Midnight Honor

guessed it must be past midnight, a few of the campfires had solemn circles of men around them.
    Balblair House was ablaze with lights. It sat atop a hill like a crown jewel, sparkling through the dark mist. Cumberland was likely playing at cards with a pretty woman by his side, a favorite pastime for someone who had banned gambling and women from the company tents. Angus had been told the duke had taken to smiling a great deal at Adrienne de Boule, which did not sit well with Major Worsham. William was the king's son, after all, portly and disagreeable though he might be, and royal scions were notorious for simply taking what they wanted if it pleased them.
    Turning into his own row of tents, Angus dismounted and handed the reins off to a private. It had taken him nearly two hours to traverse the distance between the two camps, and his horse was muddied to the base of his neck for his troubles. The ground was so soft and spongy in places, he'd had to circle well out of his way, and he could only wonder how menon foot would manage. Surely they had departed Culloden by now. Even adding for the extra time it might take to circumvent the worst of the boggy terrain, Angus guessed they would not arrive before three or four o'clock in the morning. He had been cautioned that when the fighting erupted, he should stay in his tent if that was at all possible, or if not, to pin the white cockade prominently on his plaid to avoid being run through by another eager Highlander.
    Smiling grimly to himself, he touched the cut on the side of his neck. His fingers came away dotted with blood, and he realized he would have to bandage it before the constant rubbing of his collar managed to do what the knife had not.
    He lifted the flap on the tent and stepped inside, freezing just the other side of the pole. His cot was in disarray, his kit opened and the contents strewn about the blankets. A lamp was lit, but the wick was turned so low he had not noticed the glow against the canvas outside. It was barely bright enough to illuminate the figure seated in the corner, or the long, thin nose and pointed chin that identified Major Roger Worsham.
    “Captain MacKintosh. I was beginning to think you were never coming back.”
    Angus glanced pointedly at his upturned kit. “So you thought you would ransack my personal possessions?”
    “No. I merely did not trouble myself to replace them this time.”
    If he was expecting an indignant protest, he was disappointed. More than once Angus had opened his kit to find things slightly out of place, as if the contents of the trunk had been searched and carefully put back in order. He had been assigned a new subaltern, Ewen MacCardle, to act as his personal aide, but even though the man was no Robert Hardy, he was not so sloppy as to forget from one day to the next that Angus preferred his shirts laid top to bottom, not side to side.
    In truth, he didn't give a hang how his shirts were packed, but after the first incident when he suspected his belongings had been thoroughly searched, he had expressed the preference to MacCardle, who had been obliging ever since.
    Angus stripped off his gloves. “Find anything that interested you? Dirty laundry? Unpolished buttons? A commendationfrom Charles Stuart, perhaps, applauding me for my loyalty to his father?”
    Worsham's eyes narrowed. “You make light of these things, MacKintosh, but I get the distinct feeling there is more truth behind your words than brevity. Where were you tonight, for instance?”
    “My personal time is my own, sir. I do not have to answer to you.”
    “Would you prefer to answer to the duke?”
    “I would prefer it if you removed yourself from my tent so I could get some sleep.” He turned away from the major and shrugged his plaid off his shoulders. “It has been a long day and the muster is for four-thirty, if I'm not mistaken.”
    Worsham tipped his head to the side. “You seem to have cut yourself, Captain.”
    Angus instinctively touched a finger to his neck. “Yes. It … was an accident. My own carelessness.”
    “It looks painful. I'm surprised your wife did not dress it for you.”
    “She had other things on her mind and was a little preoc-cup—” He stopped. He clamped his lips together, barely refraining from cursing out loud.
    Worsham, of course, was smiling. It had been too, too easy.
    “It is a shame, really. You were doing rather well up until now. Even tonight, riding off in the direction of Kingsteps and