Midnight Honor

was in Angus's big bed with the heavy draperies closed to keep out the drafts. Outside the velvet cocoon, she could hear the wind moaning against the window, rattling the panes of glass with frequent wintry gusts. Inside, there was only the sound of her own breathing and a depression beside her that was still faintly warm, suggesting she had not been alone very long.
    Her husband's nocturnal habits had always baffled her. While she could remain in bed as long as the covers were warm and the pillow soft, Angus rarely stayed an entire night abed regardless of how long a day he'd had, or how late an evening. A light, restless sleeper, he would often be up well before the first servant rubbed the crust out of his eyes. Many a time Anne would waken to find him reading or sitting at his desk catching up on his correspondence. He claimed it was a habit he had acquired in his travels through Europe. In order to see and do all there was to see and do, he had learned how to get by on a meager two or three hours of sleep each night.
    Anne did not think there was a castle anywhere in the world that would inspire her to rise before dawn and traveltwenty miles by horse cart just to glimpse an illusion of battlements floating above a cloud of mist. She was even less likely to cram her feet into shoes with three-inch glass heels just so she could dance the night away in some Russian princeling's court. She preferred the beauty of the glens and ancient keeps right here in Scotland, and there was no greater pleasure on earth than running barefoot through a field fragrant with heather.
    With one possible exception, of course.
    Her smile was decidedly complacent, as was her whole body. It had been so long … too long, since she'd wakened with her nose buried in pillows that smelled of the sandalwood oil Angus used to dress his hair. The scent was distinct and uniquely his, another luxury acquired abroad, for he disliked the chalky feel of powder and rarely tolerated the itch of a wig.
    Mewling through a delicious stretch, she savored the feel of soft linen sheets against her naked body. She felt woolly and drugged, as if someone had given her laudanum and the effects were slow to wear away. Her lips were tender, her cheeks lightly chafed by stubble, and when her hand brushed over her breasts, she found they were still responsive enough for the nipples to gather instantly into tight, crinkled peaks. A languorous shifting of her hips brought attention to a welter of other sensations, most notably the throbbing sleekness between her thighs.
    A faint sound from the other side of the curtain made her lift her head off the pillow. She listened a moment, then rolled quietly to the edge of the bed and ran her hand along the velvet until she found the break where the curtains joined. Careful to guard against the rustling of the mattress, she leaned over and used the tip of her finger to open a sliver between the panels.
    At first she saw nothing for the lack of light. The night lamp glowed in its sconce beside the dressing room, but the wick was turned low, the flame too miserly to give off more than a pinpoint glow and a smudge of smoke. Something in the texture of the shadows drew her gaze to the desk, however, and after a few moments of concentration, she saw Angus seated in the leather chair where he usually scratchedout his letters. He was not writing anything now, however; he sat with his elbows propped on his knees, and his head bowed forward, his chin cradled in his hands.
    Anne nudged the velvet wider. “Angus?”
    When he did not move, or acknowledge her whisper, she moistened her lips and tried again. “Angus … are you all right?”
    He expelled a long breath. “I'm fine. Go back to sleep.”
    “Why are you sitting in the dark?”
    “It isn't dark,” he said, raising his head. “It's just… quiet.”
    Anne drew her legs up and swung them over the side of the bed. She had been carried into the room naked and it was measurably cooler outside the curtains. He was wearing the robe he normally kept beside the bed, and with nothing else at hand, she pulled the top cover off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before she emerged.
    “I trust that is not your subtle way of telling me I snore, milord?”
    His face was just a pale blot against the shadows, so she could not see if her remark won a smile as she approached. The robe was dark blue, the quilted brocade cool to the touch when she ran her hand across his