Midnight Honor

relief, in a way, because she knew she no longer had to question or justify her love for him—to herself or anyone else. He was every bit as honorable as Fearchar or John MacGillivray or Alexander Cameron, and what was more, he loved her despite their opposing politics, despite their different backgrounds, different temperaments, and that was far more than most wives could ever hope to have in their marriages.
    The pounding on the door startled her out of her reverieand she answered it with an irritated yank. “I am awake. No need to bring down the—”
    The appearance of the twins stopped the breath in her throat, for they stood under the glowering gray sky and looked more fearsome than usual, with muskets in their hands and broadswords strapped about their waists. They both wore pistols and dirks thrust into their belts, another dirk tucked into the garter on their right calves. They carried targes of wood and leather studded with nails, and even though it clearly threatened rain, they were not encumbered by extra lengths of plaid around their shoulders. Their bonnets had been brushed clean, and new sprigs of red whortleberry—the clan badge—were pinned to the crest. Whatever weariness they might have been feeling from the debauchery at the tavern had been replaced with the hard, bright sparkle of excitement.
    “Well?” Jamie demanded. “Ye're starin' at us like as we've got three heads, no' two.”
    Anne glanced over their shoulders and saw more men on the road, all of them bristling with guns and swords, pikes and axes. One of the MacCrimmon pipers was coming from the direction of the main camp, leading a hundred or more of his clansmen in a brisk march through St. Ninians. The revelers who had fallen asleep by the roadside were sitting up slowly and scratching their heads, but they seemed to know exactly what was happening and within moments staggered to their feet and were running in the opposite direction, grinning and shouting at their comrades not to kill all the English before they could arm themselves and return.
    “What is happening?” Anne asked. “Where is everyone going?”
    “Lord George says if the bastard willna bring the fight tae us, we'll damn well bring it tae him. The MacGillivray gave us orders we were tae come fetch ye. We'll be marchin' in the second column alongside the Camerons, by Christ's bonny blood!”
    “Aye,” Robbie nodded eagerly. “We'll be wi' them on the field too, an' that's the best place a fightin' mon could hope tae be! Come on, come on, lass! Ye dinna want tae be left ahind, do ye?”
    Anne whirled around and flung off the blanket she had been holding around her shoulders. She had swum naked with her cousins more times than she could recall—albeit mostly in their youth—and thus had no reservations about running to and fro in various stages of undress while she found and pulled on the layers of her clothing. She donned trews and a heavy linen shirt, then slammed her feet into stockings and boots. Ignoring an impatient shout from Robbie, she shoved her arms into a long skirted waistcoat quilted in satin, embroidered with sprigs of whortleberry, and added a fine lace jabot around her collar. There was no time to brush her hair properly, but a few savage strokes allowed her to divide it into three thick sections and plait it quickly over her shoulder. When the plait had been pinned, tucked, and crammed under a bonnet, she donned a blue velvet coat with gold buttons and lace on the cuffs, and strapped on two leather belts—one that held her pistols, the other a sword and dirk.
    She doubted she had ever dressed faster in her life, but the twins were pacing back and forth like cats with turpentine up their tails. The three of them hastened down the path to where some clansmen were waiting with Robert the Bruce—her heroically and hopefully portentously named gray gelding— but before she put a toe to the stirrup, she gasped and ran back to the cottage. Finding the common clothes she had worn the previous day, she searched an inner pocket and withdrew the cameo locket she carried, with Angus's picture inside. After pinning it over her breast, she drew on her leather gloves and went back outside.
    The three Farquharsons mounted and rode off at a quick trot to rendezvous with MacGillivray and the rest of the men from Clan Chattan. The fields were swarming with men, some already formed into companies, brigades, and regiments. The sixty-seven-year-old Lord