Midnight Honor

harsh bite of Highland spirits on her breath, but her hand was visibly unsteady and her mouth dry as tinder.
    Throughout the morning and most of the afternoon, she had been determined to send down a message that she was too ill to venture out tonight. She felt hurt and betrayed, resentfuland not a little confused by the conflicting actions of her husband and the emotions they had aroused. She had sent for Hardy, then waved him away again, sent for him and dismissed him without delivering any messages to anyone but the Almighty, who had heard her cursing fluently once the doors were closed.
    Having hardly slept a wink in the last twenty-four hours, her nerves felt frayed, raw. It normally required enormous preparation in her mind and body before she could tolerate her husband's
associates
with any measure of reasonably civil demeanor. Because she interpreted “reasonable” as meaning not spitting in their faces or calling them cowards and traitors, Angus had not often pressed her into accompanying him to formal affairs held at Culloden House or Fort George. By the same token, it was because he
had
spared her the discomfort of enduring all the political bombast and conceits that she had ultimately decided to join him tonight.
    Moreover, it was true what he had said about his mother. If the Dowager Lady MacKintosh could sit through an evening without fisting either Duncan Forbes or Lord Loudoun in the nose, then Anne Farquharson Moy, Lady MacKintosh, could do the same. Conversely, if the Dowager did let swing, as she had one memorable afternoon a month ago in the marketplace, Anne did not want to miss it by being ten miles away in a blue sulk.
    Somewhat bolstered by the thought, she took the wine and drank it down in one tilt. It was strong and sweet and she might have asked for another had Hardy not swept past and peremptorily relieved her of the empty glass.
    “Well then,” Angus said, setting his own untouched dram aside. “If you are ready—?”
    She turned and preceded him out into the hallway. A moment later Hardy was assisting her with her cloak, a voluminous wool garment with a fur lining and a hood spacious enough to accommodate the most elaborate hairstyle. While a maid fussed with clasps and gloves and muffs, Angus donned his own outer garment, which, on this formal occasion, was a long, broad length of tartan wrapped around his shoulders and draped over one arm.
    The carriage was already waiting at the front entrance of Moy Hall, the door held open by a footman as Anne and Angus emerged from the house. It was a clear, dark sky, the air laden with contrasting smells of ice and woodsmoke, and as she paused to draw a crisp breath into her lungs, Angus slipped his hand under her elbow to guide her across the rug that had been thrown down to protect their shoes. Small swirls of wind-driven snow danced along the ground beside them, sliding under Anne's skirts and twirling up her legs. She did not object as Angus sat beside her and covered them both with a lap robe of unsheared sheepskin, but neither did she invite any inane conversations as she settled into the corner and kept her face turned to the window, the flare of the hood preventing any unnecessary or unwanted eye contact.
    Culloden House was situated in the midst of a beautifully landscaped park. It had a commanding view of the Moray Firth to the north and the impressive battlements of the Grampian mountain range to the south. The house itself stood three stories tall and boasted eighteen bedrooms, all with marble fireplaces, fountainous crystal chandeliers, and brocaded silk wall coverings. One of the grander country estates in the area, it had once belonged the MacKintoshes, but had been sold in the early part of the previous century to pay off bad debts.
    The stone pillars that sat on either side of the gates, as well as the wide circular drive, were dotted with torches and lamps. Every window in the house was ablaze with light, so many that a glow had been visible in the sky long before the carriage carrying Anne and Angus had rolled over the last hill.
    Anne's mood had not improved much through the miles of silent travel. Her expression was plainly glum and her fingers had worried a seam of her gloves into a tangle of loose threads. Once or twice she had stolen a peek at Angus, but the interior light was muted by a shade of pressed horn and she had not been able to see much more than his profile. She knew he was tense, however, by the way the