Midnight Honor

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 thefrozen 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