Midnight Honor

weight self-consciously from one foot to the other. “I am content enough to know your pleasure, Sire. However, I would beg one small favor if I may.”
    He waved his hand. “Name it.”
    “I would ask of your officers if they have had word of… of my husband's regiment.” She looked around at the gathering of chiefs, most of whom had come bloodied from the field, and thought she saw one or two of them smirk incontempt. By the time the prisoners had been disarmed and marched back to camp, it had been too late to search the moor. If Angus had fallen, if he lay bleeding on the cold, wet ground, morning might come too late.
    Angus's regiment had been attached to General Keppel, and they had been directly across the field from the MacKintoshes.
    “I would beg your leave to go back and search, if—”
    The prince held up his hand, cutting off her plea. While the royal hand was still upraised, he wiggled two of the slender fingers at someone standing beside the door of the tent. Anne turned in time to see Alexander Cameron smile and lift the flap of canvas. He stepped aside to let another man come in out of the rain—this one with dark chestnut hair plastered flat to his brow and neck, and clear gray eyes that sought Anne's at once and held them fast.
    Aware of the warlike chiefs watching her every move, she did not run and fling herself into her husband's arms as she so longed to do. Instead, she kept her face clear and her movements calm as she walked slowly toward him, her gaze sweeping the length of his body long enough to note both arms and legs were intact, and he was in possession of all his appendages. There was a gash on his chin that stalled her breath for a moment, but his eyes were clear and steady, locked on hers with the same intensity she suspected was in her own.
    “Your servant, Captain,” she said softly.
    A muscle shivered in Angus's cheek before he squared his shoulders and slowly withdrew his sword. Holding it flat by the blade and hilt, he presented it to his wife in the acknowledged manner of a formal surrender.
    “It would appear that it is I who am your servant… Colonel,” he murmured, adding almost under his breath, “and may I say: very happily so.”
    “Quite right,” said the prince, his voice petulant. “And now if you will offer me your parole, sir, I will accept it and we may get on with more pleasant matters.”
    Angus hesitated fractionally before stepping past his wife and approaching the royal scion. He went down on one knee and bowed his head. “I do offer you my word, Sire, not to take up further arms against your cause.”
    “I confess you were a great disappointment to me, MacKintosh. I had hoped I could count you among my dearest friends.” When Angus made no response, he waved his hand again. “Rise. Your word as an officer and gentleman is accepted.”
    “May I beg leave, Sire, to tend my husband's wound?” Anne asked.
    Another flutter of the lace handkerchief dismissed them and they exited the tent together, neither one exchanging a word as they mounted their horses and rode back through the camp. The rain had turned to snow; by the time they returned to St. Ninians, it was full dark, and they were both chilled through to the bone. The escort of Highlanders left them at the cottage and took the horses away to be fed and stabled. The fire had been left untended, the ashes were cold and gray, but before Anne could even divest herself of her jacket, the slamming of the door behind her brought the heat of a blush to her cheeks.
    Angus was leaning against the door. He was hatless, and had been during the entire ride from Falkirk. His ears were as red as his nose; the dark locks of his hair were scattered every which way, some curling forward over his cheeks, some trailing down over the collar of his tunic. The icy, appraising gray of his eyes held her steadfast, breaking away only once in the ensuing small eternity of ticking seconds to stare at the floor a moment before looking back up.
    “I was under the impression, when I left here this morning, that I had your promise, your word of honor, if you will, that you would not set foot upon the battlefield.”
    Trying the same tack she had used with the prince, Anne moistened her lips and attempted to defuse her husband's quiet wrath. “I never actually gave my word, not in so many words.”
    “And you think that absolves you of any blame for your actions?”
    “It is the same absolution you sought in