Midnight Honor

have been harder pressed to win avictory. But win we did. And since you have rather cleverly avoided answering any of our questions directly, nor have you denied your politics or your involvement in this uprising, you leave us no choice but to find there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant arresting you on charges of sedition and rebellion. I expect we could hold a trial right now and find you guilty, but, as I have said, this is a delicate situation and we must preserve the appearance of civility and fairness, must we not?”
    From the moment Anne had walked into the courthouse she had known what the outcome would be. She had also bitten her tongue enough times to taste blood, but this was too much and she could not prevent the two blooms of color that rose to stain her cheeks.
    “Civility
and
fairness?
Is that what I saw on the road coming into Inverness today? I counted fourteen bodies stripped naked and mutilated, left lying on the grass to be kicked and spat upon by every soldier who walked past. I am told there are still men alive on the field at Culloden who have been left out in the bitter cold, their wounds unattended, guards placed around the moor to prevent their families from taking them so much as a sip of water so that they might die easy. Yet you offer me
civility
and
fairness?
Why, because I am a woman and you would be called far worse names than ‘Butcher Billy’ if you were to hang me”—she glared directly at Henry Hawley—“whether you used silken cords or not?”
    The duke's eyes bulged a little wider. “Your mockery does you no credit, madam.”
    “Nor does your gullibility,
sir,”
she countered. “If you are willing to give credence to a report that there were women on the field at Falkirk, what must that do to further enhance the fine reputation of the brave men under your general's command who turned and ran that day?”
    Hawley made a choking sound in his throat and might have leaped across the table if not for another officer, who introduced himself as Colonel Cholmondeley, taking up the challenge.
    “If, as you say, you were only keeping company with the wives of the other officers, we would remind you your husband wore the regimental colors of the Royal Scots brigades!”
    “He had his preferences for company, sir; I had mine.”
    “You are the niece of Fearchar Farquharson, are you not?”
    “I am his granddaughter.”
    Cholmondeley took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and scratched a notation down on paper. “Was it he who persuaded you to disobey your husband and call out your clan for the Pretender?”
    “Since I was a child, sir, I have not been persuaded to do anything I did not want to do.”
    “We notice you have not yet inquired as to your husband's health,” Cumberland pointed out. “Are you not curious to know how he fared in the recent dispute?”
    “If Lord MacKintosh were dead,” she said, attending upon a loose thread on her cuff, “I expect I should have heard by now.”
    “You have not had any contact with him over the past three days?”
    Anne dismissed the notion along with the pulled thread. “I have neither seen nor spoken to my husband in several weeks, nor, to my knowledge, has
he
made any inquiries as to the state of
my
comfort or health. I expect, in fact, you will hear from him long before I do, when he discovers his prize herd of cattle has been appropriated and his home left in shambles by your soldiers. These would be far more likely to draw his attention than the peccadilloes of an errant wife.”
    Cumberland smiled. It was an evil, sly kind of smile that began with a thoughtful pursing of the too-red lips and spread across his porcine face like a bloody slash.
    “As it happens, my dear, your husband is quite close by. Within a hundred paces, I should think.” He turned to consult one of the officers. “The hospital is a hundred paces away, would you not say?”
    Anne stiffened. “Hospital?”
    “Well, not in actual fact a hospital,” Cumberland said, swiveling on his heel to look back at her. “But we could not very well put our wounded officers in with the common rabble.”
    It took two attempts for the rasp in Anne's throat to form audible words. “Angus was wounded?”
    “He was struck down on the battlefield—he took a saberin the belly, I believe. The doctors will, of course, do all they can, but…” He shrugged as if the devil cared more than he. “Belly wounds, in my experience, are usually quick to turn