Midnight Honor

because more than likely there were soldiers at Culloden House waiting to arrest him. Because he was once a friend as well as a clansman, and because I thought if he was implicated in any way, the charges would eventually spread farther afield and end up on the doorstep of Moy Hall. That was, of course, before I stood in the library and watched my wife take a hairpin to the Lord President's locked desk. And before I saw her remove papers and military dispatches that could earn her an extended stay in a gaol cell if, indeed, she avoided the executioner's ax long enough to enjoy prison. For that reason, my dear, you will have to forgive me if I do not feel as though I should be standing here defending
my
actions.”
    Anne's chin revealed the first hint of a tremor, and her eyes had grown so wide and had achieved such a piercing shade of blue, it seemed some of the color tinted the whites.
    “I did not know about the attack on Worsham's men,” she insisted softly. “I did not know John was involved, not until later, when he told me he had been shot.”
    “Shot?”
    She nodded. “In the shoulder.”
    Angus clenched his jaw and pursed his lips, visibly drawing on all of his strength to keep a flood of invectives from exploding forth.
    “Do you,” he asked through his teeth, “still have the dispatches?”
    “No. Your mother thought it best not to keep them in the house.”
    “Dear God.” He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his temple. “What did she do with them? Where did she send them?”
    Although her voice was fiercely steady when she replied, “I do not know,” the lie was in her eyes and Angus did not need a map to follow the course. The courier who brought thedispatches had come directly from France; the papers he carried were from one of the spies Forbes had planted high in the service of King Louis's royal court. Fearchar Farquharson would know exactly what to do with the documents once he opened them and realized what he held in his hands.
    “What do you plan to do now?” she asked softly.
    The question drew him away from his thoughts for a moment. “Do?”
    What he wanted to do was throttle her, but he clasped his hands behind his back instead and avoided her gaze the way she had avoided his earlier. He looked out the window in time to see a falcon glide past, floating effortlessly on the wind currents, its wings outstretched and motionless. Only the head moved, the eyes searching relentlessly for prey, the wickedly hooked beak open in anticipation. It required no vast stretch of the imagination to compare the falcon to Major Roger Worsham, for the officer's eyes held the same carnivorous gleam, his expression the same calculating stillness as he studied his quarry.
    If Worsham suspected Angus of lying about MacGillivray or Anne, the question that should concern them more became: What would
he
do about it?
    Angus knew Anne was watching him, waiting for his answer, and he took a further moment to settle his emotions before he faced her. “What am I going to do? I am going to go home and make the necessary preparations to depart for Edinburgh.”
    “I see.”
    “Do you? Because I do not see where I have a choice, madam. I am an officer in His Majesty's Royal Scots Infantry, and if I refused to obey a direct order, I would likely find myself a fugitive skulking about in the hills alongside your grandfather and cousins.”
    “Or you could say the word, and a thousand good men would join you in marching to meet the prince. If you did, and if you asked me to go with you, I would proudly ride at your side every step of the way.”
    “Would you?” He moved forward, his body cutting through the shaft of sunlight as he reached up and took her face between his hands. “What if I asked you to leave withme now? What if I asked you to come away from here and sail with me to France?”
    Her eyes grew even more impossibly wider, bluer. “France?”
    “I have friends in Paris; we could stay there until things settled down again. This will all be over in a month, two at the utmost.”
    The brief shimmer of hope that had flared in her eyes faded again. Her sense of disbelief and confusion was as easy to read as nearly every other volatile emotion that crossed her face, and for once Angus wished she could be more like the Adrienne de Boules of the world, a blank page on which nothing was written that one did not want to see.
    “This is my home,” she said, reaching up to gently but firmly extricate