Midnight Honor

waiting in the forest for an hour. My tracker, Hugh MacDugal, grew quite impatient and nearly showed himself.”
    “I wanted to see my wife. Is that a crime?”
    “It is when she is a colonel in the rebel army, and when you spend nearly an hour in the company of Lord George Murray before your wife is even aware of your presence in the camp. It is when you've been passing documents and dispatches through Adrienne de Boule for the past several months, helping her play spy.”
    Angus felt a cool, ghostly shiver ripple down his spine.
    “Oh, yes, I've known about her little games for some time too. I would have had her arrested long before now if she weren't so damned energetic in bed. I vow she can do morewith a few little muscles than a man of twice her strength pumping with two fists. Believe me, I speak from experience.”
    He uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again as if the memory was a pleasant one.
    “Where is Mademoiselle de Boule now?”
    “Where she belongs. Flat on her back with her legs spread, entertaining the men of my company. An added fillip, you might say, in honor of the duke's birthday. Actually, I was informed about an hour ago that she bit one man so hard he had to strangle her before she would let go, but up until then she was a genuine little rebel hellcat, spitting and hissing, accommodating two men at a time, if you can imagine—”
    “You godless son of a bitch.” Angus started forward, but the sudden appearance of a pistol in Worsham's hand halted him two steps shy of reaching his goal. Worsham pushed to his feet, thrusting the nose of the cocked flintlock into the soft hollow above Angus's collarbone, pressing hard enough to almost crush the windpipe.
    “Hands up, and back away, Captain. Your heroics do not impress me, and I would as soon pull the trigger as not.”
    “Then why don't you?”
    “Believe me, it would be my pleasure, but I'm sure Cumberland will want to speak with you. And then there is the anticipation of seeing the look on that arrogant fool Garner's face when I reveal your duplicity, for you did indeed have him convinced you were the second coming of Christ. I have been savoring the moment far too long to let it end too quickly, but I promise you I could get over my disappointment if you press me. Now … hands up, if you please. And stand back.”
    Angus raised his hands slowly, palms out, fingers stiffly together.
    “Very good. Now turn around and—”
    Angus had seen it done once in Paris, at a demonstration of Oriental fighting skills, but he had never tried it, did not even know if it would accomplish more than causing Worsham's finger to squeeze the trigger. But he slanted both hands inward and brought them cutting sharply down in a V,chopping into the sides of the major's neck with as much force as he could bring to bear.
    Surprise, more than skill of execution, startled Worsham into staggering back a step. The nose of the gun dipped down for a moment, which was all Angus needed to clench his fist and deliver a more conventional blow to Worsham's jaw.
    The major's head snapped up and back and he staggered again, but he recovered enough of his senses to duck the next punch, even to swing his pistol up and strike Angus across the temple. The skin over MacKintosh's eye split, and in seconds the left side of his face was awash in blood, yet it did not slow him or hamper his aim in any way as he drew the dirk from the waist of his kilt and stabbed it forward. The tip of the blade skidded off a brass button and sliced through the scarlet wool of Worsham's tunic just below the breastbone. Angus barely thought about it as he drove the blade forward and jerked it up, slicing through skin and muscle and finally through the spongy mass of lung. He jerked the blade again, his rage lifting the major up onto his toes even as his body curled forward around the impact of the blow.
    Worsham's hand sprang open, dropping the gun. His mouth gaped and his eyes bulged, and he stared in disbelief as Angus bared his teeth, jerking the blade a third time.
    Worsham's hands clawed around Angus's shoulders for support. Blood surged up his throat and ran from between his lips; it bubbled through the scarlet wool and splattered the front of Angus's doublet.
    “You're a goddamned snuff-taker,” he gasped, his face twisting with the irony of his final few moments. “I've never even seen you draw your sword.”
    The strength went out of his arms, out of his legs, and Angus watched