Midnight Honor

city. It had been decided to ferry the entire garrison across the Moray Firth to Easter Ross, which was under The MacLeod's control and relatively friendly to the Hanover government. Lord George took Inverness without firing a single shot, and although Loudoun watched hopefully from the opposite shore of the firth, Fort George capitulated shortly thereafter without the anticipated explosion of the powder magazines or storerooms.
    Railing once again at the Jacobites' uncanny ability to root out a trap, Loudoun had moved his forces to Easter Ross,and that was where Angus found himself now, in a draft-ridden stone building that shook with every gust of wind, his fingers cramped and his back aching, less than twenty miles from Moy Hall but unable to do anything about it. Following Cumberland's example, Loudoun had imposed a curfew over the town, with standing orders to arrest civilians and soldiers alike if they were found out of doors after dusk. Anyone suspected of deserting was shot out of hand by armed patrols that roved the streets searching for violators.
    He heard the clock chime the half hour and set his quill aside. His handwriting was verging on illegible anyway. He would have liked to write another letter to Anne, but he was not even sure she had received the last one he had sent.
    There was so much he wanted to tell her, so much he felt he could set down with greater ease on paper than he could as a stammering, spluttering neophyte in love. He even caught himself quoting Shakespeare when he thought of her, for even his own words failed to touch on the depth of his emotion.
    “Shakespeare,” he muttered, cursing at the irony. “‘To sleep, perchance to dream.’”
    “‘For in that sleep o' death, what dreams may come.’”
    Angus felt the tiny hairs across the nape of his neck come to attention. The voice had been low and husky, as thick as the shadows that smothered everything outside the small circle of light thrown off by the candle. He'd heard no sound to warn him of another presence in the room. The flame on the candle had not flickered inside its glass bell.
    He turned slowly, but his eyes had been impeded by the light and the shadows yielded nothing at first. After a moment he saw a slight movement in the far corner, and Angus wondered if perhaps he was dreaming after all. Like the eyes of a big cat, MacGillivray's glowed with an eerie luminescence out of the darkness, the only part of him not rendered invisible in the gloom.
    “How did you get in here?”
    “I've gotten in an' out o' harder places.”
    “So I should not ask how long you've been standing there?”
    “Long enough.”
    Angus had always envied John MacGillivray his cavalier audacity, and this was no exception. The man had to be part ghost, part demon, part fool to make his way unscathed into a city locked up as tight as a keg of powder.
    Or he had to have a damned good reason.
    Angus felt a second chill bristle over the surface of his skin. “Is this about Anne? Where is she? Has something happened to her?”
    The shadow moved, detached itself from the wall, and came forward just enough for the light to touch on a few threads of gold hair. “Yer wife's at Moy Hall, safe enough.”
    Angus heard the word “safe” and was able to breathe again. “Christ Jesus, you frightened me half to death. How the devil did you get in here? The door is still locked, is it not?”
    MacGillivray's lip curled to express his opinion of locked doors. His gaze flicked to the decanter on Angus's desk. “If that is
uisque
, I'll not refuse a dram. 'Tis cold as a witch's teat out there an' I've been four hours or more in the damp. Long enough to realize I'm gettin' too bluidy old for climbin' walls an' slitherin' over rooftops on ma belly. Eneas wanted to come in ma stead; I should have let him.”
    “Why didn't you?”
    John shrugged and accepted the glass of whisky Angus had poured. “He made ye a promise the day o' yer weddin'; he might have been tempted to keep it.”
    Angus watched the Highlander drain his glass and hold it out for a refill.
    Something had brought MacGillivray here tonight. Something worth risking his life.
    He fetched another cup and poured a measure of whisky for himself. “Are you planning to tell me why you are here, or am I expected to guess?”
    “There's a fine, thick mist on the firth, an' Lord George has sent the Duke o' Perth to take advantage. They've a fleet o' fishin' boats ready to bring a thousand men