Midnight Honor

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    “Ye're the wife o' the clan chief, for God's sake,” he hissed.
    “Aye, that I am. I am also colonel of this regiment, and I'll not sit comfortably under a canvas tent sipping wine and nibbling on sweetmeats while the brave men of my clan fight and die!”
    John tightened his fist, drawing her so close she could feel the heat of his steamy breath on her cheek. He was angry enough to throttle her, a sentiment obviously not shared by her cousins, who whooped and tossed their sodden bonnets in the air, giving their answer plain enough, praising her courage. They scooped her out of MacGillivray's clutches and propped her on their shoulders, prancing around in maniacal circles until she grew dizzy from laughing and called for relief.
    None of the Englishmen were amused. Huddled together in a forlorn clump, they had burned hot enough with shame without discovering there had been a woman on the battlefield. They had heard rumors of a flame-haired Amazon traveling in the prince's camp, but until now had assumed it was just that: rumors. Knowing no decent Englishwoman would be caught within several miles of a battlefield, they reasoned this one must be half man, half whore, but it still did little to soothe their battered pride.
    They would remember her.
    To a man, they would remember her.
    The memory was to be embellished and emblazoned on the minds of a good many more prisoners when Anne rode through the British camp and surveyed the havoc. The prince had arrived a few moments earlier and had not only commandeered Hawley's tent but had found the general's personal valet cowering in a corner and ordered him to fetch wine and victuals from the officer's private stock in order that they might celebrate the full extent of their victory.
    The royalist army, in full flight, had abandoned their camp, leaving nearly all the tents and equipment, fourteen heavy artillery pieces, and a considerable quantity of ammunition, all of which was in short supply in the Jacobite army.
    Charles Stuart, suffering the lingering effects of a terrible chest cold, was happiest to discover Hawley had a fondness for French brandy. He was on his third glass when Anne and MacGillivray rode up, leading their prisoners in a straggled column behind them. Only Lochiel and Lord George had proved tardy thus far in joining the prince to celebrate; they were still snapping at the heels of the fleeing English, insisting the victory would be moot if Hawley's army was allowed to escape and reappear another day.
    Charles Stuart's soft brown eyes widened, however, when he saw his
belle rebelle
enter the crowded tent, her clothing rain-soaked and spattered with the evidence of her further rebellion. He had been so involved in watching the battle unfold from his vantage point on the moor that he had not noticed her slip away.
    “Good God,” he declared when she rose from her curtsy. “Do you mean to say you disobeyed a direct order from your prince?”
    “You never actually ordered me to remain by your side, Your Grace,” she demurred. “I could clearly see the battle had turned in our favor”—a statement that won a glare from MacGillivray—“and thought only to be with my clansmen at their moment of triumph.”
    The prince started coughing into a lace handkerchief. Although his face flushed a dark red, he waved away the concerns of his two advisors, O'Sullivan and Thomas Sheridan, neither of whom had ventured out from beneath canvas coverings long enough to dampen their wigs.
    When the fit passed, he sank back into Hawley's wooden camp chair and took a long draught of brandy.
    “If this is what victory feels like,” he gasped, only half in jest, “I should hate to envision defeat.”
    “Your Grace—” O'Sullivan began.
    “Yes, yes, I know. This infernal dampness does not improve matters overmuch, and I should find my way back to bed at once. But dammit, man, there are certain pleasures we cannot set aside simply because we do not feel up to indulging in them. Our evening meal, for instance, will be at Hawley's table with Hawley's food served on Hawley's china plate. A petty gratification, perhaps, to gloat at the table of the man who declared me an incompetent wastrel, but there you have it.” He glanced up at Anne, sparing a flicker of the eye to note the clods of mud attached to her boots. “And you, my dear. Apart from a hot bath, what would give you the greatest satisfaction at this moment?”
    “Me, Your Grace?” She shifted her