Midnight Honor

dissimilar, however, from a man who rides into the heart of an enemy encampment just to speak to his wife. Although”—he paused and grinned—“from the sound of it, you were enjoying more than just conversation.”
    Angus glanced at MacKail, who was also grinning above the tartan he had muffled around his throat. “Thatch roofing,” he said. “Keeps the weather out, but I wouldn't trust it for keeping secrets in.”
    Angus expelled an angry stream of misty breath. “I trust you all enjoyed the entertainment.”
    “I have no doubt we would have,” Cameron said, “had there not been other diversions.”
    He pointed behind them to the road. Dawn was beginning to smear across the horizon, lifting the gloom enough to reveal the sprawled bodies of several clansmen rolled in their tartans who had staggered away from the tavern and not thought the effort worthwhile to find their beds. Lying together in the middle of the road, the one draped across the other's chest, were Struan MacSorley and Gillies MacBean. The bigger man was laid out like a crucifixion, obviously the first to go down; MacBean looked as if he'd had time to sit and enjoy a laugh before he careened over.
    Cameron clucked his tongue and removed a cigar from an inner pocket. “That's twice now, including Count Fanducci,” he said, handing it to MacGillivray. “Struan will be as pleasant as a bear when he wakens.”
    Angus was the only one who did not laugh. “May I askwhat happens now? Am I to be marched to some puppet court as your prisoner?”
    “Actually, we thought we would be neighborly an' provide ye with an escort back as far as Dunmore,” MacGillivray said. “We wouldna want it on our conscience if ye were picked off by one of our own lads.”
    “You are letting me go?”
    “If yer wife could no' persuade ye to stay, we didna think we'd have any better luck.”
    “Just like that? No questions, no appeals to my loyalties or honor, no attempt to get any information from me?”
    “Ah, well, now.” Cameron propped one booted foot on a rock and draped an arm over his knee. “Since you mentioned it, we were a little curious about a few things.”
    “I am sure you are. Just as I am sure you know that as an officer in His Majesty's service, I am not obliged to tell you anything more than my rank.”
    “Captain
MacKintosh, is it not?” Cameron asked with an easy smile. “First Royal Scots Brigade under the command of William Keppel, earl of Albemarle. I understand your personal regiment has become somewhat depleted—fewer than forty men all told?—but they will likely be incorporated into the ranks of the Argyle militia. A prized command, since Albemarle and Hawley answer only to Cumberland himself. How is the earl anyway? Is his stomach dyspepsia still troubling him? He should not be so insistent upon eating so many raw eggs in the morning. Two dozen at a seating would have any man blowing sulfur.”
    Angus was irritably impressed, as he was meant to be. “Since you seem to be well informed already, I fail to see what possible curiosities might yet remain.”
    “That's exactly what we are, just curious. Mainly about why Hawley has not moved to establish his position yet. There are few places between here and Falkirk large enough to accommodate two armies. A prudent general would take the precaution of staking out the only high ground.”
    “One could make the same observation about the prince.”
    “One could,” Cameron agreed, “if one was not aware of the four thousand men on the march even as we speak.”
    “Your army is on the move? Today? But I thought—” Hebit his lip and stopped, but the damage was done. He could see it in Cameron's widening grin.
    “You thought we would behave like perfect gentlemen and wait for the general to amass all his supply wagons, artillery, and ammunition carts? You thought we would wait for him to address the time and place for the attack?”
    That was precisely what Hawley had thought, Angus acknowledged inwardly. He had surveyed the high ground on the moor and pronounced it “suitable,” but had taken no further steps to establish a royalist presence, apart from a few sentries and patrols. He had retired to his billet confident to the point of arrogance that the rebels would never dare initiate an attack. Moreover, he had dispatched a courier the previous evening with a message stating that he thought it uncivilized to plan any sort of military engagement that might spill over onto