Midnight Honor

of success.” He turned his gaze back to the house. “Besides, the old fox is worth much more to me alive than dead, for he attracts these rebels like flies to dung and we merely have to watch him to see who comes to pay homage.”
    The Highlander expelled a hoary breath. He knew there was no use arguing with the
Sassenach
, though it galled him to have to let such a plum opportunity slip through his fingers. He owed the arrogant MacGillivray a scar or two for past insults.
    Hugh MacDugal of Argyle was not paid to eat gall, but he was paid—and paid well—as a tracker. His nose was as keen as that of any bloodhound and it was no idle boast to say he could follow an ant through a forest in a rainstorm. Just as the MacCrimmon clansmen were known for piping the sweetest music in all of Caledonia, the MacDugals had bred generations of hunters. Hugh's services, along with those of his brother Lomach, had been contracted by the English within hours of the Stuart prince raising his standard at Glenfinnan.
    Major Roger Worsham, on the other hand, had only arrived in the Highlands a fortnight ago. Unlike most English officers who treated the posting at Inverness like an exile, and who familiarized themselves first with the local whisky, second with the local whores, Worsham had remained aloof and apart, preferring his own company when he was not otherwise engaged in army matters. He reported directly to Lord Loudoun, yet he was not yet attached to any specific regiment. Rumor was he had been sent to Inverness by the Duke of Cumberland himself.
    Worsham started to edge back into the denser cover of the trees, and with a vigilant glance around the rocks, MacDugal followed, keeping low until the shadows and increasing snowfall were likely to mask any hint of movement. Despite the thickness of the fir trees, the rest of the men were clearly visible, the scarlet of their tunics glowing a dull blood red against the bluish gloom of their surroundings.
    “If we're no' gonny attack, we'd best move further back,” he advised. “Otherwise
we'll
be the apples in the barrel.”
    Worsham detected the derision in the tracker's voice and thrust a thumb down between each finger to adjust the fit of his leather gloves. “I have seen enough anyway. It's too bloody cold to stand about watching the smoke rise from the chimney. Keep half of the men here with you, MacDugal, and put them where you will. I'll take the rest back with me to Inverness. When MacGillivray's guests leave—or if any others arrive—I want them followed.”
    “By this flock o' bloody lobsterbacks? In this snow they'll stick out like licks o' flame.”
    “You have a better idea?”
    “Aye. Take the lot o' them back tae Inverness wi' ye. Lomach an' I will manage on our own.”
    Worsham searched for the dark blot of the other tartan-clad Highlander, but having no success, settled his gaze on MacDugal. “I don't want to lose Farquharson in these hills.”
    “Ye won't. Old as he is, he's nae daft enough tae leave Dunmaglass tonight. No' with The MacGillivray guaranteeing his safety. An' mark my words”—he paused and screwed his eyes upward to look at the sky—“it'll get a fair sight worse out here afore it gets any better.”
    Within the hour, Eneas had arrived at the same conclusion. “Snow's gettin' heavier,” he murmured, glancing through a slat in the window shutters. “If ye're determined tae go back tonight, Annie, ye'd best be leavin' soon.”
    Since staying away from home all night was not an option she could even briefly consider, Anne looked reluctantly away from the fire and nodded. She had not said much in the pastten minutes or so. Fearchar had dropped off again and the twins had carried him away to his bed. Gillies had volunteered to fetch more wood, though she suspected he only wanted an excuse to remove himself from the tension that had filled the room since The MacGillivray's startling announcement.
    “Me? They want
me
to lead the clan away?” Anne had gasped.
    MacGillivray had only shrugged his big shoulders and she had not been sure if the smile playing across his lips was intended to express his amusement or his derision.
    She had turned then, to stare at her cousins and grandfather. “You cannot be serious.”
    “We're deadly serious, lass,” Fearchar declared. “Ye're the only one can dae it.”
    “Surely not the only one.”
    “Onliest one the men will listen tae. Ye're the wife o' the chief. Ye're a Farquharson. Ye're ma