Midnight Honor (42 page)

He heard the clock chime the half hour and set his quill aside. His handwriting was verging on illegible anyway. He would have liked to write another letter to Anne, but he was not even sure she had received the last one he had sent.

There was so much he wanted to tell her, so much he felt he could set down with greater ease on paper than he could as a stammering, spluttering neophyte in love. He even caught himself quoting Shakespeare when he thought of her, for even his own words failed to touch on the depth of his emotion.

“Shakespeare,” he muttered, cursing at the irony. “‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’”

“‘For in that sleep o' death, what dreams may come.’”

Angus felt the tiny hairs across the nape of his neck come to attention. The voice had been low and husky, as thick as the shadows that smothered everything outside the small circle of light thrown off by the candle. He'd heard no sound to warn him of another presence in the room. The flame on the candle had not flickered inside its glass bell.

He turned slowly, but his eyes had been impeded by the light and the shadows yielded nothing at first. After a moment he saw a slight movement in the far corner, and Angus wondered if perhaps he was dreaming after all. Like the eyes of a big cat, MacGillivray's glowed with an eerie luminescence out of the darkness, the only part of him not rendered invisible in the gloom.

“How did you get in here?”

“I've gotten in an' out o' harder places.”

“So I should not ask how long you've been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

Angus had always envied John MacGillivray his cavalier audacity, and this was no exception. The man had to be part ghost, part demon, part fool to make his way unscathed into a city locked up as tight as a keg of powder.

Or he had to have a damned good reason.

Angus felt a second chill bristle over the surface of his skin. “Is this about Anne? Where is she? Has something happened to her?”

The shadow moved, detached itself from the wall, and came forward just enough for the light to touch on a few threads of gold hair. “Yer wife's at Moy Hall, safe enough.”

Angus heard the word “safe” and was able to breathe again. “Christ Jesus, you frightened me half to death. How the devil did you get in here? The door is still locked, is it not?”

MacGillivray's lip curled to express his opinion of locked doors. His gaze flicked to the decanter on Angus's desk. “If that is
uisque
, I'll not refuse a dram. 'Tis cold as a witch's teat out there an' I've been four hours or more in the damp. Long enough to realize I'm gettin' too bluidy old for climbin' walls an' slitherin' over rooftops on ma belly. Eneas wanted to come in ma stead; I should have let him.”

“Why didn't you?”

John shrugged and accepted the glass of whisky Angus had poured. “He made ye a promise the day o' yer weddin'; he might have been tempted to keep it.”

Angus watched the Highlander drain his glass and hold it out for a refill.

Something had brought MacGillivray here tonight. Something worth risking his life.

He fetched another cup and poured a measure of whisky for himself. “Are you planning to tell me why you are here, or am I expected to guess?”

“There's a fine, thick mist on the firth, an' Lord George has sent the Duke o' Perth to take advantage. They've a fleet o' fishin' boats ready to bring a thousand men across.”

Angus paused with the rim of the glass touching his lip. “They're going to attack Easter Ross?”

“Aye. An' I didna want ye gettin' in the way of a stray bullet
from some misguided clansman who would think yer head on a stake would make for a handsome trophy.”

“I see. So I am to be taken ‘prisoner’ again?”

“I've a boat waitin' down by the shore, an' two horses saddled on the other side.”

“And if we are caught between here and there? I am not entirely free of suspicion from the last time, and if I miss roll call, or I am not there to sign the Order Book—”

“I've no qualms about shootin' ye, if that's what ye'd like to make it look more convincin'. Make no mistake. I've come to take ye back an' take ye back I will.”

With the threat soft and low in his voice, MacGillivray came fully into the candlelight, enough at least to show his face, heavily stubbled, and eyes that had not lost their eerie intensity though they were darker, wilder, than Angus remembered seeing them. A very clear image came to him of MacGillivray in the clearing in St. Ninians, his
clai' mór
drawn, his teeth bared. At the time Angus had been fool enough to tear open his shirt and offer up his chest for slaughter, not realizing that a man as dangerous as John would have no use for empty gestures.

“Has this something to do with Anne?” he asked quietly. “Did she ask you to come?”

The black eyes narrowed. “Annie disna ken I'm here. In truth, she disna ken too much at the moment. She's been abed this past week refusin' to eat; she says nae more than a few words at a time, an' then none that make much sense. She stays abed all day but she disna sleep. She just lies there starin' at the walls because she's dead afraid ye willna forgive her.”

Angus blinked quickly several times. “Forgive her? Forgive her for what?”

MacGillivray's jaw tensed; the muscles worked for a moment. “For losin' yer bairn.”

The hollow chill Angus had felt earlier was nothing compared to the plummeting sensation he experienced now. It was as if someone reached into his chest and shoved everything from his neck down to his groin, replacing it with ice.

“Anne was—?”

“Aye, she was. An' she needs ye more than any man's army right the now. She needs to hear ye say ye dinna blame her for the loss. And
I
need to hear ye say that ye understand if ye ever so much as breathe an accusation her way, ye'll find me crawlin' down yer bluidy throat with ma boots on.”

Angus reached out his hand to grip the edge of the table for support, most of MacGillivray's threat lost behind the loud drumming in his ears. He and Anne had made a child together and now it was gone. She was alone, frightened, in pain, and he was worried about roll calls and Order Books.

He met MacGillivray's eyes and knew what it had cost the Highlander to come here tonight, knew why he would not have trusted Eneas Farquharson with the task.

“She just needs to see ye,” John said quietly. “A day, two at the outside, an' there will be enough confusion, ye'll be back afore Loudoun even knows ye're gone.”

“Then we're wasting time,” Angus said, snatching his cloak off the wall peg. “I trust your boat has two sets of oars?”

“It has three. I couldna spare enough men to keep Gillies from followin'.”

Anne stirred, waking slowly. Her face was pressed into a crush of her own red hair, and when she opened her eyes, the first thing she thought of was blood—lying in a pool of blood. She closed her eyes again but the image did not go away, nor did the hollow ache in the pit of her belly. All she wanted to do was sleep and forget, but the former came in restless patches, and the latter was simply not possible. The doctor had left a small bottle of laudanum, and she had resorted to it a couple of times when she thought her brain might explode from the sheer pressure of wanting to scream, but it only left her feeling more lethargic and dispirited than before.

The house was dark and quiet. Even MacGillivray, who had remained by her side for nearly a full week, had begged off earlier to tend to some clan business. She had not realized until now how much she had come to depend on his quiet presence. It had been comforting to know that day or night
she could open her eyes and he would be beside her in the chair, his chin propped on his hand, his face gentled by the candlelight.

She heard a faint rustling sound behind her and lay perfectly still. She knew the sound of Deirdre MacKail's light footstep, and she knew the quick rabbit steps of her maid. She waited an extra minute until she was sure, by the scent of mist and woodsmoke and damp plaid, that it was a man attempting to slide quietly into the chair before she smiled and half turned.

“You were more than one heartbeat away, John MacGillivray.”

But the eyes that met hers were soft pewter gray, not black. The face was lean and handsome, not bold and awkwardly apologetic.

“Angus?”

“If you would rather have MacGillivray for company—?”

She reached out, reached up, and before the gasp could leave her lips, he was on the bed beside her, his arms around her, his body cradling her close.

Behind them, clinging to the shadows that were his only shield against the naked emotion on his face, John MacGillivray watched the reunion between husband and wife. He watched Anne's hands twist desperately around his neck even as Angus's buried themselves in the spill of red hair and held her while he tried to silence her frantic whispers beneath his lips. He watched until it was senseless to watch any longer, then turned and quietly slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

That was where his legs failed him, and he stood with his hand around the doorknob, his forehead pressed against the wood.

“It's a fine thing you've done, Mr. MacGillivray, fetching the laird home. She needs him very much right now.”

John looked up, startled to see Deirdre MacKail standing there, a witness to his sin of covetousness. He did not trust himself to answer decently, but he nodded and gave the door a final brush with his hand before he turned away.

“If anyone asks after me, will ye tell them I've gone to Clunas?”

“I will, yes. How long shall I say you will be gone?”

“As long as it takes, lass,” he said quietly. “As long as it takes.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

A
lexander Cameron reneged on his promise to be back at Moy Hall within the week; he was gone more than a fortnight. Fort Augustus had surrendered, after a two-day siege, when one of Count Fanducci's well-aimed cannon shells had struck the powder magazine. Fort William proved to be more stubborn, however, and the talents of the gunners less daunting than those of the excitable Italian. They remained locked in a stalemate at Fort William for two full weeks, returning frustrated and short of temper, having squandered a deal of shot and patience trying to outgun the fort's determined commander.

Conversely, the Duke of Perth had completely routed Lord Loudoun's forces, chasing them out of Easter Ross and up into the hills of Skye. Another large contingent of prisoners was marched back to Inverness, and once again the prince, turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to the fact that most would break their parole—meaning they would only have to be caught and defeated again—released them.

In Cumberland's camp, the question of broken paroles was moot, for the option of laying down arms on a promise not to fight again was never offered. Nor were prisoners treated in accordance with any rules of honorable warfare. Most were beaten and starved, their wounds left to fester untreated.
Many were hanged without benefit of a trial; many more were simply loaded onto transport ships and never seen again.

Prince Frederick of Hesse, whose six thousand crack Hessian soldiers had come north with Cumberland, was appalled at the treatment the captured Jacobites received under the duke's command. The prince was Germanic. Nobility and honor were codes he held above all else, and he warned the English duke that his Hessians would not fight without those codes in place.

Cumberland's response was to immediately hang three prisoners who had been caught attempting to escape. True to his word, Prince Frederick ordered his men to Pitlochry and refused to acknowledge any further dispatches from Cumberland's headquarters.

March slipped into April with little more than skirmishes to mark activity in either camp. Charles, who had been ill since the night of his narrow escape at Moy, insisted his fevers were to be conquered if they could not be cured, and ordered days of hunting, fishing, and shooting. He appealed to the ladies of Inverness to organize balls, and for these special evenings he moved from Culloden House to Drummuir House, the guest of the Dowager Lady MacKintosh.

Angus was able to visit Moy Hall two more times; on each occasion, it was Anne who chided him for his recklessness even as she took full, shameless advantage.

“A month ago,” he said, “when you were begging me to stay with you in Falkirk, I had a dozen good reasons why I should go. Here, tonight, with my hands on your breasts and my body held hostage between your thighs, I cannot think of a single one.”

Anne sighed and rolled her hips slowly forward and back, feeling his response stretch deep inside her. She sat astride his naked, splayed body, her hair strewn about her shoulders, her hands braced on his chest. A cluster of candles were lit on the bedside tables so that not one flicker of reaction went unnoticed on either face.

“Whereas the dozen good reasons I had for you to stay all seem so selfish now. This one, for instance—” She arched her back and rose up on her knees, withdrawing her heat almost to the engorged tip of rigid flesh. “And this.”

She settled back over him with a sinuous thrust of her hips, and Angus clamped his hands around her waist, the muscles in his arms bulging as he strove to retain some measure of control. He had been deathly afraid of touching her, of hurting her, of rushing into anything physical too soon after the miscarriage, and for the first two visits he had been content just to lie alongside her and watch her sleep in his arms. This time, however, he had not made it through the bedroom door before she was under his clothes with roving hands and an avid mouth that made short work of his noble intentions. He had, at the least, insisted on her assuming the superior role so that she could control their movements and stop at any time if it became too much. After the fourth time in as many hours, however, it was proving to be far more of a trial for him than for her. Judging by the deliberate slide of her hips, the flaring and tightening of all those wicked little muscles, she knew it, too.