Midnight Honor

over and snatched up a broken wagon axle that was lying at his feet. The swing caught the
Sassenach
full in the face, splitting it like a bladder. A second scything sweep tore the throat out of a second man and knocked a third senseless. He pressed forward, roaring his rage, downing seven of the eight foot soldiers before the last one was able to fit his trembling fingers around his musket and pull the trigger.
    The shot caught MacGillivray high in the chest and spun him around. By then, another pack of soldiers had seen the encounter and rushed to give aid; several of them raised their bayonets and stabbed the unmoving Highlander repeatedly before running off in search of more challenging prey.
    What they saw instead was a huge gray gelding bearing down on them. The screaming red-haired woman on its back raised two flintlocks and fired, blasting one man off his feet, sending another scrambling over a low stone wall. The wall proved to be the lip of a deep well, and while his scream was reverberating off the stones, The Bruce's hooves trampled another of his companions. Anne's sword made short work of the last.
    She had witnessed the horror of the charge, the futility of the attack, the slaughter during the retreat, and at one point had been nearly swept away by the horsemen forcing the prince off the field and leading him to safety. Charles Stuart had indeed been weeping, but not out of pride this time. He had been weeping with shame and fear, screaming at the Highlanders to keep heart, that they would rally to fight another day.
    The road had begun to clog with Jacobites retreating toward Inverness, but Anne had turned The Bruce toward the moor and fought her way to the verge, where she saw what was happening to the Camerons and the valiant men of Clan Chattan. She saw Gillies MacBean, bloodied head to toe butstill fighting like a dervish. There was no sign of her cousins, but she saw MacGillivray … and she saw what lay beyond him: a field of horror littered with the bravest hearts of Scotland.
    By the time she recovered her shock enough to spur The Bruce forward again, both Gillies and John were down, the brutality of MacBean's wounds leaving no doubt that he was dead.
    She thought MacGillivray was dead also, but when she slid out of the saddle and slumped onto her knees beside him, she saw a faint movement in his throat. When she touched his face, his eyes fluttered open and she cried out, rolling him gently onto his side, taking his golden head onto her knees.
    “John! John, can you hear me?”
    His eyes stayed open, but they could not seem to focus. There was blood everywhere, in his hair, spattered on his cheeks and lips. She wiped what she could with the corner of her plaid, and for the smallest instant he was able to look up and meet her gaze.
    “John—?”
    A sigh brought the copper-colored lashes down and the effort it had cost him to see her one last time was expended. His head lolled gently to the side. He was gone.
    Anne clutched the folds of his doublet and hugged him close to her body, too stunned, too shocked, too numbed by the horror to even be aware of the danger coming up behind her.
    The English soldiers were crossing the moor in pursuit of the straggling Highlanders, but victory was theirs and they were not in any great hurry. They moved across the field in packs, like ravening dogs, searching the fallen bodies for gold or valuables, killing and mutilating anyone they found wounded or helpless. Some were red to the tops of their thighs from moving through the dead; others looked like butchers as they hacked and slashed.
    Anne looked wildly around for help, but the road was clear save for a few limping stragglers. She tried to haul MacGillivray's body up by the shoulders, but she knew she would never be able to lift him onto The Bruce alone. The thought of just leaving him there, however, was never a consideration.
    She heard a shout and saw two of the king's soldiers running toward her. Snarling, scrambling to her feet, she snatched up her sword and braced herself to avenge her brave MacGillivray's death.
    She was nearly blinded by the heat of her tears, but she saw enough to know both men were wearing scarlet-and-white tunics over the cursed dark plaid of the King's Royal Scots. One was an officer, and this was where she focused her rage first. She clutched her sword with both fists in the same manner as MacGillivray, and with the clan cry on her lips, she lunged forward. At the last