Page 5 of Midnight Honor (Highland Wolves #3)

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W hen Anne opened her eyes again, the room was completely dark. There was not even a ruddy glow from the fire with which to orient herself, and it took a moment to realize she was no longer in her own chamber. She was in Angus's big bed with the heavy draperies closed to keep out the drafts. Outside the velvet cocoon, she could hear the wind moaning against the window, rattling the panes of glass with frequent wintry gusts. Inside, there was only the sound of her own breathing and a depression beside her that was still faintly warm, suggesting she had not been alone very long.

Her husband's nocturnal habits had always baffled her. While she could remain in bed as long as the covers were warm and the pillow soft, Angus rarely stayed an entire night abed regardless of how long a day he'd had, or how late an evening. A light, restless sleeper, he would often be up well before the first servant rubbed the crust out of his eyes. Many a time Anne would waken to find him reading or sitting at his desk catching up on his correspondence. He claimed it was a habit he had acquired in his travels through Europe. In order to see and do all there was to see and do, he had learned how to get by on a meager two or three hours of sleep each night.

Anne did not think there was a castle anywhere in the world that would inspire her to rise before dawn and travel twenty miles by horse cart just to glimpse an illusion of battlements floating above a cloud of mist. But Angus had done exactly that somewhere in the mountains of Europe. She preferred the beauty of the glens and ancient keeps right here in Scotland, and there was no greater pleasure on earth than running barefoot through a field fragrant with heather.

With one possible exception, of course.

Her smile was decidedly complacent, as was her whole body. It had been so long … too long, since she'd wakened with her nose buried in pillows that smelled of the sandalwood oil Angus used to dress his hair. The scent was distinct and uniquely his, another luxury acquired abroad, for he disliked the chalky feel of powder and rarely tolerated the itch of a wig.

Mewling through a delicious stretch, she savored the feel of soft linen sheets against her naked body. She felt woolly and drugged, as if someone had given her laudanum and the effects were slow to wear away. Her lips were tender, her cheeks lightly chafed by stubble, and when her hand brushed over her breasts, she found they were still responsive enough for the nipples to gather instantly into tight, crinkled peaks. A languorous shifting of her hips brought attention to a welter of other sensations, most notably the pearly sleekness between her thighs.

A faint sound from the other side of the curtain made her lift her head off the pillow. She listened a moment, then rolled quietly to the edge of the bed and ran her hand along the velvet until she found the break where the curtains joined. Careful to guard against the rustling of the mattress, she leaned over and used the tip of her finger to open a sliver between the panels.

At first she saw nothing for the lack of light. The night lamp glowed in its sconce beside the dressing room, but the wick was turned low, the flame too miserly to give off more than a pinpoint glow and a smudge of smoke. Something in the texture of the shadows drew her gaze to the desk, however, and after a few moments of concentration, she saw Angus seated in the leather chair where he usually scratched out his letters. He was not writing anything now, however; he sat with his elbows propped on his knees, and his head bowed forward, his chin cradled in his hands.

Anne nudged the velvet wider. “Angus?”

When he did not move, or acknowledge her whisper, she moistened her lips and tried again. “Angus … are ye unwell?”

He expelled a long breath. “I am fine. Go back to sleep.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Because the darkness,” he said, raising his head, “is quiet. And I can think better in the quiet.”

Anne drew her legs up and swung them over the side of the bed. She had been carried into the room naked and it was measurably cooler outside the curtains. He was wearing the robe he normally kept beside the bed, and with nothing else at hand, she pulled the top cover off the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before she emerged.

“I trust that is not your subtle way of telling me I snore, milord?”

His face was just a pale blot against the shadows, so she could not see if her remark won a smile as she approached. The robe was dark blue, the quilted brocade cool to the touch when she ran her hand across his shoulder.

“Anne, honestly I am fine. You should go back to bed before you catch a chill.”

“Will you at least let me stoke the fire for ye? See, there are still some embers—”

“If you want a fire, I will build one for you, otherwise … please. I just want some time to think.”

Anne recoiled slightly from the sudden sharpness in his voice—a voice that only a short while ago had been reduced to low and silky groans against her flesh.

“Forgive me, my lord husband. I certainly did not mean to intrude.” She pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders. “Perhaps ye would rather I just returned to my own room?”

He caught her hand before she could turn away. “No. No … God, Anne, I am the one who is sorry. I do not want you to go anywhere. Please. Here, come and sit with me for a minute. My head is pounding like thunder and my belly feels full of lead ballast.”

“So much for feeding ye a gallon of claret each night,” she murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

She shook her head and smiled. “'Twas a silly thought anyway.”

Angus pulled her into his lap, and she curled warmly into the curve of his shoulder. “I truly am sorry.” He ran a hand down her back to smooth her straggling waves of hair into place. “I did not mean to bark at you.”

“And I did not mean to interrupt ye while ye were thinking so hard. I will go back to bed if ye want me to.”

He debated the offer for a moment before pressing a kiss into a crush of her hair. “No. I like you right where you are.”

Anne sighed and snuggled closer. A few seconds later, the soft edge of regret she had heard in his voice made her tilt her head surreptitiously upward to study his face in the gloom.

With the effects of the claret worn away, was he now embarrassed by their behavior during the night? As much as she imagined lust would be regarded as a decided weakness by a man who always kept such a tight rein over his emotions, he had seemed determined to make up for his lack of attentiveness over the past weeks. Was he now wondering how to face her across a plate of breakfast sausage, knowing where she had had her mouth only hours before?

An uncomfortable flush spread through her body and the lush, rich sense of contentment so recently acquired threatened to vanish between one heartbeat and the next.

“Is it something I have said … or … or something I have done that is troubling ye?”

Angus took a moment to ponder his answer before he shook his head, dismissing the question. “No, it is nothing to do with you. Nothing you need concern yourself with, at any rate.”

His tone could not have been more patronizing had he patted her on the head and offered her a sweet.

“Nay, 'twere a fine romp, lass," she said, thickening her brogue and speaking in a falsetto tone "Ye've done a ripe bonny job distractin' me, as any a good wife ought tae do. Now off ye go an' peel the tatties. Aye, milord, I'll just do tha', I will. An' should I muckle out the stables whilst I'm at it?”

He stared at her through the gloom, one dark wing of brow curling upward. “A distraction? Is that what you think you are?”

“It is not what I like to think, but ye leave me little choice when ye as much as shout: ‘Go back to bed and dinna bother me.’”

Angus opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, the warning implicit if he tried to discount the charge with more platitudes.

“I did not shout.”

“Ye admitted that ye barked. At any rate, ye sounded angry.”

“Not with you, Anne. With myself, maybe, but not with you. Well, yes, alright, I will confess I was angry earlier tonight, but that was only because I was worried. I had a lot of time to think about a good many things, including what your presence in my life means to me.”

She frowned. “What does it mean? A warm body in your bed when ye need one? A hostess at your table? Someone to count your linens and occasionally scold a servant for not applying enough wax to your tables?”

“ My linens? My tables?”

“If ye will recall, I came here with naught but the clothes on my back, so aye, they are your tables, your chairs, your curtains, your plates, and I have never been encouraged to think of them any other way.”

His hand shifted restlessly on her shoulder, and she wondered if he remembered the flower arrangement she had made the first week she had come to live at Moy Hall. She had been out for a long walk and collected some sprigs of heather and bluebells—truly a scrawny offering, in hindsight, but at the time, she had thought it pretty enough to put in an odd little china vase she had seen in the drawing room. Within the hour, the flowers were gone and the maids were tittering about the “weeds” the master had ordered his valet, Robert Hardy to remove at once from his valuable antique vase. Angus had never mentioned the incident, but it had taught her a painful lesson in making presumptions.

“I was not aware you still felt like a guest in your own home,” he said quietly.

“Sometimes I do, yes. And other times …”

He tilted his head forward as she bowed hers down. “Other times?”

“I am quite aware I am an inconvenience,” she said softly. “Even an embarrassment.”

Angus straightened his head again. “I will grant you that some of the time you can be extremely headstrong and opinionated. You also have a disconcerting habit of saying exactly what is on your mind without pausing to think of the repercussions—and not just within the privacy of these four walls. I will even go so far as to say that you do not allow for what every man has in mind when they think of a quiet, sedate country life. On the other hand, if that was what I had wanted—”

“Ye could have married Margaret MacNeil or her lovely French cousin, Adrienne de Boule. Indeed, I was told they were both sorely distressed when they heard ye were obligated to take a sow's ear to wife.”

“I cannot imagine anyone comparing you to a sow's ear.”

“Then ye should listen more carefully to the gossips. Regardless, I doubt the likes of Maggie MacNeil would ever cause you a moment's worry by riding out in the middle of the night with guns in her belt, nor would she disgrace you by using the wrong fork or spoon. She would likely feel quite at home seated next to Duncan Forbes at a dinner party, and would never dare ask why in God's name ye wear the uniform of the Black Watch when it shames nearly every one of your clansmen who see you in it.”

The instant the words left her tongue she regretted them, for they struck him like a cold slap in the face. His body stiffened and the hand that had begun to wander beneath the folds of the quilt withdrew as if it were on a spring.

“So. We come back to that again. As always.”

“It is not something we can just ignore when the mood does not suit us.”

“No, we certainly cannot. And I would say the mood here has been pretty well shattered.”

The leather creaked as he shifted forward, inviting her to leave his lap. When she did, he stood and crossed over to the fire, bending down to light a taper, which he then used to bring a pair of candles on the mantel to life. In the bright yellow flare, Anne could see his face was once again set in harsh lines, his jaw was squared, his mouth compressed into a flat line. His hair was still boyishly disheveled, the dark waves falling forward on his cheeks and brow, but where it should have softened the impact of his anger, it only emphasized the swiftness with which he could turn from considerate lover to dispassionate overlord.

“I suppose I should have asked you earlier, but I thought … well, never mind what I thought,” he said. “I expect Fearchar called the meeting because he wanted to know if I had any intentions of changing my mind? If I intend to release the lairds of Clan Chattan to join the prince's army should that be their wish?”

“He was hoping ye might have changed your stand.”

“Join the ranks of an army in retreat? I may not have the military expertise of the Farquharson clan, but I am inclined to believe this is not the best time to declare one's support.”

“Had ye declared it sooner,” she said evenly, “perhaps they would not be in retreat.”

“Do you honestly think a few hundred men would have made a difference?”

“Alone? No. But if the few hundred MacKintoshes had joined with the MacLeods and the MacDonalds and the dozens of other clans who followed your example to stay at home and safeguard their family assets, there would have been thousands and yes, that might have made a difference.”

The taper had burned down to his fingers and he tossed the charred shred into the fire before walking over to the window. He lifted the curtain aside to look out, but it was still black as sin and there was little to see. When he turned back, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe and glared at her, his eyes eerily reflecting two hard points of candlelight.

“Perhaps you were right before,” he said. “Perhaps I should have included you in some of the discussions I have been having with my conscience. Not that I have not heard all the arguments already, of course.”

Anne said nothing; she stood on ice cold feet, her toes curling nervously into the carpet.

“Do you honestly think I want to force good men like Fearchar and Gilles MacBean and John MacGillivray to keep an oath that galls them to the very bone? Do you think I enjoy the sullen stares, or the sound of men spitting at me behind my back? Do you think, for one blessed moment, that a day does not go by without my agonizing over the decisions I have had to make?”

“Ye did not have to make them on your own,” she reminded him.

“Ahh, well, yes, you would think it would be easy just to gather all the lairds of Clan Chattan together and arrive at a consensus of opinion. But I have discovered it is easier to mix oil and water than it is to get two Highlanders to agree on any given point of an argument. Twenty of them in a room together could result in a hundred opinions, ninety-nine of them ending in bloodshed and swordplay. No.” He shook his head sadly. “Part of the joy that comes with the mantle of clan chief is that such burdens are mine and mine alone to bear. How easy it would be if they were not.” He paused and held up a hand to forestall her interruption.

“Unfortunately, there are more than two thousand families who depend on my leading with my head, not my heart. For each man I order to take up arms in a reckless and ill-conceived plan, there are easily twice as many women and children and babes in arms who would be the first to suffer the consequences for such blind arrogance. You despair for your nephews and nieces having to live in caves now? Imagine the thousands of others who could find themselves without a roof over their heads, their homes burned to the ground, their fields scorched, their livestock slaughtered. Imagine their fathers, sons, and husbands arrested and put on transport ships bound for an indentured life in a foreign land.”

“The English cannot arrest every man in Scotland,” she argued. “And those they did might prefer such a fate to being forced to wear the Hanover colors and fight for a Sassenach king they despise.”

“You believe they would prefer to fight for a king who has done nothing to even acknowledge the sacrifices they are willing to make in the name of loyalty? James Stuart has been in exile for sixty years. He has grown fat and indolent living off the sympathy of other fat, indolent monarchs who spout words of indignation and outrage even as they mock the very notion of his ever reclaiming the throne. Did he even have enough confidence in his own cause to come to Scotland himself? Good gracious, no. He sent his inexperienced, vainglorious pup of a son instead—a man who had never seen a battlefield, much less have the wherewithal to overthrow a country. And not just any country, mind you. England, for God's sake. The most powerful military force in the world.”

“He defeated them at Prestonpans,” she argued valiantly. “His army took Edinburgh and Perth and Stirling, and he has raised the Stuart standard in English towns all the way to Derby.”

“Lord George Murray led the army at Prestonpans. If not for him and men like Donald Cameron of Lochiel, I doubt Charles Stuart would have had a thousand men follow him away from Glenfinnan. As for raising his standard in English towns, I warrant they were torn down the instant the dust settled behind his retreat.”

Her fingers clenched around the folds of the quilt but Angus held up a hand for her to keep her silence a moment longer.

“But even if… even if the improbable had happened and the Jacobite army had marched all the way to London, how long do you suppose he could have remained there? The English managed to rally thirty thousand within a week of the prince crossing the border, and they would have had five times that many had a real threat been made against the capital city. They also have the means and resources to feed and clothe and pay an army, and to keep them well supplied with guns, cannon, and ammunition. Our men have to beg for food and wrap their feet in scraps of cloth when their shoes wear out. We also rely entirely on outside sources to supply us with guns and ammunition, whereas the English have a fleet of five hundred ships in a navy that could blockade the coastlines so tight the fish would turn away.”

“We have strong allies,” she countered fiercely.

“Indeed, we have. Two of England's most powerful enemies: France and Spain. If ever there was a chance of gaining support or sympathy within the ranks of the English military, it died then and there. After fighting hundred-year wars to keep France on the other side of the Channel and repelling an invasion armada with fishing boats and bonfire beacons, it is not likely they would invite either nation to encamp on their shores now. As for their being such fierce allies—where are they? King Louis promised forty thousand men and shiploads of guns and gold. To date, he has sent two worm-eaten hulks with a cargo of mismatched cannonballs—which, as it happens, are useless without the cannon to fire them. Spain has not acknowledged a single plea for support.”

Anne turned her head. “You have done a fine job of convincing yourself our cause was lost before it even began.”

“I am only being realistic, Anne. As soon as the prince crossed over the border to Scotland and set foot on English soil, he was lost. Had he stopped at the border, had he consolidated his victories, reinforced his garrisons, called for recruits to guard our homes and our freedom against another English invasion …” His voice fell off suddenly. “Well, we will never know what might have happened, will we?”

“It is not too late. We could still help to defend our borders.”

“Against thirty thousand vindictive Englishmen in a winter campaign? You know full well, when the prince crosses the River Esk back into Scotland, half the men he has will melt away and go home to their farms and families. He will be lucky to keep the other half intact long enough to reach Edinburgh. Then again, if the reports are true …” He returned to his desk and opened the top drawer, hesitating but a moment before he withdrew a sheet of paper. Anne had seen enough official documents to recognize military seals and government stamps, just as she knew the grandiose flourish that identified the signature of John Campbell, fourth earl of Loudoun, commander of the English troops garrisoned in Inverness.

“Cumberland's army is less than two days march behind the prince. If that is the case, he may not even make it as far as the border, and then the subject of whether or not he could defend Scotland against an invasion would be moot.”

“Two days!”

“And this report is forty-eight hours old.”

Anne's breath stopped again as she looked into her husband's face. “What are ye going to do?”

“Truthfully? I am going to pray that whatever happens happens several hundred miles from here. That it happens quickly and with the fewest possible repercussions for the rest of the country. What is more, as unpleasant and unpopular as it may seem to your grandfather and your cousins, I am going to do everything in my power to protect my home, my family, my clan.”

“Even if it means taking up arms and fighting against the prince?”

“The men of Clan Chattan will not be fighting anyone,” Angus stated flatly. “They will be deployed as guards and sentries only; I made that quite clear to Lord Loudoun at the outset.”

“And if it happens they are on duty guarding the glens and bens around Inverness, acting as sentries when they see the prince riding up the road … will they lay their muskets aside or will they be ordered to fire upon him?”

Angus bowed his head and exhaled through pursed lips. “I pray each night it will never come to that, just as I have prayed each night both sides would come to their senses and find a way to resolve this thing peacefully.”

“This thing,” she murmured. “Can ye not even bring yourself to put a name to it? It is war, Angus. War. And in war there must be a side that wins and a side that loses. What ye have done, what ye continue to do by supporting the English, is helping the wrong side win.”

“ Your wrong side,” he said with quiet emphasis. “I am trying very hard not to have one.”

“Aye, I can see how hard ye try. The dinners at Culloden House, the soirees at Fort George, the government favors and promises of land and estates in exchange for your cooperation. It must be very difficult pretending not to enjoy all the flattery and attention.”

“I try to take it in stride,” he retorted dryly. “Should I assume, by the charming look of derision on your face when you mentioned Culloden House just now, that you have forgotten the dinner party we are both expected to attend there tomorrow night?”

“Dinner party?”

“To celebrate Lady Regina Forbes's eightieth birthday?”

“Oh, good God, I had completely forgotten!” Her eyes widened with disbelief. “Surely ye do not expect me to attend! Not to spend an entire evening in the same room as Duncan Forbes and that bilious Earl of Loudoun!”

“Culloden is a large estate; I have no doubt you can find enough walls to act as buffers. And yes, I do expect you to attend. Whatever your feelings may be toward her son, the Dowager Lady Forbes has done nothing to deserve your enmity or your contempt. Even my mother has consented to leave her lair for the occasion, and if the Dragon Lady can manage to keep her tongue between her teeth for the evening, I see no reason why you cannot make a similar effort. That will, of course, include refraining from insulting the other guests or drawing your knives over every imagined slight.”

“I have never worn knives to a formal dinner,” she snapped.

“Then you have obviously never been looking in a mirror when your temper is roused.” He paused a moment, forcing himself to regain control. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“I plan to leave here around six o'clock. May I anticipate the pleasure of your company in the carriage, Lady MacKintosh?”

Anne turned and walked toward her dressing room. At the doors that led through to her own bedchamber, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I expect ye will know the answer to that at six o'clock tomorrow, my lord. As will I.”