Free Midnight Honor by Marsha Canham Page A

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 are probably not 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—”
    “You 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 you were obligated to take a sow's ear to wife.”
    “I cannot imagine anyone comparing you to a sow's ear.”
    “Then you should listen more carefully to the gossips. Regardless, I doubt the likes of Mlle. de Boule 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 at home seated next to Duncan Forbes at a dinner party, and would never dare ask why in God's name you 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 brightyellow flare, Anne could see his face was 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 if that is what they wish to do?”
    “He was hoping it would be what you wished to do.”
    “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 you declared it earlier,” she said evenly, “perhaps they would not be in retreat.”
    “Do you honestly think a few hundred men would have made a difference?”
    “Not alone, no. But if the few hundred MacKintoshes had joined with the MacLeods and the MacDonalds and the dozens of other clans who chose 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 scrap 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 are right,” he said. “Perhaps I should have included you in some of the discussions I have been having with my