Midnight Honor

and proud on her massive gray gelding, fighting hard to keep her eyes dry and her heart from flying out of her chest.
    Riding by her side was the golden-maned John MacGillivray, as fierce as ever a black-eyed giant there was, his hair combed into a tail, his personal body armory of guns and dirks and swords glittering in the sunlight. His lieutenants, Robert, Jamie, and Eneas Farquharson, followed, and between them, his face streaked with unabashed tears of joy, the grizzled old warrior, Fearchar of Invercauld. Gillies MacBean rode at the head of his MacBeans, his pipers competing good-naturedly with pipers from the Shaws and Davidsons, MacDuffs, MacPhersons, and MacKintoshes, all of whom marched in strength behind the standard of Clan Chattan.
    Charles Edward Stuart, a princely figure in tartan trews and a blue velvet jacket, had been waiting to welcome them personally. A boyishly handsome man of four-and-twenty years, he had greeted each laird in turn, announcing their names aloud to the throngs of cheering Highlanders. When Anne had come forward, he had stopped her from offering a curtsy and bowed gallantly over her hand instead, addressing her as
“ma belle rebelle”
and causing such a roar to rise into the crisp winter air that casings of ice on the tree branches overhead cracked and fell to the ground.
    Behind her, she could hear her grandfather bawling like a child as she was welcomed with an equally unceremonious hug by Lord George Murray. MacDonald of Keppoch kissed her hand, then chucked her on the cheek. Donald Cameron of Lochiel was looking over her shoulder at John MacGillivray, obviously impatient to meet the fighting men and judge their caliber, but he offered a formal bow and took pains to introduce his brothers, Dr. Archibald and—as if she were not already faint enough from having her heart stop so many times—the man around whom the word “legend” was used with genuine awe, the
Camshroinaich Dubh:
Alexander Cameron.
    Anne had listened raptly to the stories told and retold around the campfires in Aberdeen about the bravery of the Camerons and the MacDonalds and Lord George's Athollmen, and the courageous roles they played in defeating the might of the English army at Colt's Bridge, then later at Edinburgh and Prestonpans. How she had wished Angus could be counted among them, fiercely steadfast in their loyalties, intrepid beyond measure, willing to forsake all—not the least of which was their lives, properties, and fortunes—in defense of their king and country.
    And how she wished he could be here now, in this cramped and airless tavern on the outskirts of St. Ninians, a stone's throw from the sacred field of Bannockburn. How she longed to share with him the excitement of the pipers skirling in the background, the clansmen singing and pounding the tables with their tankards, and men like MacGillivray and Alexander Cameron joined together in toasting the prince's future success.
    Easily as tall and broad across the chest as MacGillivray, the Dark Cameron had spent the past fifteen years in exile on the Continent fighting other men's wars. He had returned to his beloved home at Achnacarry only to find his country on the verge of rebellion, and since then had ridden at the right hand of Lord George Murray. It was rumored that he had brought an English wife with him, which did not set well with a clan whose elder statesman, Old Lochiel, had been with the exiled court of James Stuart since the failed uprising of 1715. But it was also said that his
Sassenach
bride had adamantly refused to remain in safety at her English home and hadjoined her husband when the prince's forces retreated from Derby.
    Another roar sent Anne's gaze to the end of the table, where a mountain of a man had been called forward by the boisterous Dr. Archibald Cameron. His name, Anne recalled, was Struan MacSorely, and as she watched in amazement, he lifted a quart-sized pewter tankard to his lips and began to drink. Eight, nine, ten loud swallows were counted off by the men, after which a hearty clamor saw the good doctor clapping him on his back, then issuing a challenge from a pair of narrowed blue eyes to their prey at the opposite end of the table. Anne leaned forward, grinning when she saw Gillies MacBean push to his feet. Jamie and Robbie stood on either side of him, good-naturedly massaging his shoulders, neck, and belly, and when a brimming double tankard was set in front of him, the twins stepped solemnly back