Page 18 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

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U pward of three hundred Hanoverian prisoners were taken at Falkirk; nearly twice that many lay dead or wounded. On the Jacobite side, there were fewer than eighty casualties all told, but with the weather turning sour and Hawley's army retreating hastily to Edinburgh, it once again became incumbent upon Lord George and the chiefs to convince the prince his force was still vulnerable.

Lord George had implored Charles Stuart to send his troops after the English, but the prince, taking the advice of O'Sullivan instead, decided that the retaking of Stirling Castle, which had been under siege since the Jacobites had departed Glasgow, would be far more beneficial to morale than chasing after a defeated army. Better, he said from his sickbed, to consolidate their victory at Falkirk by driving the rest of the government troops out of Stirling and Perth, thereby reclaiming control of the Lowlands south of the Grampian mountains.

Lord George disagreed as violently as he dared, but to no avail. He could only vent his frustration in private, then get reeling drunk at the squandering of such a hard-won opportunity to crush their enemy—one that might not come again without paying a much steeper price. He understood, where the prince and his insufferable Irish advisor did not, that the Lowlands had never been receptive to the Stuart cause. They could waste weeks trying to take the impregnable castle at Stirling—weeks that would be better spent in the Highlands, where most of the clans were sympathetic to the prince and it would be possible to strengthen their army, not weaken it.

Moreover, the vast tracts of mountain ranges cut by lochs and hostile sweeps of frozen moorland would not appeal to the English for a winter campaign. Weather and terrain would discourage pursuit until at least the spring, when the Jacobites would have had time to regroup.

For Anne's part, she was disappointed to say the least, having come this far only to be told they were likely turning around and going back to Invernesshire. At the same time she was elated and vicariously delighted at the thought of marching home with an army of thousands to oust Lord Loudoun and reclaim the capital city for the prince.

The rest of the clan chiefs, men like Lochiel and the MacDonalds of Keppoch, had their own reasons for wanting to return to the Highlands. In their absence, the English had strengthened their positions at Fort William and Fort Augustus, placing heavy garrisons at either end of the Great Glen, and with the ancestral homes of the Camerons and MacDonalds located in the middle, it was urgent to send relief. News from the remote regions of Lochaber had been sporadic at best, but the effects of such a harsh winter could prove devastating. Many of the clansmen had been away from their farms since the previous July; they needed to assure themselves that their families had not starved and would not starve if the war dragged on through another long summer. Despite the snow and frigid winds that kept the prince hemmed in at Falkirk the latter two weeks of January, at the first sign of a thaw, fields would still have to be plowed, crops planted.

That was the trouble with raising an army of farmers and shepherds. As brave and loyal and valiant as they might be, if they had no land, no homes, no crops, no herds to go home to, what was the point of fighting? The chiefs would demand their rents and tithes regardless if they won or lost, and while the grand castles at Achnacarry and Blair Atholl might suffer from a lack of wheat for fresh uisque , they had stood for centuries and would stand for centuries more, supported by the sweat and toil of the common tacksmen. In the feudal system, it was the crofters who would starve from the lack of bread, and when they could not pay their rents, they would find their meager sod cottages torn down or burned and the land taken over for cattle.

The prince turned belligerent. He had forbidden Lord George to pursue the English farther than Linlithgow, but when he heard Hawley had escaped to Edinburgh, he did an about-face and laid the blame squarely on Murray's head. To make matters worse, news arrived in the Jacobite camp on the last day of January that Cumberland had left London and marched his army to Edinburgh in near record time. He had brought reinforcements of cavalry and infantry, as well as a fresh artillery train to replace the heavy guns lost at Falkirk— guns that took the Jacobites a week to haul and position to best advantage around Stirling, and that fired no more than two rounds apiece before they were blown off their carriages by the superior firepower of the English gunners on the walls.

Lord George, with his last nerve snapped, ordered the ineffectual siege to be abandoned and dragged the remaining cannon to the nearest cliff, where he had them spiked and rolled over into the churning waters of the firth.

The prince did not take either the news of his cousin's arrival or the departure of the artillery well. He ranted against Lord George, believing now more than ever that his general was determined to sabotage his every effort to win back the throne. He raged and banged his head against a wall until he staggered like a drunkard, at which time he retired to his wagon with two bottles of whisky and became one. With the prince mired in self-pity, it was decided to once again split the army into two divisions. The prince would be escorted by the majority of regiments through the high mountainous passes that cut through the Jacobite territories of Blair Atholl, Dalnacardoch, and Dalwhinnie. Lord George would travel a more circuitous route by way of Aberdeen, hopefully to draw off any pursuit Cumberland might be mounting. The two divisions would reunite at Inverness, where they could then set about routing the government forces garrisoned at Fort George.

“Might I play devil's advocate a moment,” said Angus Moy, “and ask what the prince will be able to do with Inverness even if he does take it?”

The question was practical and forthright, greeted by the silence of a grim circle of men that included Alexander Cameron, Aluinn MacKail, and John MacGillivray. Angus had been surprised by the invitation to join the others at the tavern, but he had had his own reasons for obliging.

“The entire coastline is under a tight blockade,” he continued, “and unless I have missed something in the thousands of dispatches I have read over the past months, the prince has no navy. Not one single ship. Loudoun, on the other hand, has fresh supplies delivered every day—meat, fish, vegetables, fruit, even kegs of French brandy confiscated by the revenue ships in the Channel. Their lead shot comes in barrels; they do not have to make their own in the field. If a musket fails or misfires, there is another in common stores to replace it. I have seen their warehouses; they want for nothing. Whereas I have seen some of your men walking in the snow with rags wrapped round their feet.”

Cameron's dark eyes assessed the two Highlanders seated across the table. Big John MacGillivray was a genuine throwback to a Viking warrior: Nothing seemed to slow him down. He had been wounded in three places on Falkirk moor, but had barely acknowledged his injuries long enough to allow Archibald to stitch and bandage them. The men were in awe of him; his experience as a smuggler and reiver made him doubly valuable to the prince's army.

As for the chief of Clan Chattan, Angus Moy was a difficult man to read, not given to revealing too much either through his eyes or his expression. Perhaps that was what pricked Alex's instincts the most. Was the chief of Clan Chattan a more formidable adversary than he appeared to be? And if so, could it work to their advantage?

Alex twirled one of his fat Carolina cigars between his fingers and glanced across the table at Aluinn, but there were no insightful glances coming back his way.

Cameron pursed his lips. “You play the devil well, Captain MacKintosh, but you are not telling us anything we do not already know.”

“What if I did tell you something you did not know?”

“We might question the motive for your generosity,” came the blunt reply.

“Of course you would.” Angus smiled. “Then why not speak of motives first and clear the air, so to speak?”

Alex spread his hands. “You have our complete attention.”

“Quite simply, when the army returns to Inverness, I want my wife sent back to Moy Hall. I care not how it is done or who does it, or under what pretense, but I want her sent home. I also do not want her to know she is being sent home, for if she believes that to be case, she will likely thumb her nose and tell you to break wind at the moon.”

The midnight eyes narrowed. “And in exchange?”

“In exchange I can give you detailed maps of Fort George, inside and out. I can tell you where the walls have recently been reinforced and where there are concealed batteries of guns. I can also tell you the weakest points in the fortifications, which, conversely, would be the best places to lay your mines—assuming, naturally, that you wish to avoid another comedic debacle like Stirling Castle.”

“We would indeed,” Cameron said after a moment, “but what if I told you your wife has offered us the same information?”

“It would be accurate … to a degree. At least one of her rapscallion cousins has spent time behind bars there, and her grandfather has been around long enough to have seen the original walls go up. But there have been changes in the past year I doubt even they know about. Loudoun has been cautious since he assumed command. In recent months, he has been nervous, too, to the extent that he has had details of enlisted men doing most of the work, digging, building gun emplacements, setting traps and the like.”

“Traps?”

Angus nodded. “In the armory, for one. If you fail to reach it quickly, there are kegs of powder set with fuses that need only be lit by someone requiring two minutes to exit through a nearby tunnel. If they are blown, they will send half the fort to hell and gone—and anyone attempting to breach it at the time.”

The pause was noticeable as Cameron glanced once again at MacKail, who shrugged but looked intrigued nonetheless.

“It would also help if we had precise maps of Inverness as well as any defenses in the harbor and surrounding areas.”

“Anne can give you that,” Angus said. “She has a better eye for detail and is more familiar with the moors and bogs. Plus, it will occupy her time when I have gone.”

“Gone? You are going somewhere?”

“Is that not why you asked to meet with me tonight? Because you want me to go back to Edinburgh with the other prisoners when they are released?”

Alex tried not to look surprised. As had been the case following the Battle of Prestonpans, it had been decided that all prisoners would be released if they agreed to give their word not to take up arms against the prince again. The number was vastly smaller than the fifteen hundred prisoners taken in their first victory, but with supplies short and tempers frayed, the chiefs were more concerned with providing the bare necessities for their own men than catering to the needs of captured soldiers.

“I will admit the thought occurred to us,” Cameron said. “The possibility of having someone close to Cumberland's command is intriguing, and your name did come up several times in various conversations.”

“Now hold on a minute,” MacGillivray began.

“You were not aware that this was what they wanted to discuss?” Angus asked.

The big Highlander looked like he wanted to smash the table in half. “I was not.”

“As I said,” Cameron leaned back and gave his cigar another thoughtful roll, “Aluinn and I were only toying with the idea. And it is not as if you would be doing anything out of the ordinary. No skulking in dark alleyways, no cloak drawn over your face with a dagger at the ready. You would simply have to do what you do already: read dispatches, follow troop movements, let us know who is moving where and what their intentions might be. Then it would just be a matter of—”

“Tying a cryptic note to the ankle of a carrier pigeon and releasing it from a rooftop?”

Cameron smiled at the dry sarcasm. “Nothing quite so dramatic. We have other people in the Elector's camp who act as couriers. ”

“Like Adrienne de Boule?”

Cameron's midnight eyes flickered again. “Yes. Like Adrienne. Unfortunately, her access is somewhat limited. She cannot move freely around the camp every day.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then it ends here, no harm done. You can leave or stay— which you would, of course, be most welcome to do. The terms of your parole would give you an honorable release from any obligations you might have had to serve the king, although I expect your wife's participation at Falkirk would render the terms of the immunity Forbes offered you moot either way.”

Angus turned slowly to glare at MacGillivray again, and this time the Highlander only glared back. “I was not goin' to die the only one knowin'. An' if ye've no' learned by now that ye can trust these two men above all, then I'll send ye back to Edinburgh myself on the toe o' my boot. Not—" he added gruffly, qualifying the endorsement by glowering at Cameron and MacKail across the table— “that I'm sayin' it's a good idea to send him back at all. We already know Hawley has nae fondness for Scots officers at the best o' times, an' if it's true he has already hung sixty-three of his own men for desertion an' cowardice, what makes ye think The MacKintosh will not be swingin' from a gibbet the instant he walks through the gates o' the city?”

“Because I imagine none of those officers or men were returning of their own accord, or that they were bringing back valuable information from the rebel camp.”

Angus's mouth curled up at the corner. “I would be bringing back valuable information?”

Alex hesitated long enough to light his cigar over the flame of a candle. “I have no doubt we can find something of merit. The prince has written enough memoranda in the past month alone to fill a warehouse. A few of them should prove interesting reading for Cumberland, if nothing else.”

Angus's wry smile faded quicker than it had appeared, and he stroked his thumb down the side of the tankard, tracing patterns in the tiny beads of condensation. “I have not had too much of a problem dealing with Hawley. It is the other two, Worsham and Garner, who watch me as if they would like to take my gizzard for their next meal. ”

“Major Hamilton Garner?” Cameron asked with casual curiosity.

Angus nodded, not looking up. “And Major Roger Worsham. Major headaches, the pair of them; both eager for promotion and favor within Cumberland's inner circle.”

“I do not think you would have a problem winning Garner's confidence,” Cameron said, exchanging a glance with MacKail. “In fact, I would be willing to stake a considerable fortune on his becoming your closest friend and ally if you tell him you and I spent time in the same room together.”

Angus started to frown, then remembered. “Ah, yes. He and your wife, Catherine, were … acquainted, were they not?”

“They were engaged, actually, until I won her off him in a duel.” He grinned through a cloud of bluish smoke. “Long story. Let us just say that he and I have some unfinished business, and any information you bring him concerning my whereabouts will elevate you to the rank of champion.”

“I have not agreed to anything yet,” Angus said.

“And you certainly are not obligated to do so, either. It will be reckless, dangerous, and you would have no support behind you should something go wrong."

The men looked up as Anne approached. She had come into the tavern so bundled in plaid, no one had paid her notice until she came near their darkened corner and pushed the tartan back to reveal the bright red hair beneath.

The men started to scrape to their feet, but she waved them down with an angry gesture that told Angus the flush in her cheeks was not all due to the cold.

“Did I hear correctly? Ye want my husband to go back to the English camp and spy for ye?”

“We have been attempting a little shameless begging, aye,” Cameron admitted.

Angus felt a sudden, unpleasant hollow sensation in his belly. Like the others, he had not noticed her come into the tavern, so he was not sure how much she had overheard.

“And?” She put her hands to her hips. “Has he bowed to it? ”

Angus held up his hand. "I am sitting right here. You can ask me."

“He might agree, Colonel,” Cameron said. “If you can convince him it would be for the best.”

“Me?” She unwound her scarf and shook off the glittering ice crystals—some of which hit Angus's cheek like tiny pellets. “Why on earth would I want to convince him to return to the Hanover camp?”

Cameron leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Because we need him there. He has Hawley's ear, he sees reports, he has access to information we can get no other way. We need to know Cumberland's intentions, the strength of his troops, where he plans to strike at us and when... information that could be critical to the prince's safety and success--possibly even the deciding factor in whether we win or lose the Highlands. But—" the midnight eyes narrowed, their glitter rivaling anything Anne could lash back with in response— “we have also told him it is dangerous, and there is undeniably a great deal of risk involved. We can understand if he is reluctant to agree. Unfortunately, we often have to ask terrible things of people in times of war, but that is all we are doing. We are just asking. If the captain is uncomfortable or uneasy, or if he believes his return to Edinburgh would be seen as another betrayal…?”

“My husband has never betrayed his clan,” Anne said evenly.

Cameron pushed to his feet and drowned the stub of his cigar in the inch of ale at the bottom of his tankard. “We all have uncomfortable choices to make. Sometimes we make the right ones; sometimes we do not. In this case, we are merely asking your husband to do what he has been doing all along: wear the Hanover cockade and take his brandy and cigars with the likes of Henry Hawley and William Cumberland. We cannot force either one of you to help us, and frankly, I do not have the time to waste softening you with trite words like ‘life and death,’ but that is very well what it could amount to. For all of us. On that pontificating note, I will say good-night to you now, Lady Anne, Captain MacKintosh, Captain MacGillivray.” He nodded at each as he pulled his tartan around his shoulders.

Aluinn MacKail took his cue from Cameron and gathered his gloves off the bench. MacGillivray caught the glint of imminent battle in Anne's eyes and muttered some excuse about needing to check the pickets.

They exited in a group, leaving Anne and Angus alone, one standing, one sitting, neither moving so much as an eyelash for a full minute.

“I expect there is never any need to wonder where one stands with a man like Cameron,” Angus said finally. “But he is right about one thing. While I have been enjoying some very excellent brandy and some very excellent cigars, their men have fought and died and marched to Derby and back.”

Anne reached forward and touched her fingertips to his shoulder. “That is not all ye've done.”

“No, not all.” He covered her hand with his. “But he almost makes it sound like an act of cowardice to want to protect what you love most in the world.”

“I am certain he did not mean it that way.”

“Perhaps not. Or perhaps he was offering me a last-minute reprieve. A way to redeem myself in the eyes of my wife and my clan.”

“There must be another way,” she cried. “Ye do not have to do this. Ye certainly do not have to let him—let any of them— make ye feel guilty about what ye have done or not done.”

“Not even you?”

“Oh, Angus—” She slipped around in front of him and slid down so that she was on her knees, her hands cold and trembling where they cradled his face between them. “I may have said things in anger, but I never meant to make ye feel guilty.”

“Yes, you did.” He smiled tenderly and brushed her lips with his. “And you did a damned fine job of it, too, I might add. I am surprised I held out as long as I did, what with all the weapons you had in your arsenal. More than any ten armies, I can promise you.”

“I never meant for ye to feel so guilty that ye'd actually consider going back,” she protested with a shake of her head. “Do ye ken what they will do to ye if they catch ye spying?”

“Probably the same thing they have done to a dozen other men who have thought the risk worth taking. And in this case, the benefits do far outweigh the dangers. Anne … it is not as if my heart has not wanted to do more all along. It is my damned head that has been too hard, and it has just needed an extra knock or two to get me to see things clearly. Cameron is right. They need someone in Cumberland's camp and I am a logical choice. I am privy to the kind of information that could help them prevent a disaster. And besides,” he added, trying in vain to dispel some of the panic he could see shadowing her eyes, “while this is hardly comparable to riding onto a battlefield and slaying dragons, it is something I am infinitely qualified to do. Fine dinners at Holyrood House, comfortable billets in town houses where I can scratch out lists and copy orders in the dead of night. Even if the effort is coming at the eleventh hour, this is something I have to do, Anne. I am not entirely convinced it may not be too late already, but if I can help—and not just for the prince's sake, but for the sake of preventing all of Scotland from going up in flames— then you must surely see that I have to try?”

“Ye're not just doing this for me,” she said warily, searching his face for some weakness to attack, “or for any foolish notion of winning the approval of men like MacGillivray and Cameron? Because I know full well ye were only doing what ye thought was right for the clan as a whole. Ye made a painful decision and ye stood by it. There is no shame in that.”

“I do not need their approval, but I would like to be counted among them, Anne, just for a little while. As for needing anything from you,” he added softly, “your love, your faith, your trust is more than anything I ever hoped to call my own.”

She shook her head again. “Then I am not letting ye go back alone. I am coming to Edinburgh with ye.”

"That is definitely out of the question,” he said gently.

“Why? I can play the part of the berated wife, humiliated into obedience, dragged away and threatened with beatings if I do not behave.” She tightened her arms around his neck, pulling herself up so that her face was buried against his shoulder. “I would be such a quiet, docile mouse ye would not even know I was in the room, and … and I would even pin a black cockade on my bodice and learn how to si ng ‘Up and Waur 'em a' Willie,’ and if anyone asks I shall say I was kidnapped from Moy Hall and forced to ride with the clan as a hostage.”

He stroked the gleaming red crown of her hair. “You know you cannot come with me, Anne. And not because I doubt for a moment you could charm the devil out of any ten dukes of Cumberland.”

“Then why—?”

“Because the clan needs you here. They need a strong, fearless leader; one who has never wavered a moment in her faith or convictions.”

“They have MacGillivray. They do not need me.”

“You think not?” He cupped her face in his hands and tilted it enough to find her eyes. “Have you not seen the way the men look at you? Have you not heard the way they cheer when you ride past, the way their chests swell and they grin ear to ear with pride? Have you had one single man desert?”

She chewed miserably on her lip and whispered, “No.”

“No. In fact, you have had more joining the ranks every day. I have recognized a hundred men who marched away from Inverness with me, but crossed the field when they saw you up on Robert the Bruce carrying the clan colors. You cannot abandon them now, Anne. They will need you more than ever when the army returns to the Highlands. They will need your leadership, your courage, your spirit.” He kissed her tenderly to emphasize each enviable quality, lingering over the last until he could tighten the leash on his own emotions.

She studied his face another long moment before burying her face in his shoulder again. “It is not fair. It just is not fair! To finally have ye here with me … and now you expect me just to watch ye leave again!”

“Courage, my love,” he murmured. “You have so much and I so little. Leave me what few shreds I have managed to muster about me, and do not make it any more difficult than it is already, I beg you. The prince is taking his army north to Inverness. If they cannot take the capital, then they cannot hope to survive the spring. We are going home, one way or the other, and we will be back together before the leaves are fully green on the trees, I swear it.”

She was silent for so long, he started counting his heartbeats .

“Ye will not take any foolish chances?”

“I swear I shall be cautious beyond measure. I shall play the role of fawning milksop with such aplomb, they will think me part of the ornamentation on the walls. In return, I want a solemn promise from you.”

“What kind of a promise?” She lifted her head again and sniffled through a frown.

“I want an absolutely sacred promise that there will be no more recklessness in the future. No more swords, no guns, no riding out in the middle of the night, no charging out onto a damned battlefield. I cannot even conceive of doing this thing if I thought I had to worry about what you were doing in my absence, and on this point there will be no argument, no debate, no bargains struck, no negotiable compromise. And no vague circumventions. I want you to give me your word of honor as a colonel in the prince's army, as a Farquharson, a MacKintosh, a woman, a wife, a lover … have I missed any possibilities? Left any loopholes open to your devious mind?”

Her frown was contentious, her sigh filled with resignation. “No. I expect ye've covered everything.”

“And?”

She looked up sullenly. “I promise. No more battlefields.”

He studied her face a moment, wary of a too-hasty capitulation. “I would have you swear to undertake no more undue risks, but I suppose that would be beyond the pale, since you have already extended an invitation to the prince to be our guest at Moy Hall while his army takes Inverness.”

Her eyes widened a moment with surprise, but he only shook his head and kissed the tip of her nose. “Cameron mentioned your generous offer earlier. Were you planning to tell me at all, or was it just going to be a surprise?”

“I was most certainly going to tell ye. When—if—His Highness gave me an answer,” she admitted softly. “I thought it only hospitable to offer the use of the Hall since it is so close to Inverness, and there is not another glen within ten miles large enough to encamp the army.”

“Nonetheless, you might have asked,” he murmured. “I am still the master of my own home, am I not?”

“Of course ye are,” she said. “When ye are there.”

He kissed her again, on the mouth this time, molding his lips to hers, coaxing them gently apart and exploring the sleek surfaces with the tip of his tongue. When he released her, he watched her lick the moisture off her lips and almost forgot what they had been talking about.

“Do you remember the cave I showed you once? The one where my grandfather hid his entire family for two months, after the first uprising?”

She was staring at his mouth too, her own still tingling with his taste. “I think so. Aye, I do.”

“The English searched day and night but could not find it. I doubt there are five men alive who even know where it is, myself included. I am thinking … it might be best if I leave Robert Hardy here with you. If you need to take refuge there for any reason, and you are not certain of the cave's location, he can show you the way. In any event, he can make himself useful, stocking it with food and supplies, lamps, bedding … whatever might be necessary if the prince is forced to take flight. Besides, if I take Hardy back to Edinburgh, he will only complain the whole way and beat me senseless with his clothing brush. I doubt he would bear up under questioning a second time, anyway.”

Her gaze flicked up from his mouth. “What do ye mean, a second time?”

“While you were leading the clan to Aberdeen, Hardy was swearing to a privately convened court of inquisition— namely Garner and Worsham—that you were still in Inverness at Drummuir House, the bored houseguest of your esteemed mother-in-law. He swore it could not possibly be you mentioned in the reports because you could not be in Aberdeen and Inverness at the same time, and he had taken delivery of handwritten letters from both you and the dowager to prove it.”

A tiny wrinkle appeared at the bridge of her nose. “I did not write any letters.”

“Adrienne de Boule was kind enough to have her maid write them for you.”

The wrinkle deepened and was joined by another. “Adrienne de Boule was in Edinburgh?”

“She was there as a guest of Major Worsham.”

“And she helped ye write letters?”

“Four of them. On pink paper, I believe, with little red ribbons binding them. And a most exotic fragrance sprayed across the pages.”

The blue of her eyes turned dark enough to cause the fine hairs along his forearms to stand on end. “How exotic?”

“Very exotic. The scent reminded me of a small white flower in India that opens only in the moonlight.”

“That would be memorable indeed,” she murmured. “And did it inspire anything else to open in the moonlight?”

“Oh, I am sure it did,” he agreed affably. “But not, unfortunately, for my benefit.”

“Unfortunately?”

Angus jerked slightly. He realized her arms were no longer around his neck but, as invigorating and liberating to his soul as these past fourteen days and nights had been, there was still something decidedly imprudent about a lady having her hands up a man's kilt in the middle of a public tavern.

That the two of them were temporarily alone was little comfort. There was no lock on the outer door, and an occasional scuffling sound marked the tavern owner's presence on the other side of a thin partition. The corner was dark, but the candle threw enough light to cause the flown wisps of Anne's hair to glow like a fiery red halo, and to cast a shadow on the wall beside them, mirroring the deliberate up-and-down movement of her hands.

“I assure you,” he whispered, “you have nothing to be jealous about. Adrienne was just helping me out of a rather sticky situation. Stop that, minx,” he added with a shaky grin. “Someone could come through the door at any moment.”

“Someone could,” she agreed, glancing over her shoulder. “But are ye not the one who just said ye wanted to start taking a few risks?”

“Well, yes, b-but—”

She pursed her lips by way of cautioning him to silence, then lowered her head.

“Dear … sweet… Jesus,” he gasped. His hands were in her hair, but seeing what she was about, he moved them, sending one to grip the edge of the table, the other the back of the bench. His jaw clenched around a sound that was half shock, half pleasure, and despite the chill in the air, small bead s of sweat soon popped out across his brow. Every muscle in his body tensed into bands of iron, and because there was nothing he could do to prevent it, he felt the heat surge into his loins and pump into his chest, the blood pounding loud enough to drown out every last voice of reason. To his horror, he became dimly aware of the door opening and someone coming through, stamping the snow off his boots, but it was too late to do more than shoot out his hand and smash it down over the guttering candle, throwing their corner into darkness. Soft white beads of wax spattered across the table and he groaned inwardly, steeling himself even as he clamped his fingers around the tallow shaft and squeezed it into a misshapen mass.

He remained that way, frozen with pleasure and shock for several explosively torturous moments. When, at length, he could see through the pinwheels spinning behind his eyelids he sucked in a huge mouthful of air and glared accusingly at Anne, watching her as she rearranged the pleats of his kilt and slipped up onto the bench beside him. Demurely, she wiped her chin and took a sip of ale from his tankard; when she looked at him, he could see she was a breath away from laughing. Her eyes were still bright, but not with jealousy or envy. They shone with the lush certainty of a woman who knew exactly who her husband would be thinking about each night they were apart.

“Two can play such games, madam,” he promised softly. “And you shall pay dearly for that bit of mischief.”

“Is that a promise, my lord?”

His hand slid up her thigh and he waited for her smile to lose some of its impudent edge.

“More of a warning, I should think. The promise, my dear, is that you shall not get one moment's sleep tonight.”