Midnight Honor

tasted blood from a tear in the corner of her mouth, and she took quick, shallow breaths to glean what moisture she could from the mist.
    The duke came forward slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. The look in his eyes, as he inspected her bedraggled appearance, was clearly contemptuous, his smirk triumphant.
    “A lovely evening for a final chat, do you not agree?”
    Anne clamped her lips together and simply stared back.
    “Determined to defy me to the end, I see,” he murmured. “In truth I will confess you have made an admirable adversary. I would have thought to break you weeks ago. There is still time to reconsider, however; we have a few moments before the stroke of midnight.”
    “I have nothing to say to you,” she said, her voice little more than a dry rasp.
    “I did not think you would, and yet we do have one other small piece of business to attend to before we can proceed.” He smiled, and brought one of his adjutants forward with a wave of a hand. The soldier carried a leather-bound ledger, which he opened and presented to the duke. He then produced a small bottle of ink and a feather quill from a satchel he wore slung over his shoulder.
    “I have a document here,” the duke said, turning the ledger around so that she might see it contained two sheets of paper, “which requires your signature.”
    Anne tore her gaze away from his long enough to glance down, but the light was too poor and the script was illegible. “What is it?”
    “Nothing that should give you any cause for concern. Nothing that will compromise your principles or your politics or, God forbid, your heroic stature within your clan. It is merely a statement of fact, that you are a Jacobite, that you willingly disobeyed your husband by calling out your clan, and that you enthusiastically participated in acts of war against the Crown.”
    “A confession? Is this to ease your conscience before you have me murdered?”
    “My dear Lady Anne, if I had merely wanted you murdered, I would not have gone to all this trouble, I assure you. As for my conscience, I would warn you not to test its limits much further, nor my patience for that matter. Both are perilously close to the end of their tether. Now sign. We are running out of time and these games grow tiresome.”
    “It is all right, Anne. You can sign it”.'
    Startled, she looked up, looked around, searching for the source of the voice. She was not the only one who scanned the ring of trees; the soldiers turned their heads, brought their muskets up, and braced themselves as the woods came suddenly alive with sounds and shadows. From behind each tree, each thicket and bramble, emerging like ghosts out of the fog, came a score or more of MacKintosh clansmen, most armed with swords, pistols, and muskets. Detaching himself from the rest and walking fully into the blaze of torchlight was Angus Moy, his shoulders clad in forest green tartan banded with leather crossbelts. Gone was the image of the perfect gentleman. Gone was the polished elegance in his stance, the casual insouciance in the set of his jaw. His hair fell long and loose to his shoulders, his chin was dark with stubble; the gunmetal gray of his eyes blazed as hot as the torchlight and called forth all the blood and history of his warlike ancestors.
    “It is all right, Anne. You can sign his little scrap of paper; it was part of our agreement. There should be a second document there for His Grace to affix his signature to in front of these witnesses, granting you a full pardon.”
    Anne felt weak, breathless. Her lips parted around the soundless escape of air that was her husband's name.
    “You have something for me as well?” Cumberland demanded, turning to face the laird of Clan Chattan.
    Angus turned his head slightly, and another figure wearing the black frock coat and plain white neckcloth of a clerk stepped forward from the edge of the wood. He looked plainly ill at ease in the presence of so many bristling soldiers and armed Highlanders, and he hastened across the clearing, sending little pinwheels of mist spinning off in his wake.
    “I have the d-document in question, Your Grace,” he spluttered, barely loud enough for the duke to hear without tilting his head. “I also have a letter from His Royal Highness's First Minister, Lord Newcastle, suggesting that you comply with the terms of the agreement as laid out by Lord MacKintosh and his London solicitors. He states that should the House or the infernal