Midnight Honor

belly as she watched the royal scion dismount and stride up to the porticoed entrance of Moy Hall.
    “Your Grace,” she said, offering a deep curtsy.
“Cend mile failte”.'
    “Ma belle rebelle
, a thousand thanks for your hospitality in return.” As had become his habit of late, he held a scented lace handkerchief in his hand, its dual purpose being to wipe the constantly dripping moisture from his nose and to camouflage the smell of strong spirits on his breath. His cheeks were flushed with a slight fever he had been nursingfor the past day or so, and the splashes of color looked like pink paint against the absolute paleness of his skin. He was dressed for the weather in black breeches topped by a heavy leather doublet and wool coat. His stock was plain white cambric, not very clean, and his copper-colored hair was dull, plastered flat to his skull by the dampness of the battered wool bonnet for which he had acquired a fondness.
    “I have a bath waiting and rooms prepared, Sire,” Anne said, welcoming him into the elegant foyer of Moy Hall. “If it please Your Highness, my steward will show you the way and remain to tend to any further requirements you might have.”
    “My thanks, dear lady, but I do not wish to be of any burden. A bath and a bed are all I desire at the moment.” He paused and coughed into his handkerchief, waving away a concerned aide who stepped instantly forward. “Perhaps a bowl of broth, however, very hot and salty. And some beef, or a guinea hen well cooked and dressed with mint, if that is at all possible. Oh, and I should dance a caper for a taste of venison simmered in a wine-and-onion sauce. And chocolate. Stirred to a froth with just a touch of sugar?”
    “I shall speak to the cook directly, Sire; if I have it in my house, it is yours.”
    He smiled vapidly and nodded to Hardy, who then led the royal entourage up the stairs to the second-floor apartments.
    There were more guests waiting outside the door. Alexander Cameron had at first declined Anne's invitation to stay at Moy Hall, but because his wife, Catherine, had seemed to succumb to the same exhaustion and listlessness that was affecting the prince, he had changed his mind and agreed that a warm room with a soft feather bed would be a welcome change from a damp, drafty tent. MacKail's wife, Deirdre, accompanied Lady Catherine and was equally happy to accept Anne's hospitality. Their husbands deposited them into Anne's care before they rode off to see to the placement of sentries.
    Underneath several layers of grime, Catherine Cameron was a delicate blond beauty with the porcelain white skin prized so highly by the English. Her father, Sir Alfred Ashbrooke, was a member of the House of Lords, and not toovery long ago she had been the toast of England's upper society. The gossips had not exaggerated when they said she had given up everything to be with her rogue Highland laird. Dressed in woolen trews and an oversized cambric shirt, she looked more like an orphan than the wife of a legend, but even so, Anne felt like a too-tall, thick-limbed Percheron disguised in blue satin, her skin weathered by the elements, her nose a crest of freckles, the thickness of her brogue a heartbeat away from what must be indecipherable Gaelic to a refined English ear.
    “Lady Catherine,” she began, articulating every word with care. “I am so pleased to have you and your husband as my guests. You as well, Mrs. MacKail. If you will follow wee Drena there, she will show you to your rooms.”
    “Please, just call me Catherine. I haven't felt like a lady for a very long time.”
    Her smile was genuinely self-deprecating and Anne felt the first wave of relief since hearing the sheepdog usher the riders into the glen.
    “Then you must call me Anne and we can dispense with all the formalities, shall we?”
    “I would like that, thank you. Have you met my brother, Damien Ashbrooke? He was delayed in joining us until we were breaking camp and leaving Falkirk.”
    A tall, darker version of Catherine stepped forward, his smile as infectious as his sister's.
    “Colonel Anne. I have heard a great deal about you—your name has even made it into the news sheets in London—and believe me, the pleasure of this meeting is all mine.”
    Anne might have given her opinion of the London news sheets had Deirdre MacKail not given off a startled little cry. Catherine was swaying, a hand held shakily to her temple, and Damien had to move quickly to catch