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over his forehead; his beard shielded everything below the beaklike nose, leaving only a narrow strip free for his eyes.
    The English officer's scarlet tunic was concealed beneath a voluminous black greatcoat. He was temporarily hatless, but the fresh white flakes of snow barely survived a moment or two on the dark cap of hair before they dissolved into tiny beads of water. He was clean shaven, his face a hard mask of concentration softened only by the shallow puffs of steam that gave substance to each breath.
    “How many more do you suppose are up there?”
    “Could be two,” said the Scot. “Could be twenny. MacGillivray is a cautious bastard; I'm surprised we managed tae get as close as we have.”
    The major cursed under his breath, for he had not even been aware they were on MacGillivray's land until a few moments ago and he was just thankful
he
had been cautious enough to order a circuitous approach through the woods.
    “Have we any idea who those two riders were?”
    “Could ha' been any one of a barrel full o' rebels come tae meet with the auld bastard.”
    “You are absolutely certain Fearchar Farquharson is in that cottage?”
    “As certain as I am o' the nose on ma face. Lomach saw the youngest Monaltrie in Inverness today an' followed him here, an' if he's inside yon house, so are his brithers, an' so is their granda'. Like apples in a barrel.”
    “Yes. And that barrel belongs to Dunmaglass.”
    “Ye're leakin' a bit o' piss worryin' about The MacGillivray? He stops a lead ball just as easily as any ither man.”
    The English officer turned his head to stare at the Highlander. “I am sure he does. But how many of his men will be spitting lead at us before we even have a chance to get to him? There could be a dozen more burrowed into those blasted rocks, the same again inside the house and barn— none of them chosen for either their poor aim or their reluctance to demonstrate it. We have fifteen good men I would as soon not squander on an attack that holds little promise of success.” He turned his gaze back to the house. “Besides, the old fox is worth much more to me alive than dead, for he attracts these rebels like flies to dung and we merely have to watch him to see who comes to pay homage.”
    The Highlander expelled a hoary breath. He knew there was no use arguing with the
Sassenach
, though it galled him to have to let such a plum opportunity slip through his fingers. He owed the arrogant MacGillivray a scar or two for past insults.
    Hugh MacDugal of Argyle was not paid to eat gall, but he was paid—and paid well—as a tracker. His nose was as keen as that of any bloodhound and it was no idle boast to say he could follow an ant through a forest in a rainstorm. Just as the MacCrimmon clansmen were known for piping the sweetest music in all of Caledonia, the MacDugals had bred generations of hunters. Hugh's services, along with those of his brother Lomach, had been contracted by the English within hours of the Stuart prince raising his standard at Glenfinnan.
    Major Roger Worsham, on the other hand, had only arrived in the Highlands a fortnight ago. Unlike most English officers who treated the posting at Inverness like an exile, and who familiarized themselves first with the local whisky, second with the local whores, Worsham had remained aloof and apart, preferring his own company when he was not otherwise engaged in army matters. He reported directly to Lord Loudoun, yet he was not yet attached to any specific regiment. Rumor was he had been sent to Inverness by the Duke of Cumberland himself.
    Worsham started to edge back into the denser cover of the trees, and with a vigilant glance around the rocks, MacDugal followed, keeping low until the shadows and increasing snowfall were likely to mask any hint of movement. Despite the thickness of the fir trees, the rest of the men were clearly visible, the scarlet of their tunics glowing a dull blood red against the bluish gloom of their