Midnight Honor

tartan was wrapped around her waist and draped over her shoulders to further blunt the icy effects of the wind. Her bonnet was pulled low over her forehead, stuffed full of her long red hair. In her belt she wore a brace of Highland dags, the heavy steel pistols loaded and primed, and she was comfortable with the knowledge that she would use them without hesitation should the need arise.
    Riding beside her was her cousin, Robert Farquharson of Monaltrie, also dressed for the bitter cold, swaddled in plaid. When the wind snapped at his kilt, his legs were bare beneath, the skin red, but he was accustomed to withstanding the raw weather.
    Robert had been waiting in a grove of trees close by Moy Hall at the appointed time. When Anne had joined him, theyhad exchanged but a few frosty whispers before setting out across the frozen landscape.
    Great care had to be taken when traveling from home these days. There were three battalions of government troops stationed in nearby Inverness, Highland regiments formed up under the command of John Campbell, earl of Loudoun. Patrols were regularly sent out from Fort George to scour the countryside day and night, and anyone could be arrested or taken away to prison without benefit of either a warrant or a trial. Several local clansmen had been dragged from their homes just this past week, their only crime being the sprig of thistle worn in their bonnets to show support for Prince Charles Edward Stuart.
    Anne glanced up as a thick blanket of cloud crawled across the moon. She could smell more snow on the way and was grimly thankful for it. Snow—the driving icy crystals that were indigenous to the clear Highland air—would make the night safer for her, safer for everyone.
    Her grandfather had sent an urgent message to her earlier in the day. Despite the terrible risks involved to both parties, he had requested a meeting at the home of John Alexander MacGillivray, a laird of some considerable influence who possessed a reputation fearsome enough to keep Lord Loudoun's patrols at a wary distance. Anne strongly doubted that even the news of Fearchar Farquharson's presence at Dunmaglass would inspire the lobsterbacks to venture too close, though she had heard recently the reward had been doubled for the old gray fox's capture.
    At one hundred and thirteen years of age, Fearchar Farquharson was a spry walking history of Scotland. He had seen six kings take the English throne since the Restoration and had endured each one's particular remedy for the “Scottish problem.” He had fought his first battle nearly a century before when James Graham, the Duke of Montrose, had raised an army of Highlanders in an attempt to save the doomed Catholic monarchy. He had fought for the Stuart cause again in 1689, when England had first dared to invite a German Hanover to wear the crown, and he had played a major role in the failed uprising of 1715. Some reverently referred to him as the “wee de'il in plaid,” but to Anne, he wassimply Granda', a stubborn old warrior who had reached his venerable age on the assumption that he was destined to survive as long as it took to see the Stuarts restored to their rightful place on the throne of Scotland.
    His best hope for victory had landed in the Hebrides in mid-July. Charles Edward Stuart had embarked from France equally determined to reclaim the throne of England and Scotland in his father's name. In August, he had raised the Stuart standard at Glenfinnan and proclaimed himself Regent. To the astonishment of nearly every arrogant-minded Englishman who thought their army invulnerable, he had led his Highlanders to Edinburgh and recaptured the royal city, then dealt the government troops a resounding defeat at Prestonpans. Capitalizing on his victories, the prince had secured the Scottish borders and marched his army deep into the very heart of England.
    Derby was one hundred and fifty miles from London; upon hearing that the Stuart prince had ventured unchallenged to within striking distance of the throne, the English king had ordered his household packed and loaded into waiting boats, prepared to flee at a moment's notice.
    Fearchar—indeed, all of the Highland clans loyal to the Jacobite cause—had raised such a resounding cheer at the news that it was said to have echoed the length and breadth of the Great Glen. He had been all for setting out, on foot if need be, to join the brave and courageous army, even at the unthinkable cost of breaking the oath