Midnight Honor

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 poorthing 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 everythingin 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