Midnight Honor

prince's cause?
    There had been hints, even outright contradictions in his behavior that she should have noticed, if not for her own arrogance and self-righteous pride. The night she had stolen the treaty agreement out of the Lord President's study, for one. He could have simply stepped out from behind the curtain and stopped her, but she had been too wrapped up in her own cockiness at the time to even ask why he had not. Was it because he had gone back to the library intending to steal the dispatches himself? Was it because he knew if she took them, they would eventually find their way into the right hands anyway?
    “Oh, what a dreadful, posturing fool he must think me,” she whispered.
    Lord George smiled. “On the contrary. He believes you are the bravest woman he knows, and that both your courage and your loyalty come without compromise—a rarity even in most men.”
    “Well,” she said, returning a faint imitation of his smile, “if he thinks so highly of me, how indeed could I disappoint him now by quailing before a few thousand of Cumberland's soldiers?”
    “I am sure he would not want you to deliberately place yourself in danger, Anne.”
    She thought about it a moment, but shook her head. “No. I cannot run away, either. I must be here when Angus comes home. And he will come home. I know it.”
    Lord George sighed and took one of her hands in his, raising it to his lips. “It has been an honor to have you in my army, Colonel. I pray you are right and Angus is soon back by your side, where he belongs.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven
    T he soldiers came to Moy Hall three days later. There were upward of two hundred, half of whom had split away to circle the loch to the north, the other half to the south. Their scouts must have waited to hear Lord George had moved the clans out the previous afternoon, for although their approach was cautious—especially along the tree-lined route Colonel Blakeney's brave men had taken six weeks earlier—they strutted into the glen as if they owned it.
    Word had preceded them from Inverness that Lady Drummuir's blatant condescension toward her houseguests had earned her a gaol cell at the Tolbooth. Because of Angus's service in the king's regiments, there had been some debate over what must be done about his Jacobite wife, and it was Hawley who suggested that if they were balking at the thought of hanging a woman, he would instruct his executioners to use silk cords.
    Cumberland was only slightly more pragmatic. He issued an order for the arrest of “Colonel Anne” and dispatched a company to fetch her to Inverness. Since Anne had been forewarned of this, she dressed with extra special care. Her hair was plied with hot tongs and swept back in a crown of glossy curls. The gown she wore to greet her visitors was rose-colored watered silk, cut low enough to display more fleshthan the flimsy gauze tucking piece could modestly shield from view. The small army of servants had cleared every trace of her recent guests out of the house, and Lord George had ordered that every cart, blanket, and scrap of refuse be taken away when the clansmen departed. Thus, at a casual glance, the parks looked relatively unused, and the officer in charge of the detail wondered if perhaps the reports had been exaggerated or wrong altogether. It would not be the first time they had been misinformed of a rebel's whereabouts, or indeed of a rebel's very participation, and he was particularly reminded of an incident less than a month ago when the laird of a manor was hanged from his own gates for being a spy, only to be cleared later of all charges.
    The officer had been sent to arrest a “red-haired Amazon” of such manly proportions as to have been mistaken on the battlefield for a Highlander. The lovely young woman who greeted him at the door of Moy Hall was perhaps taller than the average female, but there the description faltered.
    “Lady MacKintosh? Lady Anne MacKintosh?”
    “One and the same, sir,” she replied, smiling. “Whom do I have the favor of addressing?”
    “Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Cockayne, Pulteney's Royal Foot, at your service.” He started to salute, but saw her bemused expression and bowed instead. When he straightened and saw that she was still frowning with polite bewilderment, he added, “Is your husband at home, by any chance?”
    “Forgive me, no. I believe he is in Inverness with his regiment. Perhaps I might be of some help? But first, please, where are my