Midnight Honor

by Marsha Canham

  “I just want ye to hear it from ma own lips that I never touched her. I wanted to. I came damned close more times than I care to admit, but she has never broken faith with ye an' I'll no' hear it said from any man's lips that she did. No' even yours.”

  “I believe you. I believed Anne last night.”

  “Last night? Last night we were both feelin' our uisque. I was the more fool for lettin' slip something I've been carryin' around on ma tongue like a glowin' brand, but it was damned near burnin' me. Aye, I would have let it burn her, too, an' the devil take you, Angus Moy, if she'd given me the smallest sign that she could live with herself afterward.”

  John stopped to take a heave of breath, the bulk of his shoulders and chest making him look as dark and threatening as the firs that loomed on either side of the path. Having made the comparison, it occurred to Angus that a body could be thrown under those trees and lie there undiscovered until the spring thaw.

  “Aye,” John said, reading the wariness in Angus's eyes. “Have ye any idea how lucky ye are? Do ye ken how many times I've thought just to take ye in hand an' crack yer spine over ma knee? Ye'd snap like a twig, ye would. An' then it would be over an' done, an' I'd not have to look into her eyes an' see the hurt ye've caused. I'd tell her every day how brave an' beautiful she was, an' if she once … once looked at me the way she looks at you …” He had his hand raised for emphasis, but when the words and all their unspoken possibilities failed him, he curled his fingers into a fist and looked away, looked anywhere but into the face of the man whose betrayal had made Anne cry herself to sleep nearly every night at Dunmaglass.

  In the end, he settled for spitting an oath into the ground as he turned away.

  “John, I know how you feel. And I know how Anne feels, but you don't understand—”

  The fist came up again in warning, still clenched, though the Highlander did not look back. “Enough. Ye've said enough. Another word, I might just as well spare the clan the shame of seein' ye across the battlefield wearin' Hanover colors.”

  “Then that is what you will have to do, because by God”—Angus raised his voice to compensate for the distance MacGillivray's huge strides were putting between them—“I have stood here and listened to you declare your love for my wife; the least you can do is hear me out. If not as your chief, then as someone who was once your friend.”

  MacGillivray stopped. His upper torso swelled as he sucked in a deep breath, then he reached up and snatched the bonnet off his head, throwing it down with another curse. He shrugged off the length of plaid that had been wrapped around his shoulders, and reached up with two hands to grasp the hilt of the clai' mór he wore strapped across his back. The sound of five feet of honed steel sliding out of its studded leather sheath shivered through the cold air and sent Angus's hand to the hilt of his own slim saber.

  He did not draw it, however, knowing it would be like matching a sapling against an oak tree, and when MacGillivray stalked back, close enough to touch the point of steel to the hard ridge of Angus's windpipe, the hesitation was mocked with a sneer.

  “Ye want to say yer piece, say it.”

  “As simply as I can, then: The reason I will be standing on the opposite side of the battlefield today is not that I want to be. It is because Forbes gave me his word … in writing and stamped with the royal seal… that as long as I served in King George's army neither Anne nor my mother would be in any danger of arrest. It was a guarantee of immunity, and had I not agreed to the terms, the opposite result would have been the immediate signing of warrants for them, for you, Fearchar, MacBean, and about two dozen other lairds of Clan Chattan. He was not going to give me any choice in the matter, just as he had not given much choice to other lairds in my position. Luckily, I was warned ahead of time and managed to convince him my years in Europe had left me indifferent to the political intrigues of either side. To my shame, I even led him to believe I was indifferent to my marriage as well, that Anne's arrest would be more of a blot against the noble name than anything else. Unfortunately, I seemed to have played the part too well, for she began to believe it herself, and for that damning cruelty, if you still want to take my head off my shoulders, do it now, for the pain of eternal silence would be less than what I have had to endure these past few months! Here! I will even make it easier for you! A clean stroke should free us both.”

  Angrily, he tore at the fastening of his cloak and ripped it aside along with the underlying edges of his tunic and waistcoat. So vigorously did he yank open his shirt and invite a quick end, he scraped a peeling of flesh from his chest, deep enough that it turned instantly red with blood. There he stood, his legs braced apart, the wind against his back, the dark locks of his hair blown forward over his cheeks, and waited for his fate to be decided in MacGillivray's eyes.

  It seemed to be a long time coming, but in the end, John slowly lowered the point of his sword. His eyes were narrowed, glittering like two shards of black glass, and his eyebrows drew together in a deep V that only grew deeper and darker as he absorbed what Angus had said.

  “Immunity? Ye've whored yerself to the Sassenachs to win us all a promise of immunity?”

  “Bluntly put, as always. But yes. I thought it worth the price to safeguard my family. At the same time, it left you free to carry on your smuggling and blockade running, neither of which has sat well with Forbes, I might add, especially when he had the means and proof to arrest you half a dozen times over in the past months.”

  MacGillivray glowered a moment longer. “Why, for the love o' God, did ye not tell me? Or Annie, for Christ's sake. Ye've put her through royal hell, ye bastard.”

  “I thought I could protect her better this way,” Angus said lamely. “Her contempt for me had to be genuine if for no other reason than to help convince Loudoun and the others that greed was my only motive, nothing else. It was not the kind of act I thought she could sustain over several months.”

  “But you could?”

  “My entire life has been a performance; I was raised to wear a mask at all times.”

  “Aye, well. Ye wore it well enough ye nearly sent her into the arms of another man.”

  “It was a chance I had to take. Can you imagine the leverage Forbes would have had if he knew how desperately I loved my own wife?”

  The admission, as much as the raw honesty in Angus's voice, set MacGillivray back another step. “Still an' all,” he said after a moment, “she willna thank ye when she finds out.”

  Angus shook his head. “She mustn't find out. I want your word on that, John.”

  “Why the devil would ye want me to swear to such a thing? If she knew why ye were doin' this—”

  “She would only feel twice as guilty and hurt as before.”

  “What about the others? Gillies? Fearchar? Do they no' deserve to know why their laird is wearin' the Hanover cockade?”

  Angus released his grip on his torn shirt and drove his hands through his hair. “No. No, it has to be this way, and if you don't believe me, just look at yourself. Ten seconds ago you were ready to split me open like a melon. Now you have that same noble look on your face that you had when we were boys and Ranald MacFeef threw me in the bog. You were five years younger than I, but I was the one lying there sobbing over the stains on my brand-new satin breeches while you were standing over me like a bloody great wolfhound daring them to laugh or pelt me with another plug of dung. Tell me, if you can, that you would not come straight back to Falkirk with me now if I asked you to guard my back?”

  MacGillivray glared. His lip curled as if he were about to deny the charge, but in the end he only spat out an oath. “Ye could always just turn around an' go back to the cottage. Then I'd guard yer back through the gates o' hell if need be. If we win today, I'm of a mind Loudoun's guarantees will no' be worth the paper they're written on, anyway.”

  Angus cursed his way through a sigh of exasperation. “But if the British win, they might be worth the weight of every insult and affront I've had to endure.”<
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  “In other words, yer lack o' faith in us hasna been entirely an act.”

  “It has nothing to do with faith, my friend, and everything to do with artillery, cavalry, and thousands of infantrymen who have been fed nothing but a steady diet of drilling and discipline. Suppose—just for the sake of argument, if you will— that the prince is captured or slain today, and his army is driven from the field in defeat. Anne's cousins safeguard her as they would a younger sister, and I've no doubt that every man who sees her riding before them like a Celtic Jeanne d'Arc would sooner drive a red hot stake into his own eye than be caught looking upon her with anything other than pure, honorable thoughts. But if the British win, they will not stand on ceremony. Men will be hanged, executions will be rife, and any woman found wearing the white cockade, regardless of who she is or what noble quest brought her to the field, will be treated like spoils of war.”

  “That will never happen,” MacGillivray said, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword again.

  “Can you guarantee it? Can you absolutely guarantee you will walk off the field alive, victorious, and in total command of an army drunk on blood lust? If so, you are a better man than I, for I've seen a full British volley, and I've seen a battalion of cavalry at full charge, and I'll not be foolish enough or arrogant enough to predict my own odds of survival at the end of the day. But if I do come through this alive, I've a better chance of stopping my wife from being raped by a corps of triumphant dragoons than you would with your pride bloodied and your sword surrendered.”

  MacGillivray bared his teeth in a snarl and started to say he would never surrender his sword, not while his body still drew breath, but another, calmer side of him could see Angus's reasoning. Much as it galled him to think of the consequences of defeat, after they had waited so long to take part in the rebellion, he had to admit the possibility was abhorrently real. He also knew full well how murderous a British volley could be. Anne believed he was immune to fear, but he was not; he simply pushed it to the back of his mind and refused to look at it too closely.

  A cold, fat droplet of rain splashed on his face. The sky was as light as it was likely to get and he could hear the distant cacophony of pipers skirling the men awake, bolstering them for the long day ahead. With the camp spread so far, the sounds came from all directions, pipers from each clan playing their distinct piob rach'd to stir the blood. The MacGillivray's personal contingent comprised about eighty men, all of whom would be in the front ranks on the field of honor.

  “All right,” he said with a grim, reluctant nod. “Ye have ma word I'll not say anything to Annie about this. I'll not even tell her we saw ye or spoke, because then she would be hangin' off ma collar wantin' to know exactly what was said, word for word, and I'm no' sure I could lie to her. It will be enough of a trial just gettin' her to stay off the field.”

  “You will do it, though. You will keep her away from the battlefield at all costs! In this, I do not care if you have to tie her hand and foot to a tree somewhere. In fact, I would almost prefer it.”

  John resheathed his sword and fetched his bonnet from the forest floor. “She's no' completely daft. Besides, she's the only one who will be able to keep Fearchar off the line.”

  “Good God, you aren't suggesting—”

  “Aye. Barely strong enough to lift a dirk without topplin' over from the weight, but he's insistin' on standin' in the front rank. It will be up to Annie to see him safe away where he willna be trampled to death in the charge. If she canna do it, or willna do it, I'll be after findin' enough rope for the pair o' them.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anne was in no fit mood for company when Robbie and Jamie Farquharson came pounding on her door shortly after dawn. Angus had been gone perhaps an hour, and she had spent the time sitting alone in the dark, wrapped in a blanket that still held the scent of his hair and body. At first she had only felt abysmally sorry for herself. But knowing that would never do, she allowed anger, then resentment to flood into the empty spaces Angus had so recently filled with hope and promise.

  Try as she might, she could not be entirely angry with her husband, for he had made the point well when he asked if his honor was worth any less than hers. It wasn't, of course, and she supposed she had known it all along; it had just been difficult to accept. Oddly enough, it brought some measure of relief, in a way, because she knew she no longer had to question or justify her love for him—to herself or anyone else. He was every bit as honorable as Fearchar or John MacGillivray or Alexander Cameron, and what was more, he loved her despite their opposing politics, despite their different backgrounds, different temperaments, and that was far more than most wives could ever hope to have in their marriages.

  The pounding on the door startled her out of her reverie and she answered it with an irritated yank. “I am awake. No need to bring down the—”

  The appearance of the twins stopped the breath in her throat, for they stood under the glowering gray sky and looked more fearsome than usual, with muskets in their hands and broadswords strapped about their waists. They both wore pistols and dirks thrust into their belts, another dirk tucked into the garter on their right calves. They carried targes of wood and leather studded with nails, and even though it clearly threatened rain, they were not encumbered by extra lengths of plaid around their shoulders. Their bonnets had been brushed clean, and new sprigs of red whortleberry—the clan badge—were pinned to the crest. Whatever weariness they might have been feeling from the debauchery at the tavern had been replaced with the hard, bright sparkle of excitement.

  “Well?” Jamie demanded. “Ye're starin' at us like as we've got three heads, no' two.”

  Anne glanced over their shoulders and saw more men on the road, all of them bristling with guns and swords, pikes and axes. One of the MacCrimmon pipers was coming from the direction of the main camp, leading a hundred or more of his clansmen in a brisk march through St. Ninians. The revelers who had fallen asleep by the roadside were sitting up slowly and scratching their heads, but they seemed to know exactly what was happening and within moments staggered to their feet and were running in the opposite direction, grinning and shouting at their comrades not to kill all the English before they could arm themselves and return.

  “What is happening?” Anne asked. “Where is everyone going?”

  “Lord George says if the bastard willna bring the fight tae us, we'll damn well bring it tae him. The MacGillivray gave us orders we were tae come fetch ye. We'll be marchin' in the second column alongside the Camerons, by Christ's bonny blood!”

  “Aye,” Robbie nodded eagerly. “We'll be wi' them on the field too, an' that's the best place a fightin' mon could hope tae be! Come on, come on, lass! Ye dinna want tae be left ahind, do ye?”

  Anne whirled around and flung off the blanket she had been holding around her shoulders. She had swum naked with her cousins more times than she could recall—albeit mostly in their youth—and thus had no reservations about running to and fro in various stages of undress while she found and pulled on the layers of her clothing. She donned trews and a heavy linen shirt, then slammed her feet into stockings and boots. Ignoring an impatient shout from Robbie, she shoved her arms into a long skirted waistcoat quilted in satin, embroidered with sprigs of whortleberry, and added a fine lace jabot around her collar. There was no time to brush her hair properly, but a few savage strokes allowed her to divide it into three thick sections and plait it quickly over her shoulder. When the plait had been pinned, tucked, and crammed under a bonnet, she donned a blue velvet coat with gold buttons and lace on the cuffs, and strapped on two leather belts—one that held her pistols, the other a sword and dirk.

  She doubted she had ever dressed faster in her life, but the twins were pacing back and forth like cats with turpentine up their tails. The three of them hastened down the path to where some clansmen were waiting with Robert the Bruce—her heroically and hopefully portentously named gray gelding— but before she put a toe to the stirr
up, she gasped and ran back to the cottage. Finding the common clothes she had worn the previous day, she searched an inner pocket and withdrew the cameo locket she carried, with Angus's picture inside. After pinning it over her breast, she drew on her leather gloves and went back outside.

  The three Farquharsons mounted and rode off at a quick trot to rendezvous with MacGillivray and the rest of the men from Clan Chattan. The fields were swarming with men, some already formed into companies, brigades, and regiments. The sixty-seven-year-old Lord Pitsligo saw Anne and waved, as did the younger Murray of Broughton standing at the head of his splendidly attired hussars, the latter distinguishable by their fur caps and black leather cross straps. Lord Elcho's company of Lifeguards was composed of gentlemen, all of great fortune; their uniforms were red and blue, and to a man they were well mounted on horses that would not have looked out of place at a race ground.

  For the most part, however, the clansmen wore their kilted plaids, warm bullhide doublets, and tartan coats. On their bonnets was the badge that identified their clan, and on their lips the cath-ghairm that rallied them for battle. Every clan had their piper to stir their blood to fever pitch and, hopefully, strike a note of terror into the enemy who faced them across a field. The chiefs brought along a bard as well, who would record the day's events in exacting detail so that the valorous acts of bravery would be set down for posterity and the glory of the clan. These were usually men of meticulous memories and sonorous voices who would later compose the songs and poems to be retold around the campfires.

  Anne's heart swelled with pride when they breasted the last hill and she saw the men of Clan Chattan. They were waiting for their colonel to lead them to the field, and when they saw her, a great cheer went up, louder than any skirling piper. Some would die this day, others would come away with dreadful, crippling injuries. But to a man they cheered, and half a dozen of them hoisted John MacGillivray onto their shoulders before depositing him on his horse.