Midnight Honor (28 page)

He could not believe he had allowed himself to fall asleep. Neither could he believe he had permitted himself to be lured to such recklessness by soft breasts, softer lips, and silky thighs. Robert Hardy would be beside himself, thinking his master had been captured. At the moment, with Anne sitting there in a waterfall of tousled red curls, it did not seem such a bad notion, but Angus pushed the thought aside and reached for his tunic.

“Just tell me why,” she said again.

“I have told you a dozen times. I've given my word, my oath as an officer of the crown.”

She watched him struggle with the brass buttons.

“You promised me not so long ago that you would never lie to me,” she said evenly.

“I am not lying; I have given my word. Have you seen my gloves?”

The cold efficiency was back. His movements were calculated and sure, his jaw squared against any suggestion that a few hours of exhaustive lovemaking could have changed the way the earth spun on its axis.

Anne looked down at her hands, for her world had certainly been sent on a spin. “They're on the chair, under your cloak.”

He grunted his thanks and swung the enormous wool cloak off the seat and settled it around his shoulders. He stood there a moment staring at the top of Anne's head, at the white slope of her shoulders, at the lushness of her body. He actually started to pull on one of his gloves before he turned, suddenly, and threw both of them across the room. He would have liked to pick up the chair, the stool, the kettle of simmering water and hurl those as well, but there was enough chaos in his mind already without adding more.

“I came here last night with every intention of taking you away with me. Of
ordering
you, as my wife, to come away with me. If I had done that, what would your answer have been?”

She replied without hesitation. “I would have refused.”

“And what reason would you have given me? What possible reason could you give for disobeying your husband, the
man to whom you made a solemn vow to honor and obey? You would have said you had a previous, binding oath to another, one that had nothing to do with love or marriage vows, and for some unfathomable reason you would have expected that to be all the explanation I would need. Why, then, I would ask by imploring all the saints in heaven to give me the strength to understand, is it not enough of an explanation for
you?
Is
your
word worth more than mine because you happen to think your cause is more just? Or do you not see the contradiction, the pretension, the
irony
of your asking me to break an oath when you yourself would not consider doing so for an instant?” He spread his hands and dropped them in frustration. “You cannot have it both ways, Anne. Either I am a man of my word, or I am not. Which is it to be?”

“Your loyalty to the Stuart king should come first,” she cried softly. “Your grandfather was a member of his council, your father fought in The Fifteen.”

He expelled a breath and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress was stuffed with thatching and hung on ropes stretched across a plain wood frame, all of which protested loudly, each in its own manner. During the night creaks and rustlings had amused them, now it grated on the nerves and made their surroundings seem cheap and tawdry.

“Anne … look at me.” He waited a moment, then took up her hand and raised it to his lips. “I never swore an oath to the Stuart king. Never. Not here, not in Italy, not in France. My grandfather did, my father surely did, and perhaps my brothers, too, but
I
never swore allegiance to James Francis Stuart or his son, not even in absentia. Not even in a secret toast to the king over the water.”

“What about your loyalty to Scotland? Do you want to see our country under English rule forever?”

“What I want and what is likely to happen are two very different things. Hawley has brought eight thousand crack troops to Falkirk. Well-armed, well-fed, eager for revenge. If there is a battle in the next few days—and I cannot see any way of avoiding one, shy of having the prince surrender under
a white flag—the whole damned conflagration will be resolved one way or another, and my greatest fear is that this … this reckless courage, this … incredibly valiant display of honor and loyalty will all have been for naught. The prince will return to France, his army will go back to their farms and clachans, and in another twenty years we will have to go through it all again.”

She was quiet, but at least she did not pull away from his touch as he smoothed a shock of red hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.

“Will you come back with me?”

Her eyes were large and grew shockingly bright as she fought a suspicious sheen of wetness.

“I had to ask,” he said helplessly. “Can you not see I am terrified to the bone at the thought of you being anywhere near a battlefield?”

“John has already threatened more violence than I could encounter in a battle with the devil if I do not stay well behind the lines with the prince and his royal guard,” she admitted.

“And you will keep your word? To him and to me?”

“Dear God,” she whispered, her eyes growing even rounder, wetter. “You will be in the front line, won't you?”

“I will be with my men, yes.”

She closed her eyes and leaned forward, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder. She bit her lip against the hot flooding of tears, but the night had been too emotional, the pleasure too intense, the loss she might sustain too horrific to stanch the two wide streaks that flowed down her cheeks. Her arms went up around his shoulders and she pressed her body against him, ignoring the scratch and bite of wool and buttons. For his part, Angus held her as close as was humanly possible without crushing her half to death.

“I have to leave. Will you not, please, for pity's sake, reconsider and come with me?”

“Will
you
reconsider and stay?”

Angus held her a moment longer, then stood with great reluctance. Half blinded by something stinging hotly in his own eyes, he walked quickly over to retrieve his gloves. Knowing
there was nothing more to say, he went out the door into the predawn chill and walked hurriedly toward the nearby woods.

He was not yet safely inside the outer rim of firs when a tall, tartan-clad figure with the golden hair of a lion stepped out of the shadows, cocked two steel-butted pistols, and aimed them dead center at his chest.

Chapter Fourteen

A
ngus slowly raised his hands and stared into John MacGillivray's dark eyes for what seemed like half a lifetime. There was a slight breeze blowing, and it ruffled some of the long brass-colored hair that hung below John's bonnet, but other than that, the Highlander was still as a stone.

“Ye're that lucky I didna shoot ye for a thief,” MacGillivray said finally. “Or a spy.”

“I came only to see my wife, nothing more.”

“Aye. So I gathered. I had men watchin' the forest an' they told me they saw someone sniffin' around the cottage. Ye'll be warmed to know there were twenty of us standin' outside the door, ready to break it down on the instant.”

“What stopped you?”

“We found yer manservant shiverin' his teeth to nubs ayont the road.”

“Hardy? Is he all right?”

MacGillivray scowled. “He's a damned sight better than he would be an he were still waitin' on ye in the cold.”

The subtle
snick
of both hammers being uncocked eased the pressure in Angus's chest, but he was careful to wait for permission—which came in the form of a casual nod—before he lowered his arms.

“Where is he now?”

“We're keepin' him warm for ye. The horses, too. We were no' too sure how long ye'd be.”

Angus heard the soft rustle of more footsteps and turned to see two more figures melt out of the trees beside him. He recognized one of them instantly, despite the suspended blue gloom of the air, for he had met Alexander Cameron some years before during his travels around Europe. Only slightly less unforgettable was his friend and clansman, Aluinn MacKail.

“Cameron.” Angus nodded to acknowledge their presence. “MacKail. It has been a long time. Still tilting at windmills, I see.”

“Call us hopeless romantics,” Alex said. “Not too dissimilar, however, from a man who rides into the heart of an enemy encampment just to speak to his wife. Although”—he paused and grinned—“from the sound of it, you were enjoying more than just conversation.”

Angus glanced at MacKail, who was also grinning above the tartan he had muffled around his throat. “Thatch roofing,” he said. “Keeps the weather out, but I wouldn't trust it for keeping secrets in.”

Angus expelled an angry stream of misty breath. “I trust you all enjoyed the entertainment.”

“I have no doubt we would have,” Cameron said, “had there not been other diversions.”

He pointed behind them to the road. Dawn was beginning to smear across the horizon, lifting the gloom enough to reveal the sprawled bodies of several clansmen rolled in their tartans who had staggered away from the tavern and not thought the effort worthwhile to find their beds. Lying together in the middle of the road, the one draped across the other's chest, were Struan MacSorley and Gillies MacBean. The bigger man was laid out like a crucifixion, obviously the first to go down; MacBean looked as if he'd had time to sit and enjoy a laugh before he careened over.

Cameron clucked his tongue and removed a cigar from an inner pocket. “That's twice now, including Count Fanducci,” he said, handing it to MacGillivray. “Struan will be as pleasant as a bear when he wakens.”

Angus was the only one who did not laugh. “May I ask
what happens now? Am I to be marched to some puppet court as your prisoner?”

“Actually, we thought we would be neighborly an' provide ye with an escort back as far as Dunmore,” MacGillivray said. “We wouldna want it on our conscience if ye were picked off by one of our own lads.”

“You are letting me go?”

“If yer wife could no' persuade ye to stay, we didna think we'd have any better luck.”

“Just like that? No questions, no appeals to my loyalties or honor, no attempt to get any information from me?”

“Ah, well, now.” Cameron propped one booted foot on a rock and draped an arm over his knee. “Since you mentioned it, we were a little curious about a few things.”

“I am sure you are. Just as I am sure you know that as an officer in His Majesty's service, I am not obliged to tell you anything more than my rank.”

“Captain
MacKintosh, is it not?” Cameron asked with an easy smile. “First Royal Scots Brigade under the command of William Keppel, earl of Albemarle. I understand your personal regiment has become somewhat depleted—fewer than forty men all told?—but they will likely be incorporated into the ranks of the Argyle militia. A prized command, since Albemarle and Hawley answer only to Cumberland himself. How is the earl anyway? Is his stomach dyspepsia still troubling him? He should not be so insistent upon eating so many raw eggs in the morning. Two dozen at a seating would have any man blowing sulfur.”

Angus was irritably impressed, as he was meant to be. “Since you seem to be well informed already, I fail to see what possible curiosities might yet remain.”

“That's exactly what we are, just curious. Mainly about why Hawley has not moved to establish his position yet. There are few places between here and Falkirk large enough to accommodate two armies. A prudent general would take the precaution of staking out the only high ground.”

“One could make the same observation about the prince.”

“One could,” Cameron agreed, “if one was not aware of the four thousand men on the march even as we speak.”

“Your army is on the move? Today? But I thought—” He
bit his lip and stopped, but the damage was done. He could see it in Cameron's widening grin.

“You thought we would behave like perfect gentlemen and wait for the general to amass all his supply wagons, artillery, and ammunition carts? You thought we would wait for him to address the time and place for the attack?”

That was precisely what Hawley had thought, Angus acknowledged inwardly. He had surveyed the high ground on the moor and pronounced it “suitable,” but had taken no further steps to establish a royalist presence, apart from a few sentries and patrols. He had retired to his billet confident to the point of arrogance that the rebels would never dare initiate an attack. Moreover, he had dispatched a courier the previous evening with a message stating that he thought it uncivilized to plan any sort of military engagement that might spill over onto a Sunday, and if it suited the prince, Monday morning should do nicely.

“I don't suppose it would do any harm now to tell you our men were rousted two hours ago,” Cameron continued. “The rest will be in their boots as soon as the sun is up. By noon Lord George will have the high ground as well as the weather gauge.”

Angus felt a second chill trickle down his spine, this one far more ominous. If half the prince's army had left camp during the night and the other half was taking to the road before too long, it would set the stage for another surprise attack like the one at Prestonpans, when the Jacobite army had circled around behind the Elector's troops and launched their attack from the primordial ooze of a seemingly impassable swamp.