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surroundings.
    “If we're no' gonny attack, we'd best move further back,” he advised. “Otherwise
we'll
be the apples in the barrel.”
    Worsham detected the derision in the tracker's voice and thrust a thumb down between each finger to adjust the fit of his leather gloves. “I have seen enough anyway. It's too bloody cold to stand about watching the smoke rise from the chimney. Keep half of the men here with you, MacDugal, and put them where you will. I'll take the rest back with me to Inverness. When MacGillivray's guests leave—or if any others arrive—I want them followed.”
    “By this flock o' bloody lobsterbacks? In this snow they'll stick out like licks o' flame.”
    “You have a better idea?”
    “Aye. Take the lot o' them back tae Inverness wi' ye. Lomach an' I will manage on our own.”
    Worsham searched for the dark blot of the other tartan-clad Highlander, but having no success, settled his gaze on MacDugal. “I don't want to lose Farquharson in these hills.”
    “Ye won't. Old as he is, he's nae daft enough tae leave Dunmaglass tonight. No' with The MacGillivray guaranteeing his safety. An' mark my words”—he paused and screwed his eyes upward to look at the sky—“it'll get a fair sight worse out here afore it gets any better.”
    Within the hour, Eneas had arrived at the same conclusion. “Snow's gettin' heavier,” he murmured, glancing through a slat in the window shutters. “If ye're determined tae go back tonight, Annie, ye'd best be leavin' soon.”
    Since staying away from home all night was not an option she could even briefly consider, Anne looked reluctantly away from the fire and nodded. She had not said much in the pastten minutes or so. Fearchar had dropped off again and the twins had carried him away to his bed. Gillies had volunteered to fetch more wood, though she suspected he only wanted an excuse to remove himself from the tension that had filled the room since The MacGillivray's startling announcement.
    “Me? They want
me
to lead the clan away?” Anne had gasped.
    MacGillivray had only shrugged his big shoulders and she had not been sure if the smile playing across his lips was intended to express his amusement or his derision.
    She had turned then, to stare at her cousins and grandfather. “You cannot be serious.”
    “We're deadly serious, lass,” Fearchar declared. “Ye're the only one can dae it.”
    “Surely not the only one.”
    “Onliest one the men will listen tae. Ye're the wife o' the chief. Ye're a Farquharson. Ye're ma granddaughter, an' by God's grace ye've more courage in yer wee finger than Angus Moy can lay claim tae in his entire body.”
    “He is not a coward, Granda',” she insisted quietly.
    “He just disna want tae fight. Well an' good then, we can fight wi'out him. I've gone through all the laws, lassie, an' there's naught says a woman canna lead the clan. I grant ye, it's never been done afore, but then we've never had an army marched all the way tae London afore either! We've never had a prince willin' tae risk everythin' he has tae walk in the mud alongside his troops! We've never had a general like Lord George Murray, nor have we ever had brave men the likes o' Lochiel an' Keppoch an' Lord John Drummond willin' tae risk everythin', tae lose everythin' tae fight f'ae Scotland's freedom. All ye need, lass, is the signatures of a hundred lairds willin' tae acknowledge ye as their leader an' the law says ye can send out the
crosh tarie
an' call the men tae arms.”
    For generations, the burning cross had been sent out across the Highlands as both a demand for clansmen to answer a summons by their chief, and a threat of punishment by fire if they failed to show up at the appointed time and place.
    “The signatures of a hundred lairds?” She offered up a sound that fell somewhere between a scoff and a curse. “Is that all? No armor, no mighty Excalibur, no steel helmet with horns growing out of the sides?”
    “Ye'd not actually be expected