Midnight Honor

me?”
    “I've come from Falkirk,” he said. “And, in truth, it was Hardy who found you.”
    “Hardy?”
    “I did not think it would be particularly prudent for anyone to see me roaming around the enemy camp. Besides, I was not entirely certain I would be welcome.”
    “Not welcome? You are my husband, of course you would be welcome.” Then, as if her mind was just catching up with the previous answers, she released his gloved hand and withdrew a step. “Falkirk? You are here with the king's army.”
    It was not a question and it did not require an answer. Now that he had loosened his cloak and lowered the woolen collar, she could see the blazing red of his tunic, the blue facings on his collar and cuffs.
    He saw her staring and blew out a soft breath by way of a wry explanation. “Not particularly wise to be seen leaving the government camp out of uniform, either.”
    Her eyes locked briefly with his before cutting away to the droplets of melting ice on his face and hair.
    “Come.” She backed up toward the hearth. “Sit and warm yourself by the fire. It will only take a moment to build it up hot again. Or … can you not stay?”
    “I can stay. For a little while.”
    Anne turned away, a tiny sliver of panic running down her spine. Her husband was here. She hadn't seen him in nearly a month, and the last time they had been together at the dowager's house …
    The whole ugly scene came crashing back in a series of disjointed images and angry echoes. They had not exactly parted on happy terms; since then, she had openly thumbed her nose at his authority both as a chief and a husband, and only moments ago had been contemplating bedding another man.
    She pushed
that
thought out of her mind as best she could and bent over the fire to add fresh, dry wood to the bed of glowing coals.
    “You are well?” she asked lamely, glancing over her shoulder. “You look well.”
    He had not moved from the doorway. Had not moved at all except to take off his gloves and comb his fingers nervously through the dark waves of his hair.
    “I am well enough. And you? You look … fit.”
    She followed his gaze to her trews and tall knee boots, the thick bulk of her doublet and shortcoat, the casually plaited coil of her hair where it hung over her shoulder.
    “Please,” she said, pointing to a stool beside the hearth. “Come closer to the fire. Warm yourself.”
    He seemed to hesitate, as if by admitting he was indeed chilled to the bone he would be admitting some other inadequacy.
    Anne unwrapped her own plaid and rubbed her hands together to warm them. “I've just come in myself. We were at the tavern. We actually just arrived in camp this morning. Around noon, really.”
    Now she was talking just to make noise. Beside her, the dry tinder caught and a flame flared along the lengths of the fresh logs, crackling loudly enough to make her jump. To cover her nervousness, she fetched a bottle of wine from the table; after filling two mugs halfway, she added some steaming water from the kettle that hung over the grate.
    Angus moved stiffly, grudgingly, but he took the offered mug, wrapping his fingers around the heated metal and cradling it to warm his hands. After another awkward moment, he accepted her invitation to sit, lowering himself gingerly onto a stool while Anne sat back on her heels beside him.
    She took a single sip of her wine to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, but set it aside almost immediately, not wanting to risk numbing her wits more.
    “When I saw you standing there, I thought… well, I hoped …”
    “You hoped I had finally come to my senses and decided to join you?”
    “Something like that,” she acknowledged softly.
    “Well, I haven't. Come to join you, that is. I have, however, come to ask you what the bloody hell you think you are doing. You and those damned cousins of yours.”
    He asked the question so casually, kept his voice so mellow and low, they might have been sitting in front of a blazing fire at home discussing the next crop of apples.
    “None of us made the decision lightly,” she began. “Or entered it in haste.”
    “No. No, I understand it took you nearly three weeks to gather the signatures of enough fools willing to follow you to Aberdeen. Oh, yes, I've heard all about your petition. I can even tell you who signed it and what threats were employed to get them to do so. What I do not understand is why you can't see that they are using you—Fearchar, your