Page 3 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

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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.

His companion'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 twenty. MacGillivray is a cautious bastard; I'm surprised we managed tae get as close as we have.”

The English 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 that they let pass?”

“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 pipe 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, and secondly with the local whores, Worsham had remained aloof, 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 English soldiers 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 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 is 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 in the best vantage points. I will 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 do not 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. Gilles 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. “Ye cannot be serious.”

“We're deadly serious, lass,” Fearchar declared. “Ye're the only one can do 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, 'tis 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 crois taraidh 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 Viking 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-defence.

“Damned right, no' you,” Robert agreed. “Ye have enough trouble leadin' sheep 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.”

Anne did not know what to say. Twenty-seven lairds were ready to break their oath of fealty to their chief, and they were willing to do it on her say-so. Part of her was appalled, certainly. Respect and unquestioning loyalty to the authority of the clan chief was ingrained from birth; what they were suggesting was tantamount to treason within the clan. Another part of her—the part that had reveled in riding the moors with her cousins—was admittedly excited, for it meant there were at least twenty-seven lairds who had not laughed her grandfather out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

“Ye dinna have tae give us yer answer tonight, lass,” Fearchar said. “Sleep on it. Think on it. Watch yer husband dress in his fine scarlet tunic a time or two afore ye make up yer mind. ”

“I have no need to think about it,” Anne said quietly. “The answer is no. What ye're asking is … is just not possible. It's utter madness, in fact.”

“Annie,” Robbie began, “it's f'ae the honor o' the clan.”

Her gaze cut to her cousin. “Don't ye dare try to justify this by telling me it is for the honor of the clan. It may have worked four years ago, but it'll not work now.”

“But Annie—”

“And do not but Annie me.” Her anger flashed in Eneas's direction. “Four years ago, ye all insisted I marry a man I had never even seen before, a man who had to be threatened and badgered to honor an agreement he had neither sought nor wanted. But marry we did, and ye justified the threats and badgering by claiming I had an obligation, that the union was for the good of the clan. Well… ye may not take your vows and oaths seriously—or perhaps ye only take them seriously when they suit your moods and motives—but I do. Angus is my husband. He is also my laird, and I'll not break the vows I made just because it is no longer of any benefit to the Farquharson clan that I keep them. If ye want another Joan of Arc, ye will have to look elsewhere for someone to ride the white charger.”

Jamie and Robbie started to retort with arguments in their own defense, but Anne turned her back to the room and no longer listened. In truth, it had taken the combined efforts of all three cousins and her grandfather to coax her into going through with the wedding to Angus Moy. The fact it had not turned out to be the hated, dreaded, feared ordeal she had envisioned had nothing to do with her resentment now. They had used her like a pawn once to get what they wanted; she was not about to let them use her again, especially since it was only her name they wanted, and not even her.

“Dinna let it eat at ye, lass,” MacGillivray murmured, coming up and handing her a newly refilled tankard of ale. “Ye were right to tell them to go to hell. 'Tis a foolish thing they're askin' an' ye're better off stayin' out of it.”

Anne was tall for a woman, and accustomed to meeting most men on eye level, but to look into MacGillivray's eyes, she had to physically tilt her head upward.

She smiled and was about to thank him for the ale when she remembered Eneas had said none of the men in this room had signed the petition. That would include MacGillivray, who had sat like a big cat in the shadows throughout the discussion, undoubtedly harboring his own opinions on the foolishness of what they proposed. On the other hand, there was no lack of respect for him among his peers, and his clansmen were bonny fighters. Not a one would remain behind if he gave orders to take up arms. He would have been Anne's first choice to lead anyone into battle, and she could well understand if his pride had been left a little stung that it was not his name on the petition.

The faint grin that had been pulling at his mouth widened, giving Anne the distinct impression he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Proof of it came on a soft laugh. “I aspire to be nothin' more than what I am, Annie. Had they asked me, I would have throfted them out the door on the toe o' ma boot.”

“Yet ye did nothing to stop them from asking me.”

“Mayhap I was curious to hear yer answer.” His eyes were like deep black pools and, try as she might, she could not look away.

Nor could she stop herself from asking, “Had I said yes, what would ye have done?”

His head tipped to one side and his gaze made a slow, leisurely study of her face, taking in the smooth curve of her cheek, the slight upturn at the end of her nose, the lush fullness of her lower lip. When he was finished, his smile had been lost somewhere in the stillness and Anne had almost forgotten what she had asked.

“We'll never know what might have happened, will we?”

Somehow she knew he was not talking about petitions or signatures or rebellions. He was back with her behind the booth at the fairground and his hands were deep in her hair; his hard, oiled body was hotter than the sunlight, and his mouth was introducing her to sensations she'd had no idea she was capable of feeling .

“Ye'd best be on yer way, Annie,” Eneas said from the window. “I'll have Gilles bring the horses round.”

“Yes,” she said, glancing over at him. “Thank you.”

When she looked back, MacGillivray had moved away from the hearth and returned to the shadows, taking whatever memories had been disturbed with him.