Midnight Honor

had become perilously low, and Murray of Broughton, a wily and inventive quartermaster throughout most of the campaign, had fallen ill and been replaced by John Hay, who knew even less about procuring field supplies than he did about guns—the one time he had discharged a pistol, he had shot off his big toe. When he sent men out foraging, he sent them to all the places that had already contributed more than they could spare, with the result that most wagons came back empty or not at all.
    Several hundred men had, therefore, been dispatched to investigate a rumor of a Hanover supply train on the road to Nairn and returned instead to report they had seen the duke's army marching along the coast road, a rippling sea of red coats and glittering muskets propped at the shoulder. The royalists had marched eighty miles unmolested, in relativesecrecy, and by nightfall of the 14th were camped less than half a day from Inverness.
    It had happened so quickly, the escort removing the Cameron women to Achnacarry departed from Loch Moy at dawn and turned left along the Inverness road, while their men turned right and rode hard toward the city. Anne had been at the knoll to see them off, mounted on her gray gelding as usual, but this time there were few smiles. She had come to like and admire Catherine Cameron; moreover, she was not entirely sure she could have survived her own dreadful ordeal without the quiet, calm support of Deirdre MacKail.
    “I feel so terribly sorry for them,” she said to her cousin Eneas when they had ridden quickly back to the Hall. “It will take days, weeks for any news to reach Achnacarry.”
    “I suppose, then, it would no' be met with any enthusiasm if we were tae suggest ye take yersel' up intae the caves f'ae a few days?”
    “The caves?” She pulled back so hard on the reins, Robert the Bruce reared up in surprise. “Why on earth would I do that?”
    “Because Cumberland's whole bluidy army is half a day's ride away? Because Moy lies right in his path an' ye'll have no one here tae defend the place if he takes it in his heid tae circle round an' attack Inverness frae both sides?”
    “I'll not be here at Moy,” she said. “I will be wherever my clan is.”
    Eneas reached up and scratched his hand through his hair. “Och, Annie … ye ken The MacGillivray will have sparks shootin' out his arse if he sees ye near anither battlefield.”
    “John is not here to say me nay or yea,” she said quietly.
    “Weel, as a fact, he is. He an' his bride arrived back at Dunmaglass yesterday, an' he's up ayont waitin' on ye now.”
    Anne followed her cousin's reluctant gaze and tentatively pointed finger. A group of clansmen were gathered out front of Moy Hall, and since MacGillivray stood a head and half a shoulder above most of the others, he was easily recognizable.
    They rode up the drive, where a hostler was waiting to take the reins when she dismounted. When he led The Bruceaway, most of the men acknowledged a look from MacGillivray and followed suit, moving discreetly out of earshot.
    Anne had not seen him since the night he brought Angus from Easter Ross. She heard he had left Dunmaglass that day and had been in Clunas helping his future father-in-law, Duncan Campbell, dislodge a small nest of government troops from the area. She had not heard he had married.
    “I understand congratulations are in order,” she said with genuine pleasure. “Eneas told me you and Elizabeth were wed.”
    “It was time. Besides, she liked the damned flowers so much she didna wait until we were alone an', well, her father found us on the brae an' thought it was past time I made an honest woman of her.”
    He looked different, somehow. More at ease. There was still a perilously dangerous air about him, but some of the tension seemed to be gone, and if Elizabeth had managed to do this for him, then Anne was doubly pleased. Lying abed, steeped in the tragedy of losing her baby, losing the steadfast Robert Hardy, she had come to realize how much John's friendship meant to both her and Angus; she was determined nothing would spoil that.
    “You will make a fine husband, John,” she said, smiling as she kissed his cheek. “The very finest there could be.”
    “I plan to do ma best.”
    “Will you take a drink with me? To toast the nuptials?”
    “Another time, aye, I will do. For the now I've only come to collect yer cousins an' the rest o' ma men. We're needed in Inverness.”
    “Of course. Yes. I was not