Midnight Honor

Though I do not imagine his reaction to be all that different from that of many. Hanging women is not what this is about, Colonel Blakeney, and would serve no purpose other than to make the young woman a martyr to the cause. Create martyrs and you create sympathy. No, Lady Anne is not to be molested in any way. Her husband is still a loyal officer in His Majesty's service, and I have given him the same guarantees I have given to others”—he looked pointedly at MacLeod—“to ensure his continuing
voluntary
support. If, as you say, there is a strongpossibility of ending this whole sordid affair tonight, we will need The MacKintosh to pull his clan back under tight rein.”
    “What of The MacGillivray?” Loudoun asked. “I am of the opinion he has become a liability we cannot afford in war or peace.”
    “I gave no warranty against accidents,” Forbes said. “And in the aftermath of hostilities, there are always … accidents.” He looked at Colonel Blakeney, and the decision was made. “Bring me Scotland's prince, sir, and you shall have England's gratitude.”
    Douglas Forbes needed a few moments to catch his breath. He had stumbled out of Lord Loudoun's office and barely made it to a supporting wall before his knees gave way.
    They were going to arrest Lady Anne! They were going to put her in chains and lock her away in a rat-infested gaol cell until a spectacle could be made of her hanging! It was too much. It was too damned much—and he could not allow that to happen!
    Wary of the colonel's adjutant watching him, Douglas straightened himself and his clothes and strode as calmly as he could out of the headquarters and into the yard. Twilight was full upon them, and since the afternoon sun had been strong enough to melt most of the snow inside the fort, the myriad puddles shone like scattered pieces of broken mirror.
    Feigning no great hurry, he called for his horse. When it was brought to him, he mounted and waved to the guards on the massive gates as he passed through. Inverness, a mile from the fort, was tiny by comparison to the other major ports of Glasgow and Edinburgh. Of the three thousand permanent residents, many had discreetly vacated their city homes to visit friends and relatives farther north in the more remote regions of Skye. If, as they feared, the final battle for possession of the Highlands would occur here, they would be faced with either a lengthy occupation by the Jacobites or the less than appealing military rule of Cumberland's army.
    For all that it sickened Douglas to listen to the plottings and intrigues, he knew his uncle was right. Capture Charles Stuart, and Cumberland would have no reason to bring his army north. Inverness would be spared the reprisals of war,and her residents could return to their normal everyday affairs.
    He had no quarrel with that reasoning. None at all. By the same token, however, he had become more and more convinced over the months that Scotland warranted better than being essentially a colony of England. The country was unique, the people were unique, and who were men like his uncle to decide what was best for them? England had surely fought hard enough to defend itself against French and Spanish attempts at invasions in the past, when a victory by either nation would have eradicated their way of life and imposed foreign rule. Why did they then feel it was their right to turn around and dictate to the Scots and the Irish and the Welsh how they should be ruled, whom they should pray to, and how their people should speak or dress?
    Douglas realized these were all seditious thoughts, but again, when did pride and honor and a quest for freedom become sedition?
    He pulled up sharply on the reins, not even aware of where he had been riding until he found himself at the end of Church Street. There, well back from the road, its windows winking at him through a long avenue of trees, was Drummuir House. The dowager would know what to do. She would know how to get a message to Lady Anne.
    He spurred his horse forward and, after explaining to a liveried doorman that there was some urgency behind his unexpected visit, he was taken up the stairs to Lady Drummuir's private sitting room. The ten minutes he was forced to wait seemed interminable, but eventually he heard the rustle of silk petticoats and turned from the window to be greeted by his unsmiling hostess wearing a beaded black lace cap and voluminous bombazine sack dress.
    “Well?” The dowager wasted