Midnight Honor

even self-defense and leave the corpse where it was to be discovered after the battle.
    The dilemma of what to do was temporarily taken out of his hands when he peered through the canvas flap of the tent and saw another eyeball peering in.
    He jumped back, his heart lodged in his throat. A moment later his adjutant, Ewen MacCardle, ducked through the flap, bearing a small tray with some foodstuffs and a cup of steaming black tea.
    “Mornin', sar. The general has ordered no fires lit an' nomeal f'ae the men. He thinks they'll fight better on an empty belly. I managed tae find ye some biscuit 'n' cheese, but.”
    Angus felt sweat gathering on his brow as he studied his aide. Had it been Robert Hardy attending him, he would have had no qualms bringing the man into his confidence. MacCardle was politely indifferent, however, and one never knew where one stood with him; if he approved, disapproved, resented, admired.
    “I have a small problem,” Angus said slowly. “I was hoping you could help me with it.”
    “Aye, sar, if I can.”
    Angus reached inside his tunic and withdrew the white ribbon cockade. If MacCardle recoiled or shouted an alarm, the game would be up then and there, and it would not matter if the body was discovered in his tent or not.
    MacCardle's eyes fixed on the cockade and remained there for almost a full minute before rising slowly to Angus's face. Once there, he seemed to notice the purpling lump over his temple and the lame attempt to conceal it beneath a wave of brown hair. The hazel eyes, which MacKintosh had considered to be rather dull up to now, flicked back down to the cockade and considered it another long moment before he pursed his lips and nodded.
    “You don't seem too surprised.”
    “That ye're a rebel playin' at bein' an officer o' His Majesty's Royal Scots?” He shrugged. “Half the men in the Highland brigades would be wearin' the Stuart colors if they didna have tae worry about their wives an' bairns bein' burned out o' their homes.”
    “What about you? Do you have a wife and bairns?”
    MacCardle grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “In truth, I've two wives, one in Glasgy, an' one in Perth. The Glasgy one has a face like a cooked boar, but her faither is rich an' said as how I had tae jine up wi' the Campbells tae protect his land. The lass in Perth is rounder an' sweeter, an' her brithers are with Lord John Drummond. So if ye're after askin' me where I'd rather be right the now, I might tell ye Perth, but if ye're askin' me tae help ye drive a blade intae the belly o' fat Willie, I'd have tae tell ye Glasgy.”
    “The blade, I'm afraid, has already been driven.” Angus expelled a breath and crossed over to the cot. He lifted the edge of the blanket, watching the hazel eyes flick down and widen slightly when they saw the stiffened body.
    “Aye, sar,” MacCardle murmured. “Now that's what I would call a problem.”
    “I am due at the parade ground with my regiment. God only knows what will happen on the field today, but if Major Worsham's body is discovered here, I am a dead man regardless.”
    MacCardle's jaw twisted slightly as he weighed his choices. “Aye. Go on, then. Leave the bastard wi' me. I'll think on sum'mit tae do wi' him.”
    “You would be putting yourself at great risk to help me, Ewen.”
    “Then ye'd best get on about yer business afore I think on it too much an' change ma mind.”
    Angus tucked the white cockade back inside his tunic and snatched up his bonnet. After a parting glance at the cot, then at MacCardle, he ducked out into the freezing drizzle and joined the flow of men moving toward the parade ground. He found his own regiment and stood to attention in the miserable cold, guessing there were upward of nine thousand others standing and waiting for the order to march.
    At a signal from the drummers, they came to the ready, moving out right foot first, toe to the opposite heel of the man in front, the firelocks of their muskets tucked beneath their arms to keep the pans and chambers dry. They marched in columns six abreast, heading west along the valley of the Nairn, saluted by two heavy guns mounted on the slopes of Balblair House as they passed.
    His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, sat on his horse watching the men strike past, admiring their precision and determination. He was not easy to mistake: His frock coat was scarlet, banded with thick gold braid. Wide, pointed lapels of royal blue framed a face that was as dark and