Midnight Honor

herself from his grasp. “It is where I belong. Running away will not change anything, nor will it do anything to breach this wall you have thrown up between us.”
    Her rejection, her condemnation cut him to the bone, and he doubted she would listen now even if he did attempt to explain that the wall had been put there deliberately to try to save her from the very pain she was feeling now.
    He stared at her mouth, remembering how willing and eager it had been to answer his whispered pleas only two brief nights ago. How in God's name was he supposed to just turn around and walk out that door knowing that if he did so, she would hate him? How would he be able to close his eyes again and not see her, not hear her, not be haunted by the image of her body moving urgently beneath his?
    His arms dropped down by his sides. “I'm sorry. I should have known better than to … well, I just should have known better. Please forgive me, and forgive this intrusion. I will not disturb you again.”
    “Angus—?”
    “All things considered,” he added curtly, “perhaps it is for the best that you stay here. There are no battlements or cannon mounted on the walls of Drummuir House, but I warrant you will be safer here with my mother blocking the doors than you would be anywhere else. And … if you can … I suggest you get a message to MacGillivray; convince him to remove himself from Dunmaglass for a while. He might notbe too open to taking advice from me at the moment, but Worsham is as bloody-minded as they come, and it would be wise if John put himself out of reach.”
    “I will send a warning to him,” she said, bowing her head, refusing to let him see how close she was to tears. “Thank you.”
    “Do not thank me, Anne. If he was standing before me right now I would be more inclined to give him to Worsham myself than expose you to any further risk.”
    Startled, she looked up into his face, but there was nothing there to ease the tightness in her chest. The mask was firmly in place, his eyes so cool and distant she could scarcely believe he had just asked her to run away with him to France.
    The constricting pressure became too much to bear and she turned her face away, missing the action of his hand as it rose toward her shoulder. It stopped the width of a prayer away from touching her before the long, tapered fingers curled into a tight fist and withdrew.
    “If you need anything while I'm gone, you know where I keep the strongbox.”
    “I will be fine. I bid you have a safe journey to Edinburgh. An unsuccessful one, to be sure, but safe.”
    He studied her profile, saw the bright jewel of a tear trembling at the corner of her eye, and he knew if he did not leave at once, that very moment, he would not be able to leave at all.
    “If there is nothing more—?”
    “No,” she whispered. “There is nothing more we need to say to each other.”
    Angus nodded. Moving woodenly, he retrieved his hat and gloves from the chair, then glanced back at the window. Anne had not moved. She stood fully in the path of the sunbeam, the light turning her skin luminous, gilding the flown wisps of her hair fiery red and gold.
    “Shall I write from Edinburgh?”
    “If it pleases you to do so.”
    He expelled a breath and put his hand on the doorknob. “I'll write, then.”
    The door opened easily enough but his feet could not seem to make it fully across the threshold without stopping again.
    “Anne … I know I have been somewhat of a disappointment to you lately, that I have likely not proven to be the husband of your dreams. But regardless of what happens or does not happen in the coming weeks, I do not want to leave without telling you that I have considered myself a very lucky man these past four years. Extraordinarily lucky, in fact, and I … I want to thank you for that. Perhaps some day, when this is over, you might even be able to find it in your heart to forgive me.”
    Anne said nothing—she could not; she was crying too hard—and a moment later, the door clicked softly shut behind him.

Chapter Nine
    J ohn MacGillivray woke to the sound of whispered voices. They were low and indistinct, clouded by the quantity of harsh spirits he had downed the night before. He had barely made it home to Dunmaglass from Culloden, and when he'd stripped off his blood-soaked waistcoat and shirt and seen the torn stitches, he had known there was only one way to seal the raw edges of flesh. As luck would have it, he had found Gillies