Midnight Honor

news sheets get wind of any suggestion that the battle orders were forged, or in any way, ah, tampered with that day, the repercussions could be perilous and far-reaching. Moreover—”
    “Yes, yes.” The duke cut him off, aware of Anne's proximity and of the heavily armed clansmen who, although they might not be able to hear or understand what was being said, were a viable threat nonetheless.
    “You are a grave disappointment to me, MacKintosh,” the duke said. “I had high hopes for your future here in the Highlands. I could have made you a rich man, a powerful man; you could have had a seat in Parliament, become a Minister even, and replaced that milksop Forbes.”
    “I have all the wealth I need right here,” Angus said, his eyes locked on Anne. “And if I have disappointed you, Your Grace, then
I
can die with a clear conscience.”
    The duke smirked and murmured under his breath, “Sooner, perhaps, than you think.”
    But Angus heard him and grinned as he raised his arm again, bringing another circle of armed Highlanders forward out of the woods. These men were on horseback, the beasts clearly outfitted with the military saddles and trappings that identified them as mounts of the King's Royal Dragoons.
    “Did you meet with any difficulties?” Angus asked.
    “No, sar,” said Ewen MacCardle. “Found 'em right where ye said they'd likely be, lying in wait for an ambuscade. Left the lot of 'em trussed up like hogs in a bog.”
    Angus's smile was as ominous as the assortment of knivesand pistols that glittered in his crossbelts. He came forward, and the duke, it was noted by all, took an instinctive step back. The soldiers who had escorted him suddenly found themselves disarmed, as did the guards who had brought Anne from the Tolbooth. Fearing the worst, the officious clerk from London took out a large white square of linen and began to mop his brow.
    “Oh dear, oh dear,” he muttered. “This was supposed to end peacefully.”
    “And it will,” Angus said, snatching the quill and ink out of the frozen hands of Cumberland's adjutant. “Just as soon as His Grace signs the pardon.”
    “You would dare threaten violence against my person?” Cumberland hissed, his eyes bulging.
    “I would not only threaten it, I would happily slit your throat and the throat of every man in your guard. Moreover I would bury you so deep in these woods the hellhounds would never find the bodies, much less learn what had become of you—a similar fate, I expect, to the one you were planning for my wife and me?”
    The duke pursed his lips for a moment, then took the quill, stabbed the tip in ink, and scratched out his signature on the designated page. Angus removed it from the ledger and blew gently on the angry scrawl before folding it and handing it to the clerk. “If anything happens to this, I will personally come looking for you. If I do not hear from my London solicitor within the week telling me that he has received it, I will come for your family as well. Do I make myself clear?”
    The clerk swooned backward, swabbing his temples and throat. “Oh … inestimably clear, my lord.”
    “Good. Now go with my men. They will stay with you until your ship sails.”
    “Wait,” Cumberland demanded. He shoved the ledger at Anne and tapped the confession. “I insist on having her signature as well, if you please.”
    Angus looked disdainfully at the pudgy finger. “I hardly think you are in a position at the moment to insist on anything.”
    “No,” Anne said, “I would be happy to sign it.”
    She reached out for the quill. Her hands were still boundtogether, which made the movement awkward and brought a savage curse to Angus's lips. Torchlight flared off the blade he drew from his crossbelt; with a single stroke, she was free.
    Anne waited until her fingers steadied, then signed her name with an elegant flourish:
Anne Farquharson Moy Mhic an Tosaich, Colonel, HRH Charles Stuart Royal Scots Brigade
.

Epilogue
    A nne traced her fingers gently over the ugly welt of scar tissue that marred the smooth skin below her husband's ribs. He was lying on his side, asleep, but at the touch of her fingers, then her lips, he stirred and rolled slowly onto his back. He saw the threat of tears in her eyes and he sighed, enfolding her in his arms and holding her close against his chest.
    “It wasn't your fault,” he murmured, burying his lips in her hair. “You didn't know what you were doing.”
    “I knew enough to