Midnight Honor

the top of his head seeming to stretch forever into the shadows near the ceiling before he walked into the brighter circle of firelight. The creamy wool of his shirt took on a luminous glow, the radiance spreading upward to touch the strands of his hair. The blackness of his eyes reflected a sudden wily glint that could very well have come from Lucifer himself.
    “Ye give me too much credit, lass. It's not me they're after askin',” he said quietly. “It's you.”

Chapter Two
    A t that same moment, at almost the exact spot in the narrow pass between Garbhal Beg and Garbhal Mor where Anne had stopped to take in the beauty of the glen below, one of MacGillivray's sentries cocked the hammer on his flintlock and aimed at a shadowy figure walking up the hill. The other man must have heard the faint click of the ratchet, for he stopped and held up his hand while he whistled a low trill to identify himself. He was warm, his tunic and kilt dry, his senses keen after a hot meal and couple of hours in front of a crackling fire. The sentry was happy enough to welcome the relief. His beard and eyebrows were caked with crystals of frost and his toes were numb despite the nest he had made for himself in the bracken.
    Releasing the hammer again, he shrugged the snow off his plaid and stretched his legs with exaggerated motions to ease the stiffness that had locked them with cramps after several hours in the cold. There would be broth and ale waiting for him in the sheltered heat of the stables—him and the others who stood watch over the snowy silence of the glen.
    None of them actually expected any trouble, for it was an ugly night and the English were not known for their eagerness to leave the protected garrison at Inverness after dark. Truth be told, most of the sentries had pulled their plaids over theirheads to seek what comfort they could until it was their turn to be relieved.
    The two men said a few words, cursed the thickening snow in hearty Gaelic, then parted company with a wave. Neither one of them was aware of the two other shadowy figures who had crept stealthily to the edge of the fir trees and watched the exchange with narrow-eyed surprise.
    Unlike MacGillivray's sentries, they had anticipated no relief whatsoever and were dressed for the cold, each in his own manner. The Highlander wore his breacan belted into pleats around his waist with the ends of the wool wound warmly around his shoulders. His bonnet was pulled low over his forehead; his beard shielded everything below the beaklike nose, leaving only a narrow strip free for his eyes.
    The English officer's scarlet tunic was concealed beneath a voluminous black greatcoat. He was temporarily hatless, but the fresh white flakes of snow barely survived a moment or two on the dark cap of hair before they dissolved into tiny beads of water. He was clean shaven, his face a hard mask of concentration softened only by the shallow puffs of steam that gave substance to each breath.
    “How many more do you suppose are up there?”
    “Could be two,” said the Scot. “Could be twenny. MacGillivray is a cautious bastard; I'm surprised we managed tae get as close as we have.”
    The major cursed under his breath, for he had not even been aware they were on MacGillivray's land until a few moments ago and he was just thankful
he
had been cautious enough to order a circuitous approach through the woods.
    “Have we any idea who those two riders were?”
    “Could ha' been any one of a barrel full o' rebels come tae meet with the auld bastard.”
    “You are absolutely certain Fearchar Farquharson is in that cottage?”
    “As certain as I am o' the nose on ma face. Lomach saw the youngest Monaltrie in Inverness today an' followed him here, an' if he's inside yon house, so are his brithers, an' so is their granda'. Like apples in a barrel.”
    “Yes. And that barrel belongs to Dunmaglass.”
    “Ye're leakin' a bit o' piss worryin' about The MacGillivray? He stops a lead ball just as easily as any ither man.”
    The English officer turned his head to stare at the Highlander. “I am sure he does. But how many of his men will be spitting lead at us before we even have a chance to get to him? There could be a dozen more burrowed into those blasted rocks, the same again inside the house and barn— none of them chosen for either their poor aim or their reluctance to demonstrate it. We have fifteen good men I would as soon not squander on an attack that holds little promise