Midnight Honor

forever?”
    “What I want and what is likely to happen are two very different things. Hawley has brought eight thousand crack troops to Falkirk. Well-armed, well-fed, eager for revenge. If there is a battle in the next few days—and I cannot see any way of avoiding one, shy of having the prince surrender undera white flag—the whole damned conflagration will be resolved one way or another, and my greatest fear is that this … this reckless courage, this … incredibly valiant display of honor and loyalty will all have been for naught. The prince will return to France, his army will go back to their farms and clachans, and in another twenty years we will have to go through it all again.”
    She was quiet, but at least she did not pull away from his touch as he smoothed a shock of red hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.
    “Will you come back with me?”
    Her eyes were large and grew shockingly bright as she fought a suspicious sheen of wetness.
    “I had to ask,” he said helplessly. “Can you not see I am terrified to the bone at the thought of you being anywhere near a battlefield?”
    “John has already threatened more violence than I could encounter in a battle with the devil if I do not stay well behind the lines with the prince and his royal guard,” she admitted.
    “And you will keep your word? To him and to me?”
    “Dear God,” she whispered, her eyes growing even rounder, wetter. “You will be in the front line, won't you?”
    “I will be with my men, yes.”
    She closed her eyes and leaned forward, burying her face in the curve of his shoulder. She bit her lip against the hot flooding of tears, but the night had been too emotional, the pleasure too intense, the loss she might sustain too horrific to stanch the two wide streaks that flowed down her cheeks. Her arms went up around his shoulders and she pressed her body against him, ignoring the scratch and bite of wool and buttons. For his part, Angus held her as close as was humanly possible without crushing her half to death.
    “I have to leave. Will you not, please, for pity's sake, reconsider and come with me?”
    “Will
you
reconsider and stay?”
    Angus held her a moment longer, then stood with great reluctance. Half blinded by something stinging hotly in his own eyes, he walked quickly over to retrieve his gloves. Knowingthere was nothing more to say, he went out the door into the predawn chill and walked hurriedly toward the nearby woods.
    He was not yet safely inside the outer rim of firs when a tall, tartan-clad figure with the golden hair of a lion stepped out of the shadows, cocked two steel-butted pistols, and aimed them dead center at his chest.

Chapter Fourteen
    A ngus slowly raised his hands and stared into John MacGillivray's dark eyes for what seemed like half a lifetime. There was a slight breeze blowing, and it ruffled some of the long brass-colored hair that hung below John's bonnet, but other than that, the Highlander was still as a stone.
    “Ye're that lucky I didna shoot ye for a thief,” MacGillivray said finally. “Or a spy.”
    “I came only to see my wife, nothing more.”
    “Aye. So I gathered. I had men watchin' the forest an' they told me they saw someone sniffin' around the cottage. Ye'll be warmed to know there were twenty of us standin' outside the door, ready to break it down on the instant.”
    “What stopped you?”
    “We found yer manservant shiverin' his teeth to nubs ayont the road.”
    “Hardy? Is he all right?”
    MacGillivray scowled. “He's a damned sight better than he would be an he were still waitin' on ye in the cold.”
    The subtle
snick
of both hammers being uncocked eased the pressure in Angus's chest, but he was careful to wait for permission—which came in the form of a casual nod—before he lowered his arms.
    “Where is he now?”
    “We're keepin' him warm for ye. The horses, too. We were no' too sure how long ye'd be.”
    Angus heard the soft rustle of more footsteps and turned to see two more figures melt out of the trees beside him. He recognized one of them instantly, despite the suspended blue gloom of the air, for he had met Alexander Cameron some years before during his travels around Europe. Only slightly less unforgettable was his friend and clansman, Aluinn MacKail.
    “Cameron.” Angus nodded to acknowledge their presence. “MacKail. It has been a long time. Still tilting at windmills, I see.”
    “Call us hopeless romantics,” Alex said. “Not too