Page 7 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

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A nne's esteemed mother-in-law laughed with the gusto of a man. “Ye told him he smelled like what?”

Nearing seventy, the dowager Lady Drummuir had the robust girth and forthright manner of a woman who had lived too long and seen too much strife to worry about petty gossips and social-conscious peers—several of whom snapped open their fans at the sound of her gaiety.

“Like shite?” She wiped her eyes, the laughter jiggling the prodigious expanse of her bosoms. “That'll be the second time in the spate of a week, then, he's been told he needs to bathe wi' more care, damned Sassenach .”

The dinner had progressed smoothly enough. The avid appetites of more than sixty guests had been tempted with courses that included collops of beef, smoked salmon, saddles of venison, and huge bowls of poached sea scallops swimming in butter. Most of the focus, in fact, had been on the extravagant quantities of good food and wine—both of which had been in short supply in recent months. To be sure, there were the occasional bursts of laughter and rousing cheers from the sea of redcoats surrounding Lord Loudoun as they offered periodic huzzahs to celebrate the retreat of the Jacobite army. Angus, because of his rank and privilege, was situated somewhere in their midst, but Anne and Lady Drummuir had chosen of their own accord to sit much farther along the table, where the company consisted mostly of older crones and homely spinsters.

And a few surprises.

Anne was already in her seat when she glanced along the table and saw a familiar mane of tarnished blond hair. Granted, it was combed smooth and bound at the nape, but there was no mistaking the massive shoulders and dark brooding eyes of John Alexander MacGillivray.

Anne would be the last one to express surprise at seeing a known Jacobite sympathizer seated at the Lord President's banquet table. Apart from the fact he was a wealthy and powerful laird in his own right, it was most likely MacGillivray's black-market burgundy that the guests were drinking, for his clansmen were as renowned for their smuggling ventures as they were for their warlike independence. He would have been invited, as Anne had, because of his position, and like Anne, he had probably only come out of respect for the Lady Regina Forbes.

Anne managed to pass him a fleeting smile before being drawn back into the conversation with Lady Drummuir.

“He had the nerve to bring a troop o' men to my house an' search the cellars,” she declared with an impressively indignant flaring of nostrils. “He claimed he'd heard a rumor the Jacobites were hoardin' a supply of lead shot in my wine tuns. I told him no' to be such a daft bastard; the tuns were used to store the powder, the prince had all the balls.”

Douglas Forbes, the Lord President's nephew, actually chewed twice on his mouthful of black pudding before he caught the pun, at which time he nearly choked. Etiquette and civility had dictated that a member of the immediate family must be seated near the ladies MacKintosh, and he had actually volunteered for the privilege. He was between Anne and Lady Drummuir, and through the course of the meal there had been several occasions when he nearly choked over a comment from one or the other.

The dowager's chuckled and gave him a hearty cuff that nearly sent him across the table. “There now, laddie, take a wee sip of wine. Yer torment is almost over. See there? The ladies are heavin' off their fine fannies to go take a winkle, an' the men are takin' to their brandy an' cigars so the lads can clear away the tables.”

“I assure you it has not been a torment, Lady Drummuir,” he said with a grin. “Far from it.” He noticed Anne moving, and stood quickly to hold her chair as she rose. When she thanked him for the courtesy, he flushed and stammered out an emboldened invitation. “If you would not regard it as being too presumptuous, Lady Anne, I would be spectacularly honored if you would grant me the pleasure of a dance later this evening. If your time is not already spoken for, that is. And of course, if you would care to dance. With me, I mean.”

Anne took a moment to admire the throbbing shade of red his ears achieved.

“Spectacularly honored? I do not believe anyone has attributed such merits to a mere dance. And while I thank ye for asking, Mr. Forbes, I suspect your uncle would prefer if ye did not.”

“So long as the preference is not yours, Lady Anne, my uncle can go shoot himself in the foot.”

She laughed and tipped her head. “Ye offer too much temptation, sir. The honor would be mine, and I should like very much to dance with ye.”

The lad was so thrilled he started to escort her out into the hallway, but The MacGillivray was suddenly beside them, the glint in his eye advising Douglas Forbes to melt onto the floor with the other gnats instead.

“I need a word with ye,” he murmured, barely moving his lips as he walked Anne to the end of the dining hall. “Slip down the stairs an' meet me in the library soon as ye're able.”

He did not wait for her answer, nor could she think of one on the instant, startled as she was by the request. At the door, she watched him bow and stride off down the hall, gallantly excusing his way through several dozen chattering females.

“A prime piece of lusty manhood is that MacGillivray,” Lady Drummuir mused, slipping her arm through Anne's as they followed at a more sedate pace. “If I were forty years younger, I'd no' have to rely on gossips to tell me what was under that kilt of his. Aye, a hundred pairs of thighs will weep when they hear the news he's finally decided to wed.”

“He has?”

“Ye've no' heard? He's asked after Elizabeth Campbell of Clunas—or so the wee faeries tell me.”

The dowager's faeries comprised a network of spies as extensive as anything the British military had in the field. If they said John MacGillivray was taking a bride, it was just a matter of picking out a frock to wear to the church, and Anne wondered if that was what he wanted to speak to her about. If so, she was happy for him. Truly, she was. John was a fine man, loyal and honorable, with none of the airs or arrogance borne by many who turned heads wherever they walked.

Try as she might, however, she could not call forth a clear image of Elizabeth of Clunas. Nothing came to mind beyond plain brown hair and a great many freckles.

“I said—” the dowager's voice cut sharply into Anne's reflections. “Odd he did not mention it to ye.”

“Why should he?” Anne said.

“No reason. No reason at all, though I'd have thought he might have said something last night when ye visited Dunmaglass.”

Anne turned and stared.

“Och, lass, ye'd be surprised the things I know. For instance, I ken what yer gran' wanted to speak to ye about an' ye were wise to turn him down. No good could ever come of splitting the clan. Too many are split already, an' wounds like that will never heal. Never.”

“Does it not tear at your heart,” Anne whispered back, “to see our clansmen wearing the uniform of the Black Watch? To see Angus in uniform leading them?”

“Child, ma poor heart has been torn so many times over the years, it should have lost the ability to beat long ago. God knows it's in shreds over some o' the choices Angus has made, but he's my son an' I love him. Though I may rail an' rant an' stomp about like a blathering fool, an' have no doubt one day Duncan Forbes will have me dragged off to prison in the hopes the rats will bite off ma tongue, I'll not put a knife in Angus's back. I ken he is only doing what he thinks is best for the clan.”

“Whether the lairds agree or not?”

“Neither you nor I will live long enough to see the day all the lairds of Clan Chattan agree on a single point o' clan law. Ye must have noticed: He's called only on those who have no qualms wearin' the black cockade.”

It was true enough, Anne thought. Angus had been careful selecting the men to fill Loudoun's requirements. He had known better than to order men like The MacGillivray or The MacBean to take up arms for the Elector's army, for they likely would have shot him out of hand and tossed his body down a well, never to be seen again.

“Angus has promised me … he gave me his word our men will not be involved in any fighting,” Anne said with quiet intensity. “He insists they will be engaged as guards and sentries only.”

“That would be bonnie,” Lady Drummuir agreed. “Though I dinna see how he can keep to such a promise. Not when Forbes an' Horse-Nose Loudoun will make a point of placing the Highland regiments in prominent positions.”

“He will keep it,” Anne insisted. “He has never lied to me or broken his word, despite all that has happened, and I do not believe he will do so now.”

“Aye, well then, we'll both keep the faith, shall we? He's a good lad when he's no' being so bloody pigheaded. Naturally, if ye tell him I said as much, I'll deny it, for it does no harm to keep yer sons a wee bit afraid of ye.” The dowager's gaze strayed to where Lady Regina Forbes and her chair were being carried into an adjacent room. “Poor soul. Not only is she frail as a leaf, but have ye ever seen skin that color on aught but a corpse? I suppose I must go an' pay ma respects, though if that slack-witted daughter-in-law of hers says the smallest word to me, I'll be liftin' ma fist again.”

Anne kept company with one of the spinsters for a few moments, then excused herself to casually follow some of the other guests as they drifted downstairs. She would have done so even if The MacGillivray had not requested a moment alone. The interminable hours spent at the dinner table had been a strain on her nerves and the thought of the upcoming dancing was more than enough to make her want to seek out a quiet, shadowy corner somewhere to wait for Angus to say they could leave. He had caught her eye several times during the various courses, his expression anxious each time, as if he were wondering who he could approach to act as his second should either his wife or his mother offer an insult that could not be retracted. He had not followed her out of the dining room, and the last glimpse she'd had, he was standing in a corner conversing with Duncan Forbes.

When she was fairly certain no one was paying her any notice, Anne made her way down the stairs and along the huge vaulted hallway to a rear corridor leading off to the left.

When she rounded the corner, she stopped and looked back again, feeling more like a thief than a guest, for while it was one thing to caper about the countryside in the dead of night, it was quite another to be caught skulking around in the Lord President's library.

The tall double doors were standing slightly ajar when she approached. The hallway was well lit and there were no guards cordoning off any areas of the house, yet she still felt like an interloper and walked with her skirts raised to lessen the sound of the hems brushing over the floor. She peered between the opened doors but could see very little of the interior. The room was barely lit, and she suspected that if MacGillivray was already inside, he had perhaps extinguished some of the candles and lamps to make it less hospitable to any guests who might be ambling by.

She drew a deep breath and casually pushed the doors wider. Staying within the bounds of the light that came from the hallway, she walked almost to the center of the room before halting again.

“Hello?” she called softly. “Is anyone here?”

It was a large, scholarly room, darkened by wood paneling, muted further by rows of crowded bookshelves that rose twenty feet to the ceiling. Two shell-shaped alcoves were framed in crimson draperies that hung above the arch and fell in deep swags on either side, tied back with thick ropes to match the braided gold fringing. One of the alcoves contained an upholstered chair for reading in the natural light; the other housed french doors that opened out to the terrace. A huge cherrywood desk occupied the space between the two windowed bays, set beneath a large tapestry depicting a medieval battlefield with archers and knights in heavy armor.

The air was musky, redolent with the smells of leather and old paper, as silent as an ancient scriptorium, and Anne made one full, slow revolution, awed by the sheer number of books, curious as to who might actually have read them all. She found her answer in the gilt-framed portraits that were hung between the sections of shelves; men with the stern faces and long chins of academics, with nary a soldier or warrior in the lot.

“As grim an' dull as they come,” MacGillivray agreed, stepping out of one of the alcoves. “Nae wonder Forbes is such a heroic fellow. That one—" he hooked his thumb derisively in the direction of one pinch-lipped ancestor— “looks as though he just took a mouthful o' sheep dung but disnae have the guts to spit it out.”

“This is very dangerous,” Anne said. “If someone should walk by and see us here, we would have the devil of a time explaining ourselves.”

“Two old friends, taking a breath o' fresh air. Where's the harm?”

Aside from the obvious trespass, she thought, the harm was in the lack of light, the heavy shadows, and the crooked, challenging smile on his face. It was in the not-so-casual gleam in the unfathomable black eyes, and in the memories of a hot afternoon behind a booth at the fairground.

“Come,” he said, indicating the french doors. “We can talk out on the terrace.”

It was cooler outside, but because the bulk of the house gave them shelter against the wind it was a fresh change from the candle smoke and cloying perfumes.

She walked to the far end of the promenade and stood a moment looking out over the crystalline stillness of the gardens before she turned and met the dark eyes.

“I hope ye've not brought me out here to talk about Fearchar's proposal from last night. Since ye were relieved to hear me turn him down, I cannot imagine what else there is to be said.”

“I was relieved, aye. But no' for the reasons ye may have thought.”

“Ye would have signed a petition supporting me as clan leader?”

“Are ye sayin' ye dinna think ye would be capable o' callin' out the clan?”

“I would make as good a leader as any man, and a better one than most,” she said evenly. “But I did not think you, of all people, would support a woman in that position.”

“Well, if ye're pressin' for a confession, I can think of better positions for a lass, aye,” MacGillivray murmured through an enigmatic smile. “But I've seen ye prick the rumps o' yer cousins with a sword, an' I've watched ye bring down a stag with a single shot. I've seen ye lead the three o' them into a mêlée against twice yer number, an' I've heard the crowds cheerin' for ‘wild rhuad Annie’ when ye came away bruised, but not too bloodied to keep ye from throwin' yerself back into the fray. Mind, that was before ye traded yer powder horn an' firelock for fancy silk skirts an' fine lace ruffles. An' before ye started talkin' like a court lady and sippin' yer soup from a spoon, instead o' the side o' the bowl.”

“I mout say the same fae ye, John MacGillivray,” she countered, lapsing easily back into a thicker brogue. She planted her hands on her hips and launched an eyebrow upward as she inspected him boldly up and down. His enormous shoulders were clad in the full formal dress of a gentleman, with doublet, waistcoat, and ruffled sleeves complementing the red-and-blue plaid of his kilt. “Clean shaven, wi' yer hair curled an' tucked intae a ribbon while ye sup at the table o' the Laird President. Yer buckles are polished an'—" she leaned forward, sniffing the flowery air delicately— “be that French piss water I smell? An' yer fiancée no' here tae enjoy it?”

His eyes narrowed. “Who told ye I had a fiancée?”

Her cocky smile slipped...just a little. “Lady Drummuir, if it matters … which it should not.”

“No,” he mused. “It should not. No more so than the cause o' the beard-burn on yer cheeks that was not there yesterday.” He reached up through the darkness and ran the tip of his finger along her chin and throat. “Ye should tell yer husband to use a sharper blade when he shaves. 'Tis a shame to chafe such fine, smooth skin.”

Anne backed away, her heart giving one loud slam against her rib cage. “I do not think Angus's shaving habits are something we should be discussing.”

“Nor are ma intentions toward Elizabeth of Clunas.”

She started to say, “I fail to see—” but snapped her mouth shut again and hugged her upper arms against a sudden chill. “Ye said ye wanted to speak to me about something. We will be missed in a few minutes.”

“You, mayhap. I've already made ma excuses.”

“Ye're leaving already? But—?”

“Savin' a gavotte for me, were ye? Sorry to disappoint, but I've paid ma respects an' not a drop o' blood shed but ma own.” He reached inside the front of his coat and, for a split second, his face was turned to the light, revealing a new twist to his smile—that of pain.

When he withdrew his hand again, the fingers were wet and shiny, slick with blood.

“My God, John! What happened?”

“Bah, 'tis naught but a wee hole,” he said, waving away her concern. “The shot went in an' out clean enough.”

“Shot! Ye were shot!”

“A wee bit louder, lass.” He scowled and looked up at the second-story windows. “I dinna think they all heard.”

“Shot,” she hissed. “What do ye mean ye were shot? When? Where? And what the devil are ye doing here playing the gentleman fool?”

“Aye, playin' is the word for it. For if I'd not come tonight and acted as if nothin' was amiss, I'd likely be swingin' from a gibbet by the mornin'.”

Anne shook her head even as she reached down and struggled to tear a strip of linen from the bottom layer of her underskirt where the lack would not show. “I dinna understand.”

“After ye left last night, one o' the lads said as how he thought he heard horses in the woods. We went out after them, an' sure enough, found where a troop o' bloody redcoats had been hiding in the trees near the edge o' the glen. They were easy enough to follow in the snow, but—”

She looked up sharply. “It was you. You were the ‘renegades’ the major mentioned earlier.”

MacGillivray shrugged. “He's no' as stupid as most Sassenachs . He left men to watch their backs while they rode away. One o' them saw us an' gave off a warnin' shot. Before we knew it, the soldiers came in at the gallop an' we were in the middle of a fight.”

She straightened and folded the linen into a thick wad. Batting away his hand with his objection, she eased his jacket open, fitting the makeshift bandage snugly beneath his waistcoat. His shirt was already dark with blood and some of it had started to seep through the brocade vest.

“Ye have to leave and get this tended to before ye bleed to death.”

“Aye, I will do. But I thought I should warn ye first.”

“Warn me? About what?”

“There were two sets o' tracks leavin' the glen. Two men. They followed you an' yer cousin Eneas most o' the way to Moy Hall.”

“Most of the way?” she parroted.

“Ma lads lost the tracks after ye crossed Moy Burn. Did Eneas keep to the water for a bit?”

She nodded. “I thought he was being overly cautious, but—”

“There will be no such thing as over-cautious from here on out, lass, not unless the thought of a gibbet appeals to ye.”

“It does not.” Anne shivered and glanced back at the house. “He asked me if I had been out riding on the moor last night.”

“Who did? Cumberland's new pet?”

"Worsham." She nodded. “Angus laughed it off. He said I was with him all night but whether or not the major believed him—” She shrugged. “There are not too many places our tracks could have been going, other than Moy Hall.”

“Aye, but his men likely had no way to know who they were followin'. Could've been a stableboy, for ye were not exactly wearing yer silks an' laces.”

“Yes, but…”

He held up a hand. “If they truly suspected it were you, ye'd have irons clapped around yer wrists by now. An' if ye say Angus lied for ye…” He paused, as if her husband's actions surprised him as much as they had her. “Was he no' in Inverness last night?”

“He came home early. He was waiting for me, in fact, when I returned. Needless to say, he was not happy to discover I had been out.”

“He didna raise a hand to ye, did he?”

Anne looked up, startled to hear a sudden, harsh change in John's voice. “No. No, of course not. Angus has never even raised his hand to swat a fly in anger, not in the four years I have known him.”

He said nothing, but after a long moment, she heard his teeth chatter through an involuntary shiver.

“Ye have to leave here at once,” she said. “Come, I'll see you safely to the door.”

“Now that truly would be a foolish idea. Stay here. Count yer fingers and toes slowly before ye go back inside, an' have a care no one sees ye leave the library. Go back up the stairs an' find Angus. Stay fast by his side an' he'll see ye through the rest o' the night until ye're home safe.”

“What about you? Will ye be alright?”

He looked down to where her hand rested on his forearm. “It would take more than a pea-sized ball o' English lead to bring me down, lass. Ye mind what I said, though, an' stay close by yer husband.”

“Be careful, John, please.”

He held her gaze a moment, then crossed the terrace and vaulted over the low stone balustrade. She heard the crunch of his shoes on the frozen ground for a minute more, then it was lost to the sounds of the party on the floor above.

MacGillivray had been shot, and she had been followed. There had been English troops in the woods at Dunmaglass, and if they had been watching The MacGillivray's home, they must have known Fearchar and her cousins were inside.

But had they followed Fearchar to Dunmaglass, or had they been watching Dunmaglass all along? If it was the former, it would mean her grandfather was not as wily an old fox as he fancied himself to be, and he could be arrested at any time.

If it was MacGillivray who had fallen under government scrutiny, it might be because the English were anticipating the very thing that had brought Anne out in the middle of the night: plans to split the great Clan of the Cats into two factions. They would be justifiably alarmed. Inverness was in the heart of MacKintosh territory, and the prospect of a thousand sword-wielding clansmen taking to the hills, men renowned for their ability to stage bloody raids and vanish into the night, would surely cause the latrines within the garrison walls to overflow. Loudoun and Forbes would do anything within their power to prevent such a division, even if it meant arresting the clan chief without proof of any wrongdoing.

It was a wonder, in fact, that they had not done so already.

The silent progression of logic brought Anne's fingers pressing against her temples, and it took every last scrap of willpower to keep from following MacGillivray over the stone wall.

But of course she could not. John was right: She had to go back inside, find Angus, and act as if nothing had happened.

Her head was throbbing like an over-swelled bladder, and the novelty of fresh air no longer held any appeal. Guessing she could easily have counted her toes ten times over by now, she retraced her steps to the library. The latch on the french doors proved to be stubborn, and she had just cursed it into place, had barely stepped clear of the alcove, when she was stopped cold by the sound of voices in the outer hallway. The footsteps were brusque and purposeful, making their way toward the library door.

Anne glanced quickly around, but there was nowhere to hide. There was nothing but a bank of windows behind her, with a two-foot section of wall on either side forming the arch.

Without stopping to think about it, she reached quickly for the gold ropes that held the curtains swagged to either side. The heavy crimson folds fell across the opening of the alcove, closing it off from the main room. Desperately, Anne caught the fabric and steadied it, then retreated against the french doors, feeling open and exposed to anyone who might glance out an upper window. Beyond the flimsy wall of velvet, the voices and footsteps marked the introduction of several men into the library. The outer doors were closed, followed by the sound of more serious, forthright steps bringing someone over to the desk.

“I will feel a damned sight better when these are locked away,” came the gratingly familiar voice of Duncan Forbes. “I suppose one must admire the resolve of a courier who has been given specific orders to deliver a dispatch directly into the recipient's hand, but a damned inconvenience nonetheless.”

“ You were inconvenienced?” Lord Loudoun's laughter was coarse. “The very delightful Miss Chastity Morris's teats were practically in my hands, and I suspect she would have willingly placed them there in another moment had Worsham not come to fetch me away.”

“Your pardon, my lord. I have no doubt you can regroup and reacquire.”

Loudoun chuckled. “Only if you agree to lead a diversion to keep my wife distracted elsewhere.”

Polite laughter indicated there were at least two or three more men present who had accompanied Duncan Forbes into his study. Anne glanced around the shadowy alcove again, distressed to see how the smallest slivers of light sparkled off the gold threads in her frock. Worse still, her panniers were fashionably wide enough to make it necessary to pass through a doorway at a slight angle. Crushed as she was against the glass panes of the door, her skirts were thrust straight out, the outermost edge almost teasing the length of velvet curtain.

As carefully as she could, she gathered the folds of silk and inched them back out of harm's way.

“Any word from Hawley?” asked a sober voice in the group. “Is he sending reinforcements from Edinburgh?”

“General Hawley has but two thousand men and orders to hold Falkirk, Perth, and Stirling. I doubt he could spare a stableboy at the moment.”

“If there is any truth in the report we received yesterday, there are only five thousand men in the whole of the prince's army. Ill-equipped, demoralized … ”

“We have underestimated their resolve before,” Worsham interrupted in his quietly insidious voice. “And it would not behoove us to do so again. Major Garner, I understand your dragoons were amongst the first to engage the rebels at Colt's Bridge, and again at Prestonpans?”

Anne put a face to the English officer's name. Hamilton Garner was tall, blond, and arrogant, with the cold green eyes of a cobra. His dragoons had run away from the Highland army at Colt's Bridge without exchanging a single shot. At the battle of Prestonpans, slightly more than three thousand Jacobites had defeated General Sir John Cope's army of twice that number in a morning ambush. Major Garner had been among the shamefully few to stand and fight, but he had been captured. Eventually, because the prisoners vastly outnumbered the victors, he and the others had been released on their own parole, promising not to take up arms against Prince Charles again. Garner had broken that parole the instant he was free. Moreover, he had ordered the cowards under his command to be flogged within an inch of their lives, and testified against five officers hanged in the public square.

There were rumors suggesting the major's fight was not just with the prince, that he bore a personal vendetta against one of the prince's most daring and successful captains, Alexander Cameron—the Camshroinaich Dubh whose name had conjured ghosts out of Fearchar Farquharson's past. Lady Drummuir, with her reliable legion of spies, had heard that Cameron had won Hamilton Garner's betrothed in a duel, that he had married the woman himself—a Sassenach —and taken her home to Lochaber. He had also been at Colt's Bridge and Prestonpans, and Garner's rage, having seen him there, knew no bounds. He had sworn to track his enemy to the ends of the earth if it meant killing every Jacobite single-handedly in the pursuit.

“These rebels do not fight in accordance to any known military order,” Garner protested now. “I cannot begin to recount the number of times I have attempted to enlighten General Hawley to this unpleasant fact. They creep about in the darkness, wading through bogs, emerging covered in mud and stink. Any lines they form are ragged at best and break at the first screech of encouragement from their infernal pipers. They discharge but one round from their muskets and toss them aside, reaching our lines with their claymores in hand, while our men are still bent over their weapons, priming them for a second shot. They will even fling off their plaids and skirts if the bulk of their clothing hampers them. Imagine that, if you will. Scores of screaming, half-naked devils descending upon you, wielding swords as tall as any normal man.”

There was a pause, then an indignant harrumph from Lord Loudoun. “They fight like barbarians, sirs. They eat cold oatmeal and animal blood, for God's sake. They are a clamorous, disorganized rabble, and the major showed exemplary fortitude flaying the skin off the back of any man who did not instantly set aside the terms of his parole.”

“Indeed,” Worsham murmured, nonplussed by the earl's rant, “for where is the merit in upholding a soldier's oath when one is dealing with cattle thieves and sheep-fuckers?”

Anne, listening from behind the curtain, felt the blood boil up into her cheeks. Her lips parted in an attempt to gather more air into her lungs but the effort was hampered by the tightness of her stomacher. The urge was growing to fling the draperies aside and confront the lot of them. Her temper was such that she might well have thrown caution to the wind and done exactly that had the next voice not stopped her cold.

“Come now. You are too harsh on my neighbors. We are not all enamored of our farm animals. Some of us prefer all those lovely English lassies you have had transported up from London.”

Another round of lusty laughter acknowledged Angus Moy's remark.

“Indeed, the London whores are cleaner than most,” said another man. “And decidedly more eager than their Highland counterparts.”

Worsham's voice rose above the second round of ribald laughter. “But your wife, sir,” he said to Angus. “She seems a fiery little vixen with energy to spare. Surely you are not tossing her into the stew pot as well? ”

Anne held her breath, her fingers clenching tight around the folds of her skirt. She fully hoped to hear the lethal hiss of steel as her husband drew his sword to cut the envisioned smirk off the Englishman's face, but she was shocked to hear him respond with an exaggerated sigh.

“Alas, I grew weary long ago of my wife's … various energies. And of trying to curb either her tongue or her penchant for supporting lost causes. I tolerate it because I must, in order to keep peace within the clan.”

“Women,” said Duncan Forbes, “can be bellicose creatures at the best of times. Pretty to look at, intriguing to bed, but if they are not taken firmly in hand on the walk back from the altar, they can be the cause of one blasted migraine after another. Even my son used to despair at times of his Arabella's simpering, but a few sound beatings put her quickly to rights. Perhaps you have just been too lax on her, m'boy. A good trouncing once in a while never hurts. Shows who is master and who is just there by the grace of our benevolence.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Angus said with a low chuckle.

“She is a Farquharson, is she not?” Major Garner posed the question over the sound of Forbes closing and locking a cupboard in his desk. “Related to the old fox and his trio of foot soldiers?”

“He is her grandfather,” Angus provided.

“And you see no need to rein her in?” His surprise was as apparent as Angus's nonchalance.

“Frankly, we have told him not to,” Loudoun answered. “She is the old bastard's pride and joy, and so long as he thinks she has the freedom to come and go as she pleases, he will stay in contact with her. Especially now. I warrant Fearchar Farquharson knows within a mile where the rebel army is and where they will be going after they cross the border.”

“Glasgow,” Forbes said. “The Young Pretender will be desperately short on supplies and will not want to risk a march to Edinburgh without regrouping.”

“Neither will he want to delay recapturing the royal city,” Garner suggested. “He must know the reserves he left behind were forced to abandon their positions when Hawley came north. Yet he will believe, like every Stuart king and queen before him, that the key to holding Scotland lies with holding Edinburgh.”

“I agree,” Loudoun said heartily. “Which is why Hawley has asked us to send reinforcements to him. Three thousand men, to be precise, which will strip us to the bone, but well worth the risk if we can end this thing sooner rather than later. I had thought to hold off until morning discussing your reassignment, Angus, but I see no point waiting. The general has specifically requested Royal Scots brigades—what better way to shatter an army in retreat than to have them face their own kind across the field of battle, eh? —and since your men are more than ready for active duty, I will be sending your MacKintosh brigade back with Major Garner. I believe, Major, you intend to depart at week's end?”

“Sooner, if possible,” Garner said. “I am just awaiting the arrival of a supply ship.”

Anne felt every scrap of energy drain out of her body. Her knees grew weak and her hands trembled. Her fingers lost their grip on the silk panels of her skirt and the hem slid forward, brushing the bottom edge of the velvet curtain.

“There you have it, then, Angus. Angus? Are you with us, man?”

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. I was just lost in thought there for a moment.”

“You will be in the thick of it soon enough, my man, no time for losing yourself anywhere. We will be relying on you to help hold Edinburgh and keep the rebels trapped until Cumberland can bring his army north. In the meantime, make it a priority to find out what your wife knows. It can only benefit us to be aware of the prince's intentions ahead of time, and a wife who knows her husband is going away for an extended period of time is often inclined to reveal more than she might otherwise do.”

“I doubt the threat of my absence would cause anything but relief these days.”

“Whisper in her ear,” Forbes said. “Tickle her on the chin, promise her you will keep your powder wet and your wick dry; whatever it takes to placate her. We are running out of time here, and your efforts will not go unrewarded. Lochaber was once MacKintosh territory; it could well be again.”

“I will do my best, my lord.”

“I have no doubt you will.”