Midnight Honor

the “vault” below the house on Church Street before. It proved to be a huge, cavernous room excavated beneath the house and,and despite the shortages brought on by the blockade, was surprisingly well stocked with black-market goods. The walls were stone block, the ceilings supported with massive beams. The smell of earth and worms was tinged with the faint hint of distillation from the row upon row of casks and barrels that lined the walls.
    “Some of these bottles,” the dowager said, pointing to a dusty wine rack, “date back to Angus's great-great-grandfather, and some of these casks of
uisque are
older still. Knowing him, Big John would have appreciated his surroundings.”
    A trestle table had been propped between two barrels, lighted by a halo of candles stuck into bottles, the wax dripping down the sides in yellowish globs. The dowager tipped her head at the two women who had been working over MacGillivray, and they moved discreetly back into the shadows.
    His face and hair had been cleaned; the latter was still wet and fell back from his temples in dark brassy streaks. A linen sheet covered the hideous wounds on his body, and he almost looked as though he were just sleeping; Anne half expected him to open his eyes and give her one of his big, careless grins, telling her it had all been a mistake.
    She reached out and combed her fingers lightly through the damp locks of his hair, then leaned over and pressed her lips to his brow. “I haven't much time, John,” she whispered, “but I wanted to thank you for always being there when I needed you. I wanted to thank you for being my friend. For loving me. And I wanted to tell you,” she added, faltering as her lips brushed one last time over his, “that part of me will always love you, John MacGillivray, and that my life will be that much richer for having known you. And no, there is nothing to forgive, nor will I ever forget you.”
    She straightened with an effort and looked over at the dowager. “If you could send word to Dunmaglass. Elizabeth is there. They were wed in Clunas not long ago, and she will be frantic.”
    “Aye. I'll let her know he is here.”
    Anne nodded. “That's it, then. I'll be on my way.”
    “You be damned careful, lass. If ye dinna think it safe, keep riding right past Moy Hall and take yerself up into thehills. A velvet suit might fool a common soldier, but never think that Cumberland will not know exactly who ye are. Off ye go, now. I think I'll sit here a wee while with Big John.”
    Anne exchanged a quick hug with her mother-in-law before hastening back through the vault and up the stairs to the rear door of Drummuir House. The Bruce was there, his gray coat restored and dry, though he was not saddled. Two armed groomsmen waited for her to run her hands over The Bruce's flanks and withers to make sure the gelding was not injured in any way. When she was satisfied, the three of them mounted and rode down the crushed-stone drive, leading The Bruce behind. At the wrought-iron gates, they heard the popping of distant gunfire and looked toward St. John's Chapel. A dead Highlander lay sprawled on the steps, and even as they turned west and headed toward the bridge, they could hear hoofbeats and shouting behind them as a company of dragoons galloped onto the main street of Inverness.
    The dowager's warning proved to be unnecessary. It was evident at once that the soldiers had not yet come as far as Moy Hall, for the slopes around the loch were littered with weary, wounded clansmen. The road had been clogged with Highlanders as well. Upward of a thousand men limped, staggered, and fell to their knees beside the cold, sweet waters of the loch, there to cleanse their wounds and quench their thirst, and try to understand what had happened on the field that day. When Anne arrived, she ordered cattle slaughtered for meat. Every vessel that could hold water was set to boil over enormous fires, with chickens barely wrung and plucked before they were tossed in whole to make broth. The cupboards were emptied of linens, which were torn into strips for bandages. The grand dining hall was turned into a surgery where Dr. Archibald Cameron worked furiously to save shattered limbs and stitch impossible wounds. His own brother, Lochiel, had been carried from Culloden on a tartan sling and lay unmoving on the floor, ghastly pale, both ankles shredded by grapeshot. Alexander Cameron had been dragged from the field unconscious, his arm slashed