Midnight Honor

mother,” said Duncan Forbes once the confusion had cleared. “Not only does her memory wander, but it seems she grows less concerned each day with what she says and to whom she says it.”
    “If I live to be eighty, I would like to think I could claim the same privilege,” Angus said, smiling.
    The two men exchanged curt bows and Angus led Anne away, noting as he did that her glass of whisky was already half empty. Most of the conversations resumed upon a telling look from Duncan Forbes, but like the blade of a plow cutting a new furrow, there was a clear path of silence where Lord and Lady MacKintosh walked.
    “I do not suppose this would constitute a duty served,” she murmured.
    “You are doing just fine, my dear,” Angus said, his voice equally low. “And no, it would not.”
    “MacKintosh!” The booming voice of John Campbell, earl of Loudoun, parted the cluster of guests. He was a big man, not overly tall but wide enough around the girth and across the shoulders to test the skill of a tailor. His cheeks wore a constant blush from the cobweb of fine red veins, and he had what was most likely the largest nose in all of Scotland, thick and bulbous at the end, pitted like a sea sponge. “Pleased to see you here tonight, Captain. And your lovely wife, of course. Lady Anne. A pleasure.”
    He came forward with a flock of scarlet-clad officers in his wake, most of whom looked rigid enough to crack if they bent over.
    “You know my wife, of course?”
    The two women traded forced smiles. Of all the men present this evening, Anne harbored the least tolerance for Lord Loudoun. As commander of the government troops in Scotland, he had been the first to approach Angus with the “offer” not to arrest him, not to have his lands and titles attained, not to billet troops at Moy Hall or confiscate his possessions, rents, and livestock, in exchange for forming up aregiment of MacKintosh men to wear the white horse of Hanover on their caps. Together with Duncan Forbes, he had made every laird of any importance similar offers, and those who had stubbornly refused were either locked away in the Tolbooth or hiding in caves.
    When the earl bowed politely over Anne's hand, his eyes went no lower than the brimming edge of her bodice. “It has been an inordinately long time since we have had the pleasure of your company, Lady Anne. Angus, I know you have already met my new adjutants, but permit me the honor of presenting them to your wife: Lady Anne MacKintosh, Major Roger Worsham and Captain Fergus Blite, both arrived within the past fortnight from London.”
    Anne was happy not to have to stare into Loudoun's face a moment longer than necessary, but neither of the two new officers was any blistering prize as an alternative. Captain Blite was spectacularly ugly, his face marred by a milky white coating over one eye. The major was a slight improvement in that his features were almost pristinely handsome, but his back was stiff, his knee bent slightly forward to show the tightness and fit of his breeches to best advantage, and the sly smile he wore clearly indicated he had already heard a great deal about the red-haired Jacobite mistress of Moy Hall.
    Standing by his side, a slender white hand hooked possessively through his elbow, was yet another reason to bring Anne's jaws grinding together.
    Adrienne de Boule was petite and fine-boned, her hair dark as coal under the severe dusting of rice powder. She was French, and spoke in a delicate accented whisper calculated, no doubt, to require men to always lean forward to hear what she was saying. Her skin did not need mercury washes to bleach it white; her eyes were large and dark and expressive, with a thick fringe of black lashes that could be batted to good effect.
    They were stirring up a veritable breeze at the moment as her gaze fastened on Angus, and when he bowed over her hand, she took a deep enough breath to seriously deplete the supply of air in the room and to make her breasts—whichwere prominent enough without assistance—come perilously close to popping over the top of her bodice.
    “Lady MacKintosh.” Worsham was still smiling, oblivious to the fact that his companion was on the verge of lifting her skirts if Angus gave the smallest indication of interest. “It is both an honor and a privilege to finally make your acquaintance. I apologize for being somewhat lax in bringing myself out to Moy Hall before now, but can assure you the oversight will be