Midnight Honor

by Marsha Canham

  “You did not have to make them on your own,” she reminded him.

  “Ahh, well, yes, you would think it would be easy just to gather all the lairds of Clan Chattan together and arrive at a consensus of opinion. But I have discovered it is easier to mix oil and water than it is to get two Highlanders to agree on any given point of an argument. Twenty of them in a room together could well result in a hundred opinions, ninety-nine of them ending in bloodshed and swordplay. No.” He shook his head sadly. “Part of the joy that comes with the mantle of chief is that such burdens are mine and mine alone to bear. How easy it would be if it weren't.” He paused and held up a hand to forestall her interruption.

  “Unfortunately, there are more than two thousand families who depend on my leading with my head, not my heart. For each man I order to take up arms in a reckless and ill-conceived plan, there are easily twice as many women and children and babes in arms who would be the first to suffer the consequences for such blind arrogance. You despair for your nephews and nieces having to live in caves now? Imagine a thousand others who could find themselves without a roof over their heads, their homes burned to the ground, their fields scorched, their livestock slaughtered. Imagine their fathers, sons, and husbands arrested and put on transport ships bound for an indentured life in a foreign land.”

  “The English cannot arrest every man in Scotland,” she argued. “And those they did might prefer such a fate to being forced to wear the Hanover colors and fight for a Sassenach king they despise.”

  “You believe they would prefer to fight for a king who has done nothing to even acknowledge the sacrifices they are willing to make in the name of loyalty? James Stuart has been in exile for sixty years. He has grown fat and indolent living off the sympathy of other fat, indolent monarchs who spout words of indignation and outrage even as they mock the very notion of his ever reclaiming the throne. Did he even have enough confidence in his own cause to come to Scotland himself? Good gracious, no. He sent his inexperienced, vainglorious pup of a son instead—a man who had yet to see a battlefield, much less possess the wherewithal to overthrow a country. And not just any country, mind you. England, for God's sake. The most powerful military force in the world.”

  “He defeated them at Prestonpans,” she argued valiantly. “His army took Edinburgh and Perth and Stirling, and he has raised the Stuart standard in English towns all the way to Derby.”

  “Lord George Murray led the army at Prestonpans. If not for him and men like Donald Cameron of Lochiel, I doubt Charles Stuart would have had a thousand men follow him away from Glenfinnan. As for raising his standard in English towns, I warrant they were torn down the instant the dust settled behind his retreat.”

  Her fingers clenched around the folds of the quilt but Angus held up a hand for her to keep her silence a moment longer.

  “But even if… even if the improbable had happened and the Jacobite army had marched all the way to London, how long do you suppose he could have remained there? The English managed to rally thirty thousand within a week of the prince crossing the border, and they would have had five times that many had a real threat been made against the capital city. They also have the means and resources to feed and clothe and pay an army, and to keep them well supplied with guns, cannon, and ammunition. Our men have to beg for food and wrap their feet in scraps of cloth when their shoes wear out. We also rely entirely on outside sources to supply us with guns and ammunition, whereas the English have a fleet of five hundred ships in a navy that could blockade the coastlines so tight the fish would turn away.”

  “We have strong allies,” she countered fiercely.

  “Indeed we have. Two of England's most powerful enemies: France and Spain. If ever there was a chance of gaining support or sympathy within the ranks of the English military, it died then and there. After fighting hundred-year wars to keep France on the other side of the Channel and repelling an invincible armada with fishing boats and bonfire beacons, it is not likely they would invite either nation to encamp on their shores now. As for their being such fierce allies—where are they? King Louis promised forty thousand men and shiploads of guns and gold. To date, he has sent two worm-eaten hulks with a cargo of mismatched cannonballs—which, as it happens, are useless without the cannon to fire them.”

  Anne turned her head. “You have done a fine job of convincing yourself our cause was lost before it even began.”

  “I am only being realistic, Anne. As soon as the prince set foot on English soil, he was lost. Had he stopped at the border, had he consolidated his victories, reinforced his garrisons, called for recruits to guard our homes and our freedom against another English invasion …” His voice fell off suddenly. “Well, we will never know what might have happened, will we?”

  “It isn't too late. We could still help to defend our borders.”

  “Against thirty thousand vindictive Englishmen in a winter campaign? You know full well, when the prince crosses the River Esk back into Scotland, half the men he has will melt away and go home to their farms and families. He'll be lucky to keep the other half intact long enough to reach Edinburgh. Then again, if the reports are true …” He returned to his desk and opened the top drawer, hesitating but a moment before he withdrew a sheet of paper. Anne had seen enough official documents to recognize military seals and government stamps, just as she knew the grandiose flourish that identified the signature of John Campbell, fourth earl of Loudoun, commander of the English troops garrisoned in Inverness.

  “Cumberland's army is less than two days march behind the prince. If that is the case, he may not even make it as far as the border, and then the subject of whether or not he could defend Scotland against an invasion would be moot.”

  “Two days!”

  “And this report is forty-eight hours old.”

  Anne's breath stopped again as she looked into her husband's face. “What are you going to do?”

  “Truthfully? I am going to pray that whatever happens happens several hundred miles from here. That it happens quickly and with the fewest possible repercussions for the rest of the country. What is more, as unpleasant and unpopular as it may seem to your grandfather and your cousins, I am going to do everything in my power to protect my home, my family, my clan.”

  “Even if it means taking up arms and fighting against the prince?”

  “The men of Clan Chattan will not be fighting anyone,” Angus stated flatly. “They will be deployed as guards and sentries only; I made that quite clear to Lord Loudoun at the outset.”

  “And if it happens they are on duty guarding the glens and bens around Inverness, acting as sentries when they see the prince riding up the road … will they lay their muskets aside or will they be ordered to fire upon him?”

  Angus bowed his head and exhaled through pursed lips. “I pray each night it will never come to that, just as I have prayed each night both sides would come to their senses and find a way to resolve this thing peacefully.”

  “This thing,” she murmured. “Can you not even bring yourself to put a name to it? It is war, Angus. War. And in war there must be a side that wins and a side that loses. What you have done, what you continue to do by supporting the English, is only helping the wrong side win.”

  “Your wrong side,” he said with quiet emphasis. “I am trying very hard not to have one.”

  “Yes, I can see how hard you try. The dinners at Culloden House, the soirees at Fort George, the government favors and promises of land and estates in exchange for your cooperation. It must be very difficult pretending not to enjoy all the flattery and attention.”

  “I try to take it in stride,” he retorted dryly. “Should I assume, by the charming look of derision on your face when you mentioned Culloden House just now, that you have forgotten the dinner party we are both expected to attend there tomorrow night?”

  “Dinner party?”

  “To celebrate Lady Regina Forbes's eightieth birthday?”

  “Oh good God, I had completely fo
rgotten!” Her eyes widened with disbelief. “Surely you do not expect me to attend! Not to spend an entire evening in the same room as Duncan Forbes and that bilious Earl of Loudoun!”

  “Culloden is a large estate, I have no doubt you can find enough walls to act as buffers. And yes, I do expect you to attend. Whatever your feelings may be toward her son, the Dowager Lady Forbes has done nothing to deserve your enmity or your contempt. Even my mother has consented to leave her lair for the occasion, and if the Dragon Lady can manage to keep her tongue between her teeth for the evening, I see no reason why you cannot make a similar effort. That will, of course, include refraining from insulting the other guests or drawing your knives over every imagined slight.”

  “I have never worn knives to a formal dinner,” she snapped.

  “Then you have obviously never been looking in a mirror when your temper is roused.” He paused a moment, forcing himself to regain control. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “I plan to leave here around six P.M.; may I anticipate the pleasure of your company in the carriage, Lady MacKintosh?”

  Anne turned and walked toward her dressing room. At the doors that led through to her own bedchamber, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I expect you will know the answer to that at six P.M. tomorrow, my lord. As will I.”

  Chapter Five

  Angus was in the library when the clock on the mantel struck six. He was dressed in an elegant long jacket of rich hunting green velvet over a skirted waistcoat made of a paler shade of green silk. The latter was embroidered with bands of clustered ivy leaves, while the front facings of the doublet were stiff with ornate scrolls of gold thread, the cuffs folded back to allow a rich display of ruffles about the wrists. The short breacan kilt was red-and-green tartan; his calves were sheathed in hose of dark red wool with green fretting. His shoes were buckled in silver, and a scabbard of soft kid leather chased in gold was draped from shoulder to hip and held his dress sword. As was his favor, he wore no wig, but his hair had been plied with hot tongs at the temples, the length gathered into a neatly bound tail.

  He had not seen Anne all day, had not received any messages to indicate whether she would be accompanying him to the party or preferred him to attend on his own and remain there until hell froze over. Despite his excesses of the previous night, he'd had two large glasses of claret in the past fifteen minutes while he paced and watched the hand on the timepiece crawl inexorably toward the twelve. Normally, she strived to be punctual and was more often than not early. Angus had caught a glimpse of her personal maid, Drena, scurrying down the hallway earlier, but he had deemed it unworthy of him to stop a servant to inquire if his wife was dressed for an evening out, or an evening at home.

  He adjusted his sporran for the tenth time in as many minutes and ran a finger between his neck and cravat to ease some of the tightness. His valet, Robert Hardy, had assisted him in dressing, as usual, and while the tall, thin manservant rarely expressed his opinions in words, his mood could generally be gauged by the amount of tension he applied to the neckcloth or the brusqueness in his hand as he brushed specks of lint off the velvet coat.

  Tonight he had all but battered Angus's shoulders with the vigor of his brushstrokes, and if the starched linen had been wound any tighter his master's face would have turned blue.

  Hardy, a staunch and proper manservant for many years, had initially been affronted to the verge of seeking employment elsewhere when he heard of his master's impending marriage to a red-haired hellion. He had been as disdainful as the rest of the servants, until the day he had found Anne up to her elbows in blood, trying frantically to help one of the scullery maids who had cut herself on a fireplace grating. Not only had quick thinking saved the girl's life, but Anne's knowledge of wounds and stitchery had likely saved the arm. Since most highborn ladies would have been more inclined to scream and faint rather than ruin a silk gown with blood-stains—a servant's blood, no less—Hardy began to view the erstwhile hellion with a grudging measure of respect. He began to communicate, by barely perceptible nods and shakes of the head at first, which forks or spoons were to be used with each course during a long formal meal. Eventually, he laid out an entire, elaborate setting for a formal banquet, explaining each piece and its purpose. This progressed to teaching her how to plan menus, and when he discovered that her education had stopped at a rustic, poorly spelled scrawl, he discreetly arranged for a tutor to visit each day until she was able to copy out full pages of poetry and prose in an elegant script. At her further shy request, he added lessons in elocution, carriage, and deportment. She balked at learning how to embroider or play the pianoforte, but she enjoyed sketching and showed a genuine flair for painting with watercolors.

  Hardy, governed by ingrained and unbreakable rules of conduct, had kept Angus apprised of each new accomplishment. The laird, in turn, had discussed other interests she mentioned in passing, so that when the suggestion came from Hardy, she would not feel obligated or guided by her husband's hand in any way.

  It was reward enough for Angus just to see the pride shining in her eyes after each new achievement. He had no burning desire to see her transformed into a preened and perfumed chatelaine; on the contrary, he still smiled when he remembered the looks on the faces of several starched visitors when she had come running into the room, flushed and out of breath, her hair scattered around her shoulders, her feet bare and her skirts rucked up to avoid the nipping teeth of the puppy in hot pursuit.

  Anne had entered his life like a small storm. The sound of her laughter across the dinner table had left him staring on more occasions than he cared to admit, not because he disapproved of the sound, but because he wondered why it had never been there before. The thought of his mother joking with his father, whether alone or in company, was as foreign to him as the notion that they must have been intimate on at least four occasions through their marriage.

  Last night he had gently chided Anne for speaking her mind, but how he envied her the freedom to do so. How he wished he were free to admit how desperately he wanted to be as open and honest with his emotions as she. But the MacKintoshes could trace their lineage back to King Malcolm IV, who reigned in 1153, and there had not been one day in his youth that he had not been reminded of it. Nor had he been allowed to forget that it was the misguided zeal of his grandfather, who had righteously declared for the Jacobites in the ill-fated Fifteen, that had cost the clan dearly in forfeited fines and estates. It had taken nearly two decades and a sworn vow of allegiance to the English king to restore the family titles and position.

  Angus had not asked for the burden of becoming clan chief. In fact, there had been some debate among the other lairds that the title should fall to Cluny MacPherson, for they were unsure of a man whose leadership had never been tested, a man who had spent ten years on the Continent attending operas and studying the ancient languages of dead poets.

  Angus Moy would be the first to admit he was a scholar, not a fighter. He appreciated fine art, music, literature. He had been taught to fence by a Spanish master, but had never fought a duel, never wielded a broadsword or fired a pistol in anger. To his secret mortification, he had once vomited at the sight of a beggar's hand crushed to bloody pulp beneath the wheels of a wagon.

  He had been appalled the first time the lairds of Clan Chattan had gathered to acknowledge his title and confer upon him the traditional oaths of fealty. Many of them had arrived in velvet and lace, but an equal number had stalked into the hall, their faces bearded and sullen, their clai' mórs slung across their backs. He was quick to discover that very little had changed in the decade he had been away, which was to say that nothing much had changed in the past six hundred years of feudal law. While the Lowlands had more or less come to accept the progressive realities of English rule, and were even learning how to prosper by exporting wool and coal and raw iron, the Highlanders still clung to the clan system that had always dominated the mountainous regions. Lowlanders embraced the fair pr
actices of the courts and knew that just because they had been born on a farm did not mean they had to die on a farm. In the Highlands, the crofters could not even marry without the permission of the chief, let alone sell a bale of wheat without giving nine tenths of any profit to the overlord.

  Angus had needed no one's permission to marry; he could have nullified the agreement between his father and Fearchar Farquharson with a slash of a pen. Yet he had humored the old gray warrior. He had invited him to Moy Hall and listened to his arguments, knowing all the while exactly what he was going to do.

  As it happened, Angus had seen Anne Farquharson before he had even set eyes upon the elegant ivy-covered walls of his home. She had been riding across the moor, her waist-long hair whipping out in a fiery red wake behind her. He had first thought she was on a runaway, for the stallion was huge and powerful, his hooves thundering through the waves of deer grass like a rampant charger. But then he had seen two men in hot pursuit—her cousins, he would later learn—and he had seen her halt on the crest of a hill to mock, with a crudely up-thrust finger, their paltry efforts at catching her.

  The image of her face, as breathtakingly beautiful as the Highlands that rose in untamed splendor around her, had stayed branded on Angus's mind for days afterward, and had kept intruding on his thoughts each time he opened his mouth to argue with Fearchar over the terms of the betrothal. It should not have intruded. It should not have affected the way he thought or acted or even breathed at times—and yet it did.

  Even now, after four years of marriage, Wild Rhuad Annie could still leave him stripped breathless. She could render his palms damp and his groin aching with memories of her body sliding hard over his. She could set him pacing in a library, adjusting collars and cuffs, posing in front of a window with an assumed nonchalance every time he heard a footstep out in the hallway.