Midnight Honor

shirt was loosened in a deep V down his chest, hisbooted feet were propped on a tapestry stool. Seeing her husband lounging in much the same position MacGillivray had assumed for most of the evening brought the tiny hairs along her forearms standing up on end.
    “Angus?”
    “You were expecting someone else?”
    “No. No, of course not, but—”
    He held a crystal glass in his hand and began to swirl the contents round and round. To judge by the near-empty decanter of claret on the table beside him, he had been there for quite some time.
    “I… I thought you would have stayed the night on Church Street,” she said lamely.
    “My dear mother would not have thanked me for imposing myself on her hospitality.”
    “I am sure she does not think upon it as an imposition.”
    “It is if she is stockpiling guns in the wine cellar for Prince Charles or hatching plots to storm the citadel at Fort George.” He took a slow sip of wine and let his gaze wander speculatively over her wet and bedraggled appearance. “Besides which, I thought my wife might appreciate my company on such a cold and blustery night. Imagine my surprise and disappointment when I found an empty house.”
    Anne's cheeks warmed as she draped the heavy tartan over the back of a nearby chair.
    “Granda' is in Inverness,” she said, having no wish to play any more games of cat and mouse this night. “I went to see him.”
    The pewter gray eyes narrowed sharply. “Fearchar? He's here? What the good Christ is he doing anywhere near Inverness?”
    Anne forced another measured breath between her lips. It was a rare occasion when her husband used profanity in front of her, even more rare than the times he presented himself with the ends of his cravat trailing unwound down his chest and his shirtfront opened haphazardly over the dark swirls of hair beneath. His manners were normally as polished as his appearance, and in four years of marriage she had yet to witness any major disruption in either. This—the gaping shirt,the mud showing on the soles of his boots, the disheveled lock of chestnut hair fallen over the brow, and the near-empty decanter of claret—evoked a sensation not unlike holding a lit fuse in front of a keg of gunpowder.
    Nor did his eyes do anything to ease her apprehension. They were fastened on her like gun barrels, following her every move as she took off her bonnet and set it alongside her plaid.
    “He came to tell me about the prince's army retreating from Derby. He was surprised I had not already heard the news from you.”
    “Your grandfather's sources are better than the Lord President's. The army dispatch only reached Inverness late this afternoon.”
    “And you rushed right home to tell me?”
    She saw his mouth tighten at her sarcasm and she could have bitten her tongue off at the root, for it occurred to her— too late to save the slow burn in her cheeks—that he might have done exactly that.
    He held her in a fixed stare for a moment longer, then resumed swirling the contents of his glass. “You are aware, are you not, of the dangers involved with being caught in your grandfather's company?”
    “He was careful, I was careful. No one saw me leave the house and I met no one on the road.”
    His gaze flickered downward again and settled on the twin steel-butted dags tucked into her belt. “Please do not tell me you went out on a night like this …
alone?”
    “Robbie met me at the bridge. Eneas brought me home.”
    That almost brought forth a groan. “Sweet Jesus. Your cousins are here, too?”
    “All three of them.” She paused and some reckless inner demon could not resist adding, “Eneas sends his fondest regards.”
    Angus's mouth tightened further, for he and Eneas Farquharson of Monaltrie were not exactly the best of friends. Eneas had waited for Angus outside the church the day of their wedding and pinned him against the wall by a fistful of his fine grogram jacket. He had pressed his lips to the blade of his dirk and sworn a solemn oath to personally carve out TheMacKintosh's heart should there ever be a whisper of mistreatment against their Annie. Angus had heard him out, had suffered the double threat of brute strength and glittering steel without a word, then had coolly straightened his clothes and walked away. To Anne's knowledge, they had not spoken since.
    “Does Fearchar know the countryside is swarming with militia?”
    “It is not the first time Granda' has been named on an English