Midnight Honor (50 page)

Angus cursed, but he nodded. “Hold The Bruce steady, then. Ewen—”

MacCardle stepped warily forward, one eye on Anne, the other on the big gelding as he and Angus heaved the body up between them, then draped it over the seat of the saddle. They were starting to attract attention and some of the soldiers were shouting at them to hold up, but Angus ignored them. He grasped Anne around the waist and hoisted her up behind MacGillivray, and handed her the reins.

“Get out of here. Get back to Moy Hall—and for pity's sake, stay there until I come for you. Now, get going.
Go!”

He slapped the gelding's rump with the flat of his sword and stood his ground until he was sure Anne had cleared the field and was on the moor road. Only then did he let his legs
give way. Only then did the agony send him slumping down onto his knees.

“Cap'n?”

MacCardle dropped down beside him, noticing for the first time the huge wet bloodstain that ran from just under Angus's armpit to the lower hem of his kilt.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A
nne knew she would not make it as far as Moy Hall with John MacGillivray's body draped over the saddle. Dunmaglass was closer, but there were open fields to cross. Twice since leaving the moor, she had been forced off the road and into the trees as groups of howling dragoons rode past, chasing after the fleeing Highlanders. Bodies lay on both sides of the road, some having lain down to die there of injuries gained on the battlefield, some freshly slain by the dragoons. At one bend in the road, Lord George had positioned men to discourage a blood-crazed company of Kingston Horse from following too closely. Once Anne passed through, they closed ranks behind her and a few minutes later, she heard gunfire and screams when the government troops were ambushed.

After that, the Elector's troops were more cautious, for the Camerons and Athollmen were still a threat as a fighting force. But the progress of the dragoons was persistent and lethal. Even hapless civilians who had ventured onto the high ground to watch the battle were summarily cut down and hacked to death along with the fleeing Jacobites.

Only a handful of the prince's cavalry were still on horses. Either the animals had been shot out from under their riders, or their riders had been shot out of the saddles and the beasts left behind, trembling on the field of carnage. The Bruce's
forelegs and withers were streaked with the blood dripping down from the saddle; he and Anne made a gory sight crossing over the bridge into Inverness, but at that point she truly did not care. She stared back at the faces that peered out from behind parted curtains as she passed. She ignored the only other horse and rider she saw—a well-dressed gentleman apparently going about his business as if half of hell were not erupting five miles down the road. He, in turn, veered to the opposite side of the road and gaped at her aghast. Her arms and the front of her tunic were soaked with John's blood from holding him on the battlefield. She expected her face was streaked as red as her hair—a suspicion that bore fruit when the front doors of Drummuir House opened and the dowager covered her mouth in horror as Anne drew close.

“God an' all the saints above, it is you,” she cried.

Anne dragged the cuff of a torn sleeve over her cheek but she only smeared the stains more. “I didn't know where else to take him where he would be safe.”

If not for the leonine mane of tarnished gold hair, it was not likely the dowager would have known whose body was draped across the saddle. She crossed herself, her expression a mixture of pain and sadness, and touched the hem of Anne's coat.

“Are
you
all right, child?”

Anne was not even sure, but she nodded dumbly. “I didn't know where else to take him. The soldiers—” She turned her head slightly as if she could see through the hills and trees to the battlefield. “They were doing such terrible things to the bodies …”

The dowager clouted one of the servants on the ear. “Dinna just stand there, ye clarty fools! Help get that brave man down.” She waved two of the house servants over. “Be gentle with him! Take him inside where we can clean him proper. Annie, child, come out o' the saddle.”

“I have to go to Moy Hall,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “Angus told me to go there.”

The dowager clasped a hand to her throat. “He's alive, then? My Angus is alive? Ye saw him?”

Anne frowned. She was fairly certain it had been Angus she had seen at the last, but there were too many images crowding
into her mind. Too much blood. Too much pain. Not ten minutes ago she'd seen a child no more than four years old lying by the road, him and his mother both bayonetted.

“I have to go to Moy Hall,” she repeated. “Angus told me to go there.”

Lady Drummuir felt a chill as she looked up at her daughter-in-law. Her eyes were huge, the blue completely swallowed by the black centers. She was trembling as if in the grip of a terrible fever, her cheeks so pale the spatters of blood looked like splashes of crimson paint.

“Aye,” the dowager said gently. “An' ye will go back to Moy, just as soon as ye're able, but for the now, come down off that great beast an' let me help ye. Ye'll take some hot broth an' a bath, an' when ye're a fit sight for yer men to see, then aye, ye can go to Moy Hall. Please come down, Anne.”

Anne's eyes filled with tears again as she watched the servants carry MacGillivray's body into the house. She felt Lady Drummuir's hand on her wrist, and she looked down through another blinding rush of tears and nodded. She was colder than she had ever been in her life, shaking so hard she could not dismount on her own but had to wait for the servants to lift her down out of the saddle. The dowager did not even give her the option of walking. She ordered the stoutest of the men to carry her into the house and up the stairs, where she threatened to bring down the wrath of all the MacKintosh ancestors if a tub was not filled with steaming water upon the instant.

Once upstairs, Anne sat numb and unresponsive at the edge of the bed while a maid stripped her of her bloodied clothing. She stared at some cuts on her hands, but could not remember how she came by them. One whole side of a hip was marked with purple-and-black splotches, but there, too, she could not recall being bruised.

The maid helped her up and guided her into the huge copper tub that had been hauled in front of the fire. The shock of the hot water startled Anne into looking around and slowly coming to realize she was safe. At least she was away from the death and the blood, and she was not alone any longer.

The steam and the heat and the smell of soap being rubbed into her hair restored her a little more, and by the time she had been rinsed and left to soak, she was able to hold a cup of
hot broth to her lips without dribbling half of it down her chin.

Lady Drummuir left for brief moments at a time, but always came back to sit by the hearth. It was obvious she was aching with questions, but she did not ask anything of Anne other than to inquire if she wanted more broth.

After three bolstering cups Anne felt well enough—and warm enough—to climb out of the tub and sit by the fire. Wrapped in a thick woolen dressing gown, she sat dutifully still while the maid brushed her hair dry and twined it into a thick braid.

“Thank you,” she said. She glanced up from the hot flames and looked at the dowager. “I don't know what happened back there. I don't even remember how I got here.”

“Ye were in shock, lass. I'm no' surprised. There have been men coming to the door, bringing the news before they flee.”

Anne just looked at her, and waited.

“The soldiers are on their way to Inverness. They're no more than a mile down the road.”

“I have to get to Moy Hall,” Anne said, setting her cup aside. “The men will need help. Have you had any news of the prince?”

“He's away safe. They're taking him to Ruthven. Are ye sure ye want to ride out in this, lass? It might be better ye stay here. There are rooms below the stairs that the soldiers would never find in a hundred years—ye could hide there until it was safer to go out.”

Anne shook her head. “I feel much better now. I can almost think clearly. The men will go to Moy Hall, and I must know how they fared. With John and Gillies gone … they will not know what to do.”

Her voice trailed away and the dowager clutched the crucifix she wore around her throat. “Gillies is gone too?”

Anne nodded and had to press her lips very tightly together for a moment. “I did not see Eneas or the twins, so perhaps they escaped. Lord George was commanding the rear guard, protecting the retreat, but there were so many who scattered into the woods and across the fields; it will take several days to know who survived and who did not.”

Lady Drummuir rose slowly and walked to the window.

“Did ye see Fearchar?”

“Not for but a moment this morning. I told him to stay away from the moor, but—”

“Aye, he takes to orders as well as you do,” the dowager said on a soft sigh. “If ye're that set on ridin' to Moy today, ye'd best go now, then, while the way is still clear. Follow the river road out to the east bridge and make a wide turn south. I'll send a couple of the lads with ye, well armed, just in case.”

“What about you? What will you do?”

“Me? Och, dinna worry about me, lass. I've had one prince under ma roof an' I survived it. I'll likely have another strutting through the rooms before the day is out, an' I'll survive that as well. In truth, it should be the wee toady himself who should worry about me. I'm no' above poisoning his soup if he galls me.”

“You'll look after MacGillivray?” Anne asked quietly.

“They willna find him. He'll have a proper Christian burial ere I draw ma last breath.”

“I would like to see him before I leave.”

The dowager touched her cheek. “Get yerself dressed, lass. I'll wait below. An' no trews an' plaids for you either,” she warned. “Wear yer best ridin' suit. The more lace at yer throat, the less likely the soldiers are to think ye've just come from a battlefield.”

Anne descended the stairs ten minutes later, an elegantly clad young woman in a blue velvet riding habit with founts of lace at the throat and cuffs.

The dowager nodded her approval and led the way down into the wine cellar. There, after manipulating a hidden catch behind one of the tall wooden racks, the entire section of shelving swung open and, holding a glass lamp over her head, she took Anne through, cautioning her to watch her step as they went down a flight of shallow stone stairs.

Anne had heard rumors of smuggling ventures in the dowager's family history, but she had never been in the “vault” below the house on Church Street before. It proved to be a huge, cavernous room excavated beneath the house and,
and despite the shortages brought on by the blockade, was surprisingly well stocked with black-market goods. The walls were stone block, the ceilings supported with massive beams. The smell of earth and worms was tinged with the faint hint of distillation from the row upon row of casks and barrels that lined the walls.

“Some of these bottles,” the dowager said, pointing to a dusty wine rack, “date back to Angus's great-great-grandfather, and some of these casks of
uisque are
older still. Knowing him, Big John would have appreciated his surroundings.”

A trestle table had been propped between two barrels, lighted by a halo of candles stuck into bottles, the wax dripping down the sides in yellowish globs. The dowager tipped her head at the two women who had been working over MacGillivray, and they moved discreetly back into the shadows.

His face and hair had been cleaned; the latter was still wet and fell back from his temples in dark brassy streaks. A linen sheet covered the hideous wounds on his body, and he almost looked as though he were just sleeping; Anne half expected him to open his eyes and give her one of his big, careless grins, telling her it had all been a mistake.

She reached out and combed her fingers lightly through the damp locks of his hair, then leaned over and pressed her lips to his brow. “I haven't much time, John,” she whispered, “but I wanted to thank you for always being there when I needed you. I wanted to thank you for being my friend. For loving me. And I wanted to tell you,” she added, faltering as her lips brushed one last time over his, “that part of me will always love you, John MacGillivray, and that my life will be that much richer for having known you. And no, there is nothing to forgive, nor will I ever forget you.”

She straightened with an effort and looked over at the dowager. “If you could send word to Dunmaglass. Elizabeth is there. They were wed in Clunas not long ago, and she will be frantic.”

“Aye. I'll let her know he is here.”

Anne nodded. “That's it, then. I'll be on my way.”

“You be damned careful, lass. If ye dinna think it safe, keep riding right past Moy Hall and take yerself up into the
hills. A velvet suit might fool a common soldier, but never think that Cumberland will not know exactly who ye are. Off ye go, now. I think I'll sit here a wee while with Big John.”

Anne exchanged a quick hug with her mother-in-law before hastening back through the vault and up the stairs to the rear door of Drummuir House. The Bruce was there, his gray coat restored and dry, though he was not saddled. Two armed groomsmen waited for her to run her hands over The Bruce's flanks and withers to make sure the gelding was not injured in any way. When she was satisfied, the three of them mounted and rode down the crushed-stone drive, leading The Bruce behind. At the wrought-iron gates, they heard the popping of distant gunfire and looked toward St. John's Chapel. A dead Highlander lay sprawled on the steps, and even as they turned west and headed toward the bridge, they could hear hoofbeats and shouting behind them as a company of dragoons galloped onto the main street of Inverness.