposite effect, turning fear to anger, creating fierce zealots out of men who might have gone quietly home and nursed their wounds. Stories in the London papers had begun to openly refer to the duke as Butcher Billy, and there were protests in Parliament from lords demanding a more civilized means of resolving the Scottish problem.

Cumberland's free hand would soon be reined in. Lady Drummuir had already been released to more comfortable quarters, though she was still under house arrest. Sixteen other ladies—wives of suspected Jacobites—who were held for a time in churches or inns had been sent back to their families after the wives of several parliamentarians had interceded on their behalf. Anne knew she had not been forgotten in her fetid little cell; she had only to survive another day, she told herself, and perhaps one more after that.…

They came for her when she was asleep. The rusted hinges on her cell door screamed in protest despite the stealth with which the door was opened, giving entry to two shadowy figures who hauled Anne to her feet before she came fully awake. It took several moments for the fuzz to clear from her mind. By then, her hands had been jerked forward and bound with a leather thong, a filthy length of canvas stuffed in her mouth, and a burlap sack pulled over her head.

She made a sound in her throat and tried to kick out at her assailants, but something hard, blunt, and decisive struck her across the temple, causing her to lose all but the frailest thread of consciousness.

She was dimly aware of being picked up and tossed over a shoulder, then of being carried out into the hallway and through a door cut so low her assailant had to duck to clear the lintel. She felt cold air on her legs and heard the snuffling sound of several horses. A cloak or blanket of some sort was wrapped around her shoulders, then she was manhandled up onto a saddle and her hands bound to the pommel.

“Hold on.” Dazed, she felt the sharp bite of leather slap across her fingers. “I said hold on to the saddle, bitch, or we'll tie you across it like a sack of offal. ”

“She smells like offal already,” said another gnarly voice, snorting loudly. “How far do we have to take her? It's a bloody cold night an' the fog's already drippin' down my neck.”

“We have our orders. We follow them. Grab hold of the lead and look smart. We'd all look like ruddy fools if she managed to get away now.”

“I say we just take her to the river. Can't see, other than the time it will save us, that it matters whether we kill her down by the bridge or out in the woods.”

Anne blinked and tried to focus her eyes, but aside from the odd twinkle of lamplight that managed to pass through the weave of the sacking, she was as good as blind.

So. It was happening. The stalemate was ending. Cumberland had finally run out of patience—or time—and instead of a trial had issued the order to take her out and have her quietly murdered, buried in a bog or a forest where no one would ever find her or know what happened. She remembered finding a skeleton once when she was younger. Jamie and Robbie had been digging a hole for a new well and the skull had flipped up on a turn of the spade. The jaw had been open, the eyes great gaping holes, and part of the bone had been crushed inward, suggesting that whoever it was had been killed by a hard blow with a rock or cudgel. Ten years or a hundred and ten years from now, someone might be digging in the woods and turn up another skull. It would be hers, but no one would know it; no one would have mourned her passing, either.

She choked back the taste of panic that rose up her throat and tightened her hands on the pommel as the horses moved forward. The bindings on her wrist were cutting off the flow of blood, and her fingers were half numb. She had traded her shoes away weeks ago and her feet were bare, hanging inches below any protection the hem of her tattered skirt might have afforded. The saddle was cracked, and the uneven edges gouged her thigh with every jostling motion, but at least the pain helped clear her senses. She knew when they turned off Kirk Street and rode down Bridge Street and, when they crossed over timber planking, that they were across the river and heading out of Inverness. She also guessed, by the sound of saddles creaking and hooves beating, that there were at least a dozen riders in the group—far too many to try to break away from, tied and hooded as she was. On the other hand, if they were taking her into the woods to kill her, what did she have to lose?

“Don't even think about it, dearie,” came a low growl from beside her. “Half these men were at Falkirk and would just love an excuse to fire their muskets into the back of your pretty rump. Me? I've a mind to put something else up your backside, and might do it yet if you give us any grief.”

Anne turned her head slightly. Her hearing was distorted by the woolen hood, but the voice had sounded familiar enough to freeze her marrow and bring forth an instant image of a scarred, milky eye.

They rode in silence for a mile or more, though it was difficult to judge distance or time. By sound, once again, she knew when they left the firmness of the road for the swishing thickness of long deer grass. She could smell spring in the dampness of the mist. The sweetness of saplings and green growth was mixed with the rich compost of rotted leaves and pine needles. There were no sounds of rushing water, so they had not followed the river. Just south of Inverness proper, however, was a dense band of forest about five miles wide that could absolutely suit their purpose this night, and she wondered if they would at least remove her hood in the final moments so she could take one last look at the sky and the trees overhead.

One of the men swore as a branch snagged his tunic. “How much farther, dammit?”

“The clearing should be just up ahead.”

Branches brushed across the top of Anne's head for another hundred paces or so, then her horse was led off to one side and halted. More protesting leather indicated her escort was dismounting and again there were hands reaching for her, untying her from the pommel, dragging her down out of the saddle. The grass was wet and cold beneath her feet, the earth spongy between her toes. Despite her resolve, she began to tremble.

A tug at the back of her neck brought the hood off her head, and she blinked again. They were in a clearing surrounded by heavy-limbed fir trees. The mist was waist deep, lit from above by a crescent-shaped moon and from the two pitch-soaked torches that had been stuck into the ground nearby. Flanking her were eight red-coated soldiers with muskets cradled in their arms; across the clearing, six more looked as though they had been waiting impatiently for their arrival.

The six were escorts for another familiar figure, short and squat, dressed in a dark coat with frogged gold braiding down the front, his face shadowed by the brim of a tricorn.

The Duke of Cumberland stared at Anne for a long moment before signaling one of her guards to remove the filthy gag from her mouth. When it was gone, she used her tongue to scrape bits of thread and dirt from her lips, but there was no spittle to call upon this time. She tasted blood from a tear in the corner of her mouth, and she took quick, shallow breaths to glean what moisture she could from the mist.

The duke came forward slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. The look in his eyes, as he inspected her bedraggled appearance, was clearly contemptuous, his smirk triumphant.

“A lovely evening for a final chat, do you not agree?”

Anne clamped her lips together and simply stared back.

“Determined to defy me to the end, I see,” he murmured. “In truth I will confess you have made an admirable adversary. I would have thought to break you weeks ago. There is still time to reconsider, however; we have a few moments before the stroke of midnight.”

“I have nothing to say to ye,” she said, her voice little more than a dry rasp.

“I did not think you would, and yet we do have one other small piece of business to attend to before we can proceed.” He smiled, and brought one of his adjutants forward with a wave of a hand. The soldier carried a leather-bound ledger, which he opened and presented to the duke. He then produced a small bottle of ink and a feather quill from a satchel he wore slung over his shoulder.

“I have a document here,” the duke said, turning the ledger around so that she might see it contained two sheets of paper, “which requires your signature.”

Anne tore her gaze away from his long enough to glance down, but the light was too poor and the script was illegible. “What is it? ”

“Nothing that should give you any cause for concern. Nothing that will compromise your principles or your politics or, God forbid, your heroic stature within your clan. It is merely a statement of fact, that you are a Jacobite, that you willingly disobeyed your husband by calling out your clan, and that you enthusiastically participated in acts of war against the Crown.”

“A confession? Is this to ease your conscience before ye have me murdered?”

“My dear Lady Anne, if I had merely wanted you murdered, I would not have gone to all this trouble, I assure you. As for my conscience, I would warn you not to test its limits much further, nor my patience for that matter. Both are perilously close to the end of their tether. Now sign. We are running out of time and these games grow tiresome.”

“Please do go ahead and sign it, Anne. Sign it with pride."

Startled, she looked up, looked around, searching for the source of the voice. She was not the only one who scanned the ring of trees; the soldiers turned their heads, brought their muskets up, and braced themselves as the woods came suddenly alive with sounds and shadows. From behind each tree, each thicket and bramble, emerging like ghosts out of the fog, came a score or more of MacKintosh clansmen, most armed with swords, pistols, and muskets. Detaching himself from the rest and walking fully into the blaze of torchlight was Angus Moy, his shoulders clad in forest green tartan banded with leather crossbelts.

Gone was the image of the perfect gentleman. Gone was the polished elegance in his stance, the casual insouciance in the set of his jaw. His hair fell long and loose to his shoulders, his chin was dark with stubble; the gunmetal gray of his eyes blazed as hot as the torchlight and called forth all the blood and history of his warlike ancestors.

“You can sign his little scrap of paper, Anne. It was part of our agreement. There should be a second document there for His Grace to affix his signature to in front of these witnesses, granting you a full pardon.”

Anne felt weak, breathless. Her lips parted around the soundless escape of air that was her husband's name.

“You have something for me as well?” Cumberland demanded, turning to face the laird of Clan Chattan .

Angus turned his head slightly, and another figure wearing the black frock coat and plain white neckcloth of a clerk stepped forward from the edge of the wood. He looked plainly ill-at-ease in the presence of so many bristling soldiers and armed Highlanders, and he hastened across the clearing, sending little pinwheels of mist spinning away in his wake.

“I have the d-document in question, Your Grace,” he spluttered, barely loud enough for the duke to hear without tilting his head. “I also have a letter from His Royal Highness's First M-Minister, Lord Newcastle, suggesting that you comply with the terms of the agreement as laid out by Lord MacKintosh and his London solicitors. He states that should the House or the infernal news sheets get wind of any suggestion that the battle orders were forged, or in any way, ah, tampered with that day, the repercussions could be perilous and far-reaching. Moreover—”

“Yes, yes.” The duke cut him off, aware of Anne's proximity and of the heavily armed clansmen who, although they might not be able to understand what was being said, were a viable threat nonetheless.

“You are a grave disappointment to me, MacKintosh,” the duke said. “I had high hopes for your future here in the Highlands. I could have made you a rich man, a powerful man. You could have had a seat in Parliament, become a Minister even, and replaced that milksop Forbes.”

“I have all the wealth I need right here,” Angus said, his eyes locked on Anne. “And if I have disappointed you, Your Grace, then I can die with a clear conscience.”

The duke smirked and murmured under his breath, “Sooner, perhaps, than you think.”

But Angus heard him and grinned as he raised his arm again, bringing another circle of armed Highlanders forward out of the woods. These men were on horseback, the beasts clearly outfitted with the military saddles and trappings that identified them as mounts of the King's Royal Dragoons.

“Did you meet with any difficulties?” Angus asked.

“No, sar,” said Ewen MacCardle. “Found near twenty of 'em right where ye said they'd likely be, lying in wait for an ambuscade. Left the lot of 'em trussed up like hogs in a bog.”

Angus's smile was as ominous as the assortment of knives and pistols that glittered in his crossbelts. He came forward, and the duke, it was noted by all, took an instinctive step back. The soldiers who had escorted him suddenly found themselves disarmed, as did the guards who had brought Anne from the Tolbooth. Fearing the worst, the officious clerk from London took out a large white square of linen and began to mop his brow.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered. “This was supposed to end peacefully.”

“And it will,” Angus said, snatching the quill and ink out of the frozen hands of Cumberland's adjutant. “Just as soon as His Grace signs the pardon.”

“You dare to threaten violence against my person?” Cumberland hissed, his eyes bulging.

“I not only threaten it, I would happily slit your throat and the throat of every man in your guard. Moreover, I would bury you so deep in these woods the hellhounds would never find the bodies, much less learn what had become of you—a similar fate, I expect, to the one you were planning for my wife and me?”

The duke pursed his lips for a moment, then took the quill, stabbed the tip in ink, and scratched out his signature on the designated page. Angus removed it from the ledger and blew gently on the angry scrawl before folding it and handing it to the clerk. “If anything happens to this, I will personally come looking for you. If I do not hear from my London solicitor within the week telling me that he has received it, I will come for your entire family as well. Do I make myself clear?”

The clerk swooned backward, swabbing his temples and throat. “Oh … inestimably clear, my lord.”

“Good. Now go with my men. They will stay with you until your ship sails.”

“Wait,” Cumberland demanded. He shoved the ledger at Anne and tapped the confession. “I insist on having her signature as well, if you please.”

Angus looked disdainfully at the pudgy finger. “I hardly think you are in a position at the moment to insist on anything.”

“No,” Anne said, “I would be happy to sign it.”

She reached for the quill. Her hands were still bound together, which made the movement awkward and brought a savage curse to Angus's lips. Torchlight flared off the blade he drew from his crossbelt; with a single stroke, she was free.

Anne waited until her fingers steadied, then signed her name with an elegant flourish: Anne Farquharson Moy Mhic an Tosaich, Colonel, HRH Charles Stuart Royal Scots Brigade.