Midnight Honor (36 page)

“I assure you,” he whispered, “you have nothing to be jealous about. Adrienne was just helping me out of a rather sticky situation. Stop that, minx,” he added with a shaky grin. “Someone could come through the door at any moment.”

“Someone could,” she agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “But are you not the one who just said you wanted to start taking a few risks?”

“Well, yes, b-but—”

She pursed her lips by way of cautioning him to silence, then lowered her head.

“Dear … sweet… Jesus,” he gasped. His hands were in her hair, but seeing what she was about, he moved them, sending one to grip the edge of the table, the other the back of the bench. His jaw clenched around a sound that was half shock, half pleasure, and despite the chill in the air, small
beads of moral turpitude popped out across his brow. Every muscle in his body tensed into bands of iron, and because there was nothing he could do to prevent it, he felt the heat surge into his loins and pump into his chest, the blood pounding loud enough to drown out every last voice of reason. To his horror, he became dimly aware of the door opening and someone coming through, stamping the snow off his boots, but it was too late to do more than shoot out his hand and smash it down over the guttering candle. Soft white beads of wax spattered across the table and he groaned inwardly, steeling himself even as he clamped his fingers around the tallow shaft and squeezed it into a misshapen mass.

He remained that way, unable to move or even sweat for several exquisitely torturous moments. When he could, he sucked in a huge mouthful of air and glared accusingly at Anne, watching her as she rearranged the pleats of his kilt and slipped up onto the bench beside him. Demurely, she wiped her chin and took a sip of ale from his tankard; when she looked at him, he could see she was a breath away from laughing. Her eyes were still bright, but not with jealousy or envy. They shone with the lush certainty of a woman who knew exactly who her husband would be thinking about each night they were apart.

“Two can play such games, madam,” he promised softly. “And you shall pay dearly for that bit of mischief.”

“Is that a promise, sir?”

His hand slid up her thigh and he waited for her smile to lose some of its impudent edge.

“More of a warning, I should think. The promise, my dear, is that you shall not get one moment's sleep tonight.”

Chapter Eighteen

Inverness

T
he retreat from Falkirk began on February 1, the day after a courier brought the startling news that Cumberland had unexpectedly moved the army out of Edinburgh and was marching to Linlithgow. The Jacobites decamped before sunrise; by noon, there was only trampled snow and a few broken carts mired in the garbage-strewn mud of Bannockburn to show they had ever been in the vicinity. In St. Ninians, the departure had not gone quite as smoothly. A careless spark had set off a series of explosions in the village church where the Jacobites had stored the kegs of gunpowder captured at Falkirk. Lochiel was nearly crushed under falling stones and, not surprisingly, Lord George was furious at the waste of valuable powder.

It took fifteen days for the prince's slow-moving column to cross the mountain passes. Half the time the howling wind blew snow directly in their faces, slicing through the layers of tartan, forming thick crusts of ice on beards and eyebrows. The other half of the time they were blinded by the vast whiteness and had to struggle to find the buried roads and tracts. The few cannon that had not been sent with Lord George Murray's column were spiked and abandoned in the
frozen drifts, and not one of the tired, ragged men who had been hauling them over the impassable terrain was sorry to see them left behind.

Cumberland, on the other hand, was happy to discover the heavy guns Lord George had ordered drowned in the firth, and thought it well worth a two-day delay to winch them back up onto dry land. Hearing his cousin had taken the high road over the Grampians, he wasted another three days trying to follow, but the snow was able to do what the Jacobites could not: It turned the king's son around and sent him scrambling east along the low roads, nearly a full week behind Lord George.

Once over the crest of the mountains, the prince found the going easier. The hills fell away sharply, rolling from one glen to the next until the melting snow and mist emptied into Loch Moy. The surrounding forests were thick with cypress and cedar. Deer and game were plentiful, and the hills were cut by sweet, fast-running burns that never froze. The glens they passed through were still snow-covered, but by inches, not feet. They were dotted with small stone-and-sod clachans whose occupants came out to gawk at the slow-moving caravan of wagons and marching Highlanders. Some cheered and offered what food and clothing they could spare. Others turned and went back inside, closing doors and shutters against the sight.

Meanwhile, Anne had ridden on ahead with MacGillivray and the men of Clan Chattan to ensure the road to Moy was clear, the glen secure, the estate as reasonably orderly as she had left it six weeks before. Robert Hardy was with her, and had barely dismounted before he was shouting at the household servants, ordering fires lit, bedding aired, floors scrubbed, and the ovens stoked to capacity. Anne's first priority was a long, hot bath, a true and welcomed soaking wherein the water was replenished three times, each time it cooled. Maids were there to assist, and for once Anne did not offer the smallest objection. She leaned back and let her hair be scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed again until it squeaked. She welcomed the first few drops of scented oil to the water, then snatched the bottle and poured so much, the smell of lilacs permeated the entire upper floor.

Her joy at such small pleasures was dampened somewhat by the fact she had not heard one word from Angus since they had parted at Falkirk. There had been no word of an execution or even an arrest, so there was hope he had been accepted back into the ranks without consequence. And of course—as she reminded herself daily—he would have had the deuce of a time sending any letters to an army that was beating a hasty path across a snowy mountain range.

With that thought on her mind, she had ridden the last few miles to Moy Hall in a gallop and burst through the doors with enough anticipation to nearly tear the oak off the hinges. But there had been no letters waiting for her. Not even a message conveyed by word of mouth so that she would at least know he was alive and safe.

When a rider brought news of the advance guard approaching Moy, she chose a gown of pale blue satin with cascades of fine Mechlin lace spilling from the cuffs. Four layers of petticoats in varying shades of blue foamed from the parted V in front, and curled back like the wake of a ship when she walked to the door to greet her regal guests and proudly watch her glen fill with Highlanders. The MacKintoshes and Camerons occupied the slopes that bordered the misty waters of Loch Moy; Keppoch's MacDonalds camped to the west and the Appin Stewarts to the east, forming a tight protective circle around the prince. A lively black-and-white sheepdog marked the arrival of Charles Stuart's personal entourage in the glen, and despite the fact Anne had been in his company many times over the past weeks, she still found there were butterflies in her belly as she watched the royal scion dismount and stride up to the porticoed entrance of Moy Hall.

“Your Grace,” she said, offering a deep curtsy.
“Cend mile failte”.'

“Ma belle rebelle
, a thousand thanks for your hospitality in return.” As had become his habit of late, he held a scented lace handkerchief in his hand, its dual purpose being to wipe the constantly dripping moisture from his nose and to camouflage the smell of strong spirits on his breath. His cheeks were flushed with a slight fever he had been nursing
for the past day or so, and the splashes of color looked like pink paint against the absolute paleness of his skin. He was dressed for the weather in black breeches topped by a heavy leather doublet and wool coat. His stock was plain white cambric, not very clean, and his copper-colored hair was dull, plastered flat to his skull by the dampness of the battered wool bonnet for which he had acquired a fondness.

“I have a bath waiting and rooms prepared, Sire,” Anne said, welcoming him into the elegant foyer of Moy Hall. “If it please Your Highness, my steward will show you the way and remain to tend to any further requirements you might have.”

“My thanks, dear lady, but I do not wish to be of any burden. A bath and a bed are all I desire at the moment.” He paused and coughed into his handkerchief, waving away a concerned aide who stepped instantly forward. “Perhaps a bowl of broth, however, very hot and salty. And some beef, or a guinea hen well cooked and dressed with mint, if that is at all possible. Oh, and I should dance a caper for a taste of venison simmered in a wine-and-onion sauce. And chocolate. Stirred to a froth with just a touch of sugar?”

“I shall speak to the cook directly, Sire; if I have it in my house, it is yours.”

He smiled vapidly and nodded to Hardy, who then led the royal entourage up the stairs to the second-floor apartments.

There were more guests waiting outside the door. Alexander Cameron had at first declined Anne's invitation to stay at Moy Hall, but because his wife, Catherine, had seemed to succumb to the same exhaustion and listlessness that was affecting the prince, he had changed his mind and agreed that a warm room with a soft feather bed would be a welcome change from a damp, drafty tent. MacKail's wife, Deirdre, accompanied Lady Catherine and was equally happy to accept Anne's hospitality. Their husbands deposited them into Anne's care before they rode off to see to the placement of sentries.

Underneath several layers of grime, Catherine Cameron was a delicate blond beauty with the porcelain white skin prized so highly by the English. Her father, Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, was a member of the House of Lords, and not too
very long ago she had been the toast of England's upper society. The gossips had not exaggerated when they said she had given up everything to be with her rogue Highland laird. Dressed in woolen trews and an oversized cambric shirt, she looked more like an orphan than the wife of a legend, but even so, Anne felt like a too-tall, thick-limbed Percheron disguised in blue satin, her skin weathered by the elements, her nose a crest of freckles, the thickness of her brogue a heartbeat away from what must be indecipherable Gaelic to a refined English ear.

“Lady Catherine,” she began, articulating every word with care. “I am so pleased to have you and your husband as my guests. You as well, Mrs. MacKail. If you will follow wee Drena there, she will show you to your rooms.”

“Please, just call me Catherine. I haven't felt like a lady for a very long time.”

Her smile was genuinely self-deprecating and Anne felt the first wave of relief since hearing the sheepdog usher the riders into the glen.

“Then you must call me Anne and we can dispense with all the formalities, shall we?”

“I would like that, thank you. Have you met my brother, Damien Ashbrooke? He was delayed in joining us until we were breaking camp and leaving Falkirk.”

A tall, darker version of Catherine stepped forward, his smile as infectious as his sister's.

“Colonel Anne. I have heard a great deal about you—your name has even made it into the news sheets in London—and believe me, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine.”

Anne might have given her opinion of the London news sheets had Deirdre MacKail not given off a startled little cry. Catherine was swaying, a hand held shakily to her temple, and Damien had to move quickly to catch his sister before she slumped over onto the floor.

“Good gracious,” Anne cried. “Is she hurt?”

“She's not hurt,” Deirdre assured her, “she is merely exhausted and cold. She's not been getting the proper rest for several weeks now, and all this horseback riding …
astride
, no less … 'tis a wonder she hasn't miscarried!”

“Miscarried?” Anne looked at Catherine's pale face. “She's with child? Should I send for a doctor?”

“I'm fine,” Catherine gasped. “It was just a little spell of dizziness. Damien, for heaven's sake, put me down.”

He ignored her and obeyed Anne instead as she waved for them to follow her up the stairs to the bedchambers, where she stood aside and watched him set his sister gently down on the bed. “Is it not exceedingly dangerous to be riding around on horseback in such a condition?”

“I've tried telling her that,” Deirdre said. “But she's as stubborn as a boil. If her husband knew, of course, he'd tie her hand and foot to a post and leave her there to rant about the unfairness of it all, but—”

“The
Camshroinaich Dubh
doesn't know his wife is pregnant?”

“She claims she has not yet found the right time to tell him.”

“Perhaps a doctor would be a wise precaution, then. Just to make certain everything is all right. I would surely not want a man like Alexander Cameron angry with me should I be found wanting in my duties as hostess.”

“No,” Catherine called weakly, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “Please do not send for a doctor. I have already spoken to Alex's brother, Archibald, and he has pronounced me hale and hardy. I am truly just cold and tired. And since everyone under the sky appears to know my little secret now except for my husband, I expect I shall
have
to tell him before he hears the gossip from Cumberland's drummers!”