Authors: Marsha Canham
“My visit tonight had not been prearranged, so I did not know the proper response to give the sentry. He held his knife to my throat with a little more enthusiasm than was warranted, though not as much as might have been displayed had I not been able to produce my brooch and prove I was who I claimed to be.”
“I thought you were in Skye with Lord Loudoun.”
“I was. Until three days ago, anyway. It seems Cumberland put in a ‘special request’ for myself and a dozen other prominent lairds. He wants all the Highland companies in the front line—and that is not the worst of it. He has deliberately chosen officers with no conscience, like Hawley, and given them command of battalions led by brutes and butchers. I have seen things of late that have left me sick at heart. Men hanged for simply stating their opinion. Women raped because they happened along the road and were wearing the plaid. Farms burned and livestock slaughtered for sport. They call the Scots barbarians, then turn around and disembowel a man for refusing to take a penny for his daughter's virtue. Just yesterday, a thirteen-year-old boy was accused—just accused, mind, not proven—of spying, and was hanged. He swung for over ten minutes before he died; all the while the duke's men took wagers. Another man was given eight hundred lashes in the morning and made to stand his post at night or receive eight hundred more. These are the men who want to bring the Highlands to heel, to make them bow to English discipline and order.”
“Then what can you possibly hope to accomplish by going back? You are only one man, for pity's sake.”
“Prince Frederick was only one man, yet he has refused to allow his Hessians to fight under such barbaric conditions. Perhaps there are more. Perhaps there are enough of us to stop the bloody sword of Damocles before it descends.”
Anne was not entirely sure who Damocles was, but if Angus feared him, it did not bode well. “You sound as if you do not believe we can prevail.”
“My belief, my faith has already been shown to be a poor
thing next to yours.” He sighed and took her face between his hands. “I suppose the best I can hope for at this juncture is that you will trust MacGillivray and take your lead from him. If he says it is lost, believe him and run. Run for your sake and for mine. Will you promise me this?”
The tremor in his voice, in his hands frightened her, and she nodded. “I will trust MacGillivray. I will do as he says.”
Even that much was a blessing and he closed his eyes, angling his mouth down to capture hers. The kiss was tender and poignant and conveyed a wealth of emotion in a simple gesture that had to end far too soon.
“I have to go. If Lord George prevails with the prince, I may be of some help at the other end.” He hesitated a moment, then reached under his coat, withdrawing a silver brooch embedded with a large cairngorm, engraved with the MacKintosh motto:
Touch not the cat bot a glove
. “Take this. It is only fitting that the colonel of Clan Chattan wear the proper badge of office.”
She said nothing as he pinned the badge solemnly to her plaid, but when he was finished, she slipped her arms up and around his shoulders, burying her face in his neck, breathing in the scent of his hair, his skin.
“Promise me,” she pleaded softly, “that you will steer well clear of this General Damocles.”
Angus drew a breath into lungs that were almost too tight to allow it, then claimed her lips one more time before easing her to arm's length.
“I shall avoid him like the plague, my love,” he vowed, “and be back in your arms before you know it.”
But she knew it already. She felt the loss before he had even left the tent.
Angus Moy returned to Nairn along the same route the Jacobite army would be taking, following the river east and circling up behind the encampment. A sentry saw him approaching along the road and stepped away from the guard tent to challenge him, but Angus knew the password and said it so sharply the lad lowered his musket and moved aside.
The wind had died down and the mist cloaked everything
in a murky haze. Lanthorns hanging on tent posts took on the look of yellow eyes as he passed the battalion streets. Like everything in the English army, those streets were laid out in neat, straight rows of peaked canvas, stretching off into the distant darkness. There were so many. Twelve battalions of Foot, three regiments of cavalry, and an artillery train all grouped in their orderly squares around the central headquarters of Balblair House, where Cumberland and his most senior generals were billeted. There were also eight companies of Scots militia, most of them sent by Argyle, men who would have no reservations about fighting their kilted kinsmen.
Bullocks had been slaughtered earlier in the day to provide meat in honor of the duke's birthday, and the mist still smelled of the sweet roastings. Angus had not eaten anything since early morning; having seen the condition of the Jacobite camp and knowing Anne would have stubbornly refused to take more than the same biscuit her men had been rationed, he had no appetite. Here and there sporadic bursts of laughter cut through the air, a sound that had been noticeably absent in the Stuart camp, and although he guessed it must be past midnight, a few of the campfires had solemn circles of men around them.
Balblair House was ablaze with lights. It sat atop a hill like a crown jewel, sparkling through the dark mist. Cumberland was likely playing at cards with a pretty woman by his side, a favorite pastime for someone who had banned gambling and women from the company tents. Angus had been told the duke had taken to smiling a great deal at Adrienne de Boule, which did not sit well with Major Worsham. William was the king's son, after all, portly and disagreeable though he might be, and royal scions were notorious for simply taking what they wanted if it pleased them.
Turning into his own row of tents, Angus dismounted and handed the reins off to a private. It had taken him nearly two hours to traverse the distance between the two camps, and his horse was muddied to the base of his neck for his troubles. The ground was so soft and spongy in places, he'd had to circle well out of his way, and he could only wonder how men
on foot would manage. Surely they had departed Culloden by now. Even adding for the extra time it might take to circumvent the worst of the boggy terrain, Angus guessed they would not arrive before three or four o'clock in the morning. He had been cautioned that when the fighting erupted, he should stay in his tent if that was at all possible, or if not, to pin the white cockade prominently on his plaid to avoid being run through by another eager Highlander.
Smiling grimly to himself, he touched the cut on the side of his neck. His fingers came away dotted with blood, and he realized he would have to bandage it before the constant rubbing of his collar managed to do what the knife had not.
He lifted the flap on the tent and stepped inside, freezing just the other side of the pole. His cot was in disarray, his kit opened and the contents strewn about the blankets. A lamp was lit, but the wick was turned so low he had not noticed the glow against the canvas outside. It was barely bright enough to illuminate the figure seated in the corner, or the long, thin nose and pointed chin that identified Major Roger Worsham.
“Captain MacKintosh. I was beginning to think you were never coming back.”
Angus glanced pointedly at his upturned kit. “So you thought you would ransack my personal possessions?”
“No. I merely did not trouble myself to replace them this time.”
If he was expecting an indignant protest, he was disappointed. More than once Angus had opened his kit to find things slightly out of place, as if the contents of the trunk had been searched and carefully put back in order. He had been assigned a new subaltern, Ewen MacCardle, to act as his personal aide, but even though the man was no Robert Hardy, he was not so sloppy as to forget from one day to the next that Angus preferred his shirts laid top to bottom, not side to side.
In truth, he didn't give a hang how his shirts were packed, but after the first incident when he suspected his belongings had been thoroughly searched, he had expressed the preference to MacCardle, who had been obliging ever since.
Angus stripped off his gloves. “Find anything that interested you? Dirty laundry? Unpolished buttons? A commendation
from Charles Stuart, perhaps, applauding me for my loyalty to his father?”
Worsham's eyes narrowed. “You make light of these things, MacKintosh, but I get the distinct feeling there is more truth behind your words than brevity. Where were you tonight, for instance?”
“My personal time is my own, sir. I do not have to answer to you.”
“Would you prefer to answer to the duke?”
“I would prefer it if you removed yourself from my tent so I could get some sleep.” He turned away from the major and shrugged his plaid off his shoulders. “It has been a long day and the muster is for four-thirty, if I'm not mistaken.”
Worsham tipped his head to the side. “You seem to have cut yourself, Captain.”
Angus instinctively touched a finger to his neck. “Yes. It … was an accident. My own carelessness.”
“It looks painful. I'm surprised your wife did not dress it for you.”
“She had other things on her mind and was a little preoc-cup—” He stopped. He clamped his lips together, barely refraining from cursing out loud.
Worsham, of course, was smiling. It had been too, too easy.
“It is a shame, really. You were doing rather well up until now. Even tonight, riding off in the direction of Kingsteps and waiting in the forest for an hour. My tracker, Hugh MacDugal, grew quite impatient and nearly showed himself.”
“I wanted to see my wife. Is that a crime?”
“It is when she is a colonel in the rebel army, and when you spend nearly an hour in the company of Lord George Murray before your wife is even aware of your presence in the camp. It is when you've been passing documents and dispatches through Adrienne de Boule for the past several months, helping her play spy.”
Angus felt a cool, ghostly shiver ripple down his spine.
“Oh, yes, I've known about her little games for some time too. I would have had her arrested long before now if she weren't so damned energetic in bed. I vow she can do more
with a few little muscles than a man of twice her strength pumping with two fists. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again as if the memory was a pleasant one.
“Where is Mademoiselle de Boule now?”
“Where she belongs. Flat on her back with her legs spread, entertaining the men of my company. An added fillip, you might say, in honor of the duke's birthday. Actually, I was informed about an hour ago that she bit one man so hard he had to strangle her before she would let go, but up until then she was a genuine little rebel hellcat, spitting and hissing, accommodating two men at a time, if you can imagine—”
“You godless son of a bitch.” Angus started forward, but the sudden appearance of a pistol in Worsham's hand halted him two steps shy of reaching his goal. Worsham pushed to his feet, thrusting the nose of the cocked flintlock into the soft hollow above Angus's collarbone, pressing hard enough to almost crush the windpipe.
“Hands up, and back away, Captain. Your heroics do not impress me, and I would as soon pull the trigger as not.”
“Then why don't you?”
“Believe me, it would be my pleasure, but I'm sure Cumberland will want to speak with you. And then there is the anticipation of seeing the look on that arrogant fool Garner's face when I reveal your duplicity, for you did indeed have him convinced you were the second coming of Christ. I have been savoring the moment far too long to let it end too quickly, but I promise you I could get over my disappointment if you press me. Now … hands up, if you please. And stand back.”
Angus raised his hands slowly, palms out, fingers stiffly together.
“Very good. Now turn around and—”
Angus had seen it done once in Paris, at a demonstration of Oriental fighting skills, but he had never tried it, did not even know if it would accomplish more than causing Worsham's finger to squeeze the trigger. But he slanted both hands inward and brought them cutting sharply down in a V,
chopping into the sides of the major's neck with as much force as he could bring to bear.
Surprise, more than skill of execution, startled Worsham into staggering back a step. The nose of the gun dipped down for a moment, which was all Angus needed to clench his fist and deliver a more conventional blow to Worsham's jaw.
The major's head snapped up and back and he staggered again, but he recovered enough of his senses to duck the next punch, even to swing his pistol up and strike Angus across the temple. The skin over MacKintosh's eye split, and in seconds the left side of his face was awash in blood, yet it did not slow him or hamper his aim in any way as he drew the dirk from the waist of his kilt and stabbed it forward. The tip of the blade skidded off a brass button and sliced through the scarlet wool of Worsham's tunic just below the breastbone. Angus barely thought about it as he drove the blade forward and jerked it up, slicing through skin and muscle and finally through the spongy mass of lung. He jerked the blade again, his rage lifting the major up onto his toes even as his body curled forward around the impact of the blow.
Worsham's hand sprang open, dropping the gun. His mouth gaped and his eyes bulged, and he stared in disbelief as Angus bared his teeth, jerking the blade a third time.
Worsham's hands clawed around Angus's shoulders for support. Blood surged up his throat and ran from between his lips; it bubbled through the scarlet wool and splattered the front of Angus's doublet.
“You're a goddamned snuff-taker,” he gasped, his face twisting with the irony of his final few moments. “I've never even seen you draw your sword.”
The strength went out of his arms, out of his legs, and Angus watched impassively as the major slumped to the floor. He reached over at the last and pulled his dirk out of the sodden red tunic, but Worsham's eyes were already glazing, losing their focus. The body continued to shudder a few moments more, but it was over.