The Winter Sea

X

IT WAS, SOPHIA THOUGHT, like waiting for the headsman’s axe to fall.

It had been but a day since Colonel Hooke had made a safe return to Slains, looking ill and weary from his days of horseback traveling among the Scottish nobles. And this morning, shortly after dawn, Monsieur de Ligondez’s French frigate, the Heroine, had reappeared in full sail off the coast, having kept strictly to his earlier instructions to remain three weeks at sea.

Sophia’s heart felt like a stone within her chest. She could not look at Moray, who sat now in his accustomed place across the dinner table, for she would not have him see the wretched nature of her misery. It was as well, she thought, that all the others were so focused on their conversation that they took no notice of the fact she had no appetite for any of the fine food Mrs Grant had set in front of them—oysters and mutton and wildfowl in gravy, a swirl of rich smells that would normally stir her, but which, on this day, failed to tantalize. Pushing the meat round the plate with her fork, she listened while the Earl of Erroll questioned Hooke about his meetings with the other chieftains.

‘Nearly all,’ said Hooke, ‘have signed their names to a memorial whereby they pledge King James their swords and loyalty, and lay out their requests for arms and aid, to guard his person when he lands. If you will sign it for yourself, and for those others who did give you leave to sign for them, then I will gladly carry it with me to Saint-Germain, and give it by my own hand to the king.’

The earl was sitting back, his keen eyes deep with thought. ‘Who has not signed?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said, “nearly all” had signed. Who did not choose to put their name to this memorial?’

‘Ah.’ Hooke searched his memory. ‘None but two. The Duke of Gordon and the Earl of Breadalbane, though both did pledge me their support. The Duke of Gordon said he could not in good conscience sign a document that calls upon King James to come to Scotland and so put himself in danger.’

The young earl glanced along the table to where Moray sat, and in a calm, impassive voice, reminded Hooke, ‘I know of many in this country who do risk as much, for lesser gain.’

Hooke nodded. ‘And I’m well aware of that. I tell you only what the Duke of Gordon said to me. ’Twas my opinion that both he and Breadalbane would not sign more from caution than from any great concern about the king.’

The earl shrugged. ‘Aye, well, Breadalbane has kept his head and health for eighty years, and in that time I do not doubt he’s grown too canny to affix his name to anything except his correspondence.’

‘You may be right.’ Hooke cocked a look towards the earl. ‘Do you then share his cautious nature?’

‘If I did,’ the earl said, ‘you would not be here, nor would there be a French ship anchored now below my castle. Do you honestly suppose that, in these times, no one has whispered to Queen Anne of our involvement? It is sure she knows, or does suspect, and only my position keeps our lands from being forfeit. Yet for these past years my mother and my father, heaven rest his soul, and now myself, have ventured all to aid our king however we are able.’

‘And I do know the king is duly grateful.’ Hooke said hastily, as though he realized he had pressed the younger man too firmly.

It was true, Sophia thought. If it had not been for the countess and her son, King James would have found it more difficult sending his agents across into Scotland to raise the rebellion. At Slains they were sheltered and aided. The countess had even brought in, for Hooke’s comfort, an old Catholic priest, who could yet say the mass. For so long now, Sophia had worried for Moray, and what would become of him if he were taken. She hadn’t considered, till now, just how greatly the earl and his mother might suffer if they were to be convicted of high treason.

They would be called to pay, she thought, with more than just their lands. A noble birth had never been a guard against a sharp drop from the gallows—it but made the fall the greater.

From the head of the table, the earl said to Hooke, ‘I will read your memorial, and if I do approve its terms, I’ll sign, both for myself and for the others who do trust me.’ With that settled, he returned to eating, spearing up a chunk of roasted mutton with his knife-point. Casually, he added, ‘I confess I am surprised you did convince the Duke of Hamilton to sign.’

Hooke paused. It was the faintest wobble of his confidence, but still Sophia saw it. Then his features found their place again. He said, ‘When I did speak of those two lords who did not sign, I meant those lords among the ones I had the chance to meet, and speak with. I regret the Duke of Hamilton did not feel well enough to meet with me.’

‘And so he has not signed?’ the earl asked.

‘No.’

‘I see. Well, that,’ the earl said, smiling, ‘is no more than I expected.’ He stabbed another piece of mutton. ‘Did my mother tell you we have had a letter from the duke’s friend, Mr Hall?’

Hooke raised an eyebrow to the countess. ‘Have you, now?’

She said, ‘You must forgive me, it did come to us by night, while you were sleeping, and with the arrival this morning of Monsieur de Ligondez, it had escaped my mind. Yes, Mr Hall did write to beg a favor of me, that I tell you he is coming north, by order of the duke, to renew the negotiation with you, and that he hopes you will not leave before he does arrive, and that you will not conclude anything with the rest of us, for he is sure you will be satisfied with the proposals he will bring.’

‘Indeed.’ Hooke’s eyes betrayed his interest. Thinking for a moment, he addressed Monsieur de Ligondez. ‘Well, then, I wonder if you could see fit to cruise off the coast for a few days longer?’

It must, Sophia thought, be rather wearying for the French ship’s captain, forever coming back to Slains and being sent away again, and she would not have blamed him had he told Hooke to be damned, although she privately would not have minded if the ship had kept to sea another month. Whatever thoughts de Ligondez himself might have, he kept them closely shuttered, and with one curt nod, said, ‘Very well.’ He spoke, in English, carefully and slowly, as though forced to think of every word, although Sophia guessed his understanding of the language was quite fluent. He’d been following along with ease, while they had talked—he’d laughed at the earl’s jokes, and his black eyes had shown an admiration of the clever comments of the countess.

And he’d seemed to have a great respect for Moray, who asked Hooke, ‘Ye cannot think the duke will give ye satisfaction now, when he has kept ye hanging in the hedge so long?’

Hooke said, in his defense, ‘I met the Duke of Hamilton when we were both much younger men, and sharing prison quarters in the Tower. I do know his faults, believe me, but I owe him still some measure of that friendship. If he but asks me to remain a few more days that I may hear his own proposals, I can surely do that much.’

The earl replied, ‘Perhaps the duke does fear that your design may find success without him, Colonel Hooke, for I do think that nothing but that fear could make him take such a step as to send Mr Hall to you.’

Moray had read the move differently, and said so now. ‘And has it not occurred to ye, the duke might mean no more than to delay us?’

‘To what end?’ asked Hooke.

‘His lordship has already said, there is no safety here. And many of those men whose names are signed to your memorial would pay a bitter price if that same document were set before Queen Anne.’ His level gaze met Hooke’s. ‘My brother William signed for you, as Laird of Abercairney, did he not?’

‘He did.’

‘Then ye’ll forgive me, Colonel, if I do not hold your friendship with the duke as being worth my brother’s life. Or mine.’

There was a pause, while Hooke at least appeared to be considering the argument. ‘I take your point,’ he said, at last, ‘but I must keep my conscience. We will wait for Mr Hall a few days more.’

And so, Sophia thought, she was reprieved, but her relief was tempered by the knowledge that it was but temporary, time enough to thread a few more days like beads of glass along the fragile string of memories that would be her only joy to hold, when he had gone. For in the end, she knew, the axe would fall, and there would be no rider bearing one last pardon to relieve her of the pain of it.

He would not take her with him.

She had asked him, in a foolish moment while they’d lain in bed last night, aware that Hooke’s returning meant their time was growing short. She had been watching him, and trying with a fierceness to commit to memory how he looked, his head upon her pillow, with his short-cropped hair that would have curled itself if he had let it grow, not kept it shorn with soldier’s practicality beneath the wig. She knew the feel of that dark hair against her fingers now, and knew the hard line of his cheek, and how his lashes lay upon that cheek in stillness, like a boy’s, when he had spent himself in loving her and stretched himself along her side, and breathed in gentle rhythm, as though sleeping.

But he did not sleep. Eyes closed, he asked, his voice a murmur on the pillow, ‘What are ye looking at?’

‘You.’

‘I’d have thought ye’d have seen more of me than was good for a lass, these past days.’ His eyes drifted half-open, lazily, holding a smile. ‘D’ye fear ye’ll forget what I look like?’

She could not answer him so lightly. Rolling to her back, she focused on a faint crack that had spread across the ceiling as a rip might run through fabric. ‘John?’

‘Aye?’

‘Why have you never asked me to go with you?’

‘Lass.’

‘I am not rooted here at Slains, I’ve only just arrived, and none would miss me overmuch if I should leave.’

‘I cannot take ye.’

She could feel a crack begin to spread across her heart as well, just like the one that marred the ceiling. Moray reached a hand to touch her hair and turn her face towards him. ‘Look at me,’ he said, and when she did, he told her quietly, ‘I would not take you into France, or Flanders, to a field of war. ’Tis no life for the lass I love.’ His touch was warm against her skin. ‘Before this year is out, the king will be on Scottish soil again, and I will be here with him, and he’ll have his crown, and there will be a chance for you and me, then, to begin a life together. Not in France,’ he said, ‘but here, at home, in Scotland. Will ye wait for that?’

What else could she have done, she thought, but nod, and let him kiss her? For when she was in his arms it seemed the world was far away from them, and nothing could intrude upon the dream.

She would have given much to have that feeling now.

The talk around the dinner table had reverted to the war upon the continent, and how things stood for France, and of the word, just lately come across the water, that there had been a decisive victory for the French and Spanish forces at Almanza.

‘’Twas the Duke of Berwick’s doing,’ Hooke remarked with admiration.

Everyone admired the Duke of Berwick. He was half-brother to the young King James, born to their father by his mistress, Arabella Churchill, and although he was denied, by virtue of his bastard birth, a claim upon the throne, he had, by virtue of his courage and intelligence, become his younger brother’s best defender, and in doing so had earned himself the love and great respect of all the Scots.

The Earl of Erroll gave a nod. ‘You do know that our nobles wish the Duke of Berwick to be put in full command of bringing King James back to us?’

‘It is already known at Saint-Germain,’ said Hooke, ‘and several of the chieftains here did mention it again to me, when we did meet.’

The countess said, ‘He is the only choice, the king must see that.’

‘And I have no doubt the king will choose him, if it is his choice to make,’ said Hooke.

Sophia knew that when the countess smiled like that, it was designed to hide the workings of her intellect from those she meant to question. ‘And who else would make the choice for him?’

Hooke shrugged. ‘The King of France will have some say in it, if he is to provide the arms, and ships, and all the funds for our success.’

‘I see.’ The countess, smiling still, asked, ‘And in your opinion, Colonel, does the King of France desire success?’

Not for the first time, Sophia saw Moray’s grey eyes fix in silence on the countess, with respect. Then, still in silence, his gaze traveled back for the Irishman’s answer.

Hooke appeared surprised. ‘Of course he does, your Ladyship. Why would he not?’

‘Because his purpose will be served as well if England only hears that we do plan the king’s return, for then the English surely will call some of their troops home to guard against it, and the King of France will find it somewhat easier to fight their weakened forces on the continent. He does not need to fight our war. He has but to suggest it.’ She ended her remark by neatly forking up a piece of fowl, as though she had been speaking of some trifle, like the weather, and not making an analysis of France’s foreign policy.

The earl, his voice amused, said, ‘Mother.’

‘Well, ’tis time that someone at this table did speak plainly,’ was her calm defense. ‘You do forget my brother is the young king’s chancellor, and I am well aware that there are those among the French king’s court who, for their varied purposes, would see this venture fail. We cannot think it was an accident that Mr Moray was sent over to us this time, when his capture would have ruined all. We can but thank God Mr Moray has the sense to know when he is being played.’ Her eyes, here, fixed on Hooke’s face with a patience that was motherly. ‘Not all men are so worldly wise.’

The earl leaned forward once again as if to speak, but she held up her hand.

‘A moment, Charles. Before you put your name to this memorial, and risk your head and mine still further, I would ask the colonel if he is content, in his own mind, that the French king will keep its terms, and bring our young king safely to our shores?’

Even Monsieur de Ligondez looked round at Hooke, to wait for his reply. Hooke thought a moment, and appeared to choose his words with care. ‘I cannot give you promises, your Ladyship. I can but tell you what I have observed, and what I feel in my own heart. The King of France has raised young James with his own children, and he loves him like a son. I would not think that, for the sake of politics, he’d risk our young king’s life.’

The countess asked, ‘But would he risk our own?’

‘I do not know.’ An honest answer, thought Sophia. She could see it in his eyes, which were no longer set to charm, but held the doubts of all the others round the table. ‘I only know that if we do not seize this moment, if we do not try, then it will pass, and may not come again. I do not think your Robert Bruce was certain he would win, when he did set his foot upon the field at Bannockburn, but he did set his foot upon it, all the same. And so must we.’

By which he meant, Sophia knew, the safer path did rarely lead to victory.

She’d thought on that herself the day she first had taken Moray’s invitation to go riding. She had known that she was choosing an untraveled path that did not promise safety, but she’d set her course along it and her life had been forever changed. There was no turning back.

She felt a warmth upon her face and knew that he was watching her, and bravely lifting up her chin, she met his steady eyes and drew her courage from the light in them that burned for her alone.

No turning back, she thought again, although, like all the others at the table who would choose the yet untrodden way and follow young King James, she could not see along the winding path to know the way that it would end.

Mr Hall came two days later.

He stayed closeted some time with Colonel Hooke and then departed, pausing only long enough to pay his respects to the countess, who was sitting reading with Sophia in the sunlight of the drawing room.

‘You will stay and dine with us, surely?’ she asked him.

‘Forgive me, but no. I must start back as soon as I am able.’

With an eyebrow arched, the countess said, ‘Then do at least allow my cook to make a box for you. It will take no more than a few minutes, and the duke will surely not begrudge you that.’ She called to Kirsty, and with her instruction given, asked the priest to sit. ‘I have been reading to Miss Paterson some pages of Mr Defoe’s excellent reportage of the hurricane in England, of a few years back. She did lead a sheltered life before she came to us and had not heard the fullness of the tales.’

He nodded. ‘Yes, it was God’s punishment upon a sinful people who have put away their rightful king and will not see the error of their ways.’

The countess looked at him, and glancing up, Sophia saw the humor in her eyes. ‘Good Mr Hall, you cannot think that God would send so fierce a wind against a country for its sins? Faith, all the world would be so plagued with winds no house would stand, for we are none of us unstained. ’Twas not the English who sold Scotland’s independence, in our Parliament.’ She smiled, to soften her reminder of the way the duke had voted. ‘Still, if God does send us wind, we can but hope he’ll put it at the back of young King Jamie’s sails, to bring him to us faster.’ Turning the book in her hand, she regarded it. ‘Mr Defoe is a very good writer. Have you had occasion to meet him, in Edinburgh?’

‘Daniel Defoe? Yes, I have met him a few times,’ said Mr Hall. ‘But I confess I do not like the man. He is canny, and watchful. Too watchful, I thought.’

She took his meaning, and, with interest, asked, ‘You do believe he is a spy?’

‘I’ve heard he owes much, for his debts, to Queen Anne’s government, and is not to be trusted. And the duke does share my views.’

‘No doubt he does.’ The countess closed the book and set it to one side. ‘Perhaps the duke will see his way to warn me if he knows of any others who are spying for the queen,’ she said, ‘so that I may be careful not to have them here at Slains.’

Sophia held her breath a moment, because she felt sure that from the smooth challenge of the countess’s tone, Mr Hall could not have failed to guess the countess’s opinion of his master and of where the duke’s own loyalties did lie. But Mr Hall appeared to miss the thrust entirely. ‘I shall ask him to,’ he promised.

Whereupon the countess smiled, as though she could not find the heart to spar with such a gentle man. ‘That would be kind of you.’

The conversation ended there, for Kirsty reappeared with a packed box of Mrs Grant’s good food—cold meat, and cakes, and ale to keep him nourished on his journey.

They went out into the yard to see him off, as did the earl and Colonel Hooke—and even Moray, who stayed back a pace. The mastiff, Hugo, having come to view him with affection, circled round and barked as though to call him to a game, but Moray only gave the dog an absent pat. After watching Mr Hall ride out of sight, he turned on his heel and, with a few words, took his leave with a shuttered sideways glance toward Sophia that she knew was his unspoken signal she was meant to follow.

Hugo helped. He was still circling, and the countess, taking pity on him, said, ‘Poor Hugo. Every time young Rory goes away, he is fair desolate.’

It wasn’t only Hugo, thought Sophia. Kirsty, too, had been at odds these past two days, with Rory sent to carry messages to all the lords on whose behalf the Earl of Erroll had just signed his name to Hooke’s memorial, so they would know the business was concluded. But Kirsty, at least, had her work to attend and Sophia to talk to. The mastiff was lost.

‘Shall I take him for a walk?’ Sophia offered, on a sudden inspiration. ‘He would like that, and we’d not go far.’

The countess gave consent, and having fetched Hugo’s lead from the stables, Sophia set forth with the great dog beside her, taking care to appear to be taking a different direction than Moray had. ‘Now, then,’ she said, to the mastiff, ‘behave yourself, or you’ll be bringing me trouble.’

But Hugo, so happy to be in human company, seemed perfectly content to go wherever she would lead him, and when they came out at last upon the beach, amid the dunes, and he discovered Moray sitting waiting for them, Hugo’s joy exploded in a burst of body-wagging gladness. Groveling in the sand, he stretched his full length with a grunt of satisfaction, rolling to be petted.

‘Away with ye, great foolish beast,’ said Moray, but he gave the massive barrel of a chest a scratch. ‘I’m not so fooled. Ye’d tear me limb from limb if someone told you to, and never shed a tear.’

Sophia took a seat beside them. ‘Hugo would not do you harm,’ she said. ‘He likes you.’

‘It’s got naught to do with liking. He’s a soldier like myself. He follows orders.’ He looked seaward, and Sophia did not ask what his own orders were. She knew, with Mr Hall gone, there was no cause now for Colonel Hooke to linger here at Slains, and when the French ship came again it would take Hooke and Moray with it.

But he had not brought her here to tell her what she knew already, and she’d learned his moods enough to tell that something else lay heavy on his mind. ‘What is it, John? Do the proposals Mr Hall brought with him worry you?’

He seemed to find some cynical amusement in the thought. ‘The Duke of Hamilton’s proposals were a waste of ink and paper, and he knew it when he wrote them. That,’ he told her, ‘is what has me worried.’

‘Do you still believe that he did mean but to delay you?’

‘Aye, perhaps. But it is more than that. I’ve no doubt the duke has been gained over by the court of London, and that he seeks to play us all as neatly as a deck of cards—but what his own hand is, and what the rules, I cannot yet discover.’ The frustration of that limitation showed upon his face. ‘He knows too much already, but he knows that he does not know all, and that, I fear, may drive him to new treachery. Ye must be careful, lass. If he does come here, guard your words, and guard your feelings. He must never learn,’ he said, ‘that you are mine.’

The deep, protective force with which he said that warmed her spirit, even as his words ran cold across her skin, more chilling than the swift breeze from the sea. She had not thought of danger to herself, but only him. But he was right. If it were known that she was Moray’s woman, she would be a playing piece of value to the men who wished to capture him.

He held her gaze. ‘I would not have ye suffer for my sins.’

‘I promise I’ll be careful.’

Seeming satisfied, he gave the mastiff lying at his side another thump, and in a lighter tone remarked, ‘I had a mind to tell ye not to walk so far from Slains, while I’m away, without this beastie with ye, but I’m thinking now he’d be of little use.’

She couldn’t help but smile. ‘You said before you had no doubt he’d kill you, if he were so ordered.’

‘Aye, but look at that.’ He rocked the lazing dog from side to side, in evidence. ‘He’s barely conscious.’

‘’Tis because he trusts you,’ said Sophia, ‘and he knows that I am safe. If I were truly threatened, he would be the first to rise to my protection.’

‘Not the first,’ said Moray. Then he looked away again, towards the distant line of the horizon, and Sophia, falling silent, looked there, too, and found some peace by watching swiftly scudding clouds, small wisps of white, dance in their free and careless way above the water, running races with each other as they caught, and held, and changed their shapes at will.

And then one cloud, which seemed more steady than the others, drew her eye, and as it moved, she saw it was no cloud. ‘John…’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I see it.’

Hugo caught the change in Moray’s tone, and rolled in one long motion to his feet, nose raised to test the wind— the same wind that was bearing those white, billowed sails toward them.

‘Come,’ said Moray, standing, holding out his hand. ‘We’d best get back.’

His voice was clipped, as though he wished to waste no time, and dreading as she did the time that he must leave, she could not help but find his cold reaction to their sighting of the ship a disappointment.

‘I had hoped that you might not be so pleased,’ she told him, stung, ‘to see Monsieur de Ligondez return. Are you so eager, then, to be away?’

His gaze had narrowed on the distant ship, and now it swung to hers with patient tenderness. ‘Ye know that I am not. But that,’ he said, and nodded seaward to the swift-approaching sails, ‘is not Monsieur de Ligondez.’

The ship was yet too far away for her to see its ensign, but she trusted Moray’s eyes enough to scramble to her feet and take the hand that he was offering, and feeling as a fox might when it runs before the hounds, she followed him, with Hugo, back along the path that climbed the hill above the shore.

‘I wonder why your Captain Gordon does not come ashore to us,’ the Earl of Erroll asked his mother, who, like him, was standing at the window of the drawing room, her hands behind her back, brow furrowed slightly as she gazed in consternation at the ship that lay now anchored off the coast.

‘I do not know,’ the countess said. Her voice was quiet. ‘How long has it been, now, since he did appear?’

‘An hour, I think.’

‘It is most strange.’

Sophia did not like the tension that had fallen on the room. It was not helped by Moray’s choice to stand so close behind her chair that she could all but feel the restless energy within him, held contained by force of will.

Colonel Hooke had given up on standing and was sitting now beside Sophia in a rush-backed chair, his face still bearing witness to the illness that had plagued him through this journey, and which would, no doubt, be worsened by his passage on the sea. His mood had altered since his talk with Mr Hall. He seemed less patient, and had gained the air of one who had been sorely disappointed.

This new turning of the tide, with Captain Gordon’s ship, bearing all its great guns and its forty-odd soldiers, appearing from nowhere to stand between Slains and the open North Sea, all but drove Hooke’s raw temper to breaking point.

‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘can we not send a boat out ourselves to ask what he intends?’

The countess turned, and in the face of Hooke’s impatience seemed herself more calm. ‘We could, but I have never yet had cause to doubt the captain’s loyalties. If he does keep himself aloof, I’m sure he has good reason, and if we were to blunder in, we may yet do ourselves the greater harm.’

Her son agreed. ‘We would be wisest,’ said the earl, ‘to wait.’

‘Wait!’ echoed Hooke, in some disgust. ‘For what? For soldiers to approach by land, and trap us here like pigeons in a dovecote, with no window left to fly through?’

Moray’s voice, behind Sophia, held a quiet edge. ‘If we are trapped, ’tis no fault of our hosts,’ he said, as though he would remind Hooke of his manners. ‘They had no part in keeping us at Slains these few days past our time. That was, as I recall, your choice, and ye’d do well to pick that up and carry it yourself, not seek to lay the burden and the blame on those who’ve shown us naught but kindness.’

It was, Sophia thought, one of the longest speeches he had made before the others, and they seemed surprised by it. But it had hit the mark, and, chastened, Hooke said, ‘You are right.’ The fire fading from his eyes, Hooke told the earl, ‘I do apologize.’

Accepting, the earl sent a glance of gratitude to Moray before turning once again to the long window, and its view upon the sea. He watched a moment, then Sophia saw him frown. ‘What is he doing now?’

His mother, watching too, said, ‘He is leaving.’

Hooke sat upright. ‘What?’ He rose and went to look himself. ‘He is, by God. He’s getting under sail.’

They all looked then, and saw the white sails rise and fill with wind, and watched the great ship roll away from shore, while on her tilting deck the moving figures of the men worked hard to set her course. Sophia could not see the blue of Captain Gordon’s coat among them.

It was Moray who first saw the second ship, just rounding into view around the southern headland. It was another frigate, and the countess said, ‘I’ll wager that is Captain Hamilton, the colleague of whom Captain Gordon told us when he was last here.’

Sophia remembered how Gordon had said that his younger associate, sailing so often behind him, would soon grow suspicious if French ships were spotted too often off Slains, and might prove himself to be a problem.

‘Captain Hamilton,’ the countess said, ‘is no friend of the Jacobites.’ She had relaxed. ‘This does explain why Captain Gordon did not come ashore.’

The second frigate passed the castle by. It flew the ensign of the new united British navy, bright against the sky, and followed swiftly on in Gordon’s wake—a smaller ship, but seeming to Sophia more the predator, and she was glad when it had gone.

The Earl of Erroll was the first to turn away. ‘At least,’ he said, ‘we know, now, where the frigates are, and likely we will have some days before they do return. Monsieur de Ligondez should find his way the clearer, now.’

Which doubtless pleased the others. But Sophia, standing there before the window, found no comfort in the knowledge, and the brightness of the sun upon the water hurt her eyes.

She was shaken awake by a hand on her shoulder.

‘Sophia!’ The countess’s voice, close beside her. ‘Sophia!’

Her eyes fluttered open, confused for a moment, then coming alert quickly glanced to the side in remembrance, but Moray was gone, and the pillow showed barely an imprint of where he had lain. With an effort, she pushed herself up till she sat in the tangle of blankets.

The sun was not long up, and slanted low across the windowsill, its light still pale and tinged with all the splendor of the dawn. ‘What is it?’

‘The French ship is come.’

She noticed now the countess, for the early hour, was fully dressed and wide awake. Sophia, in her shift, stood from the bed and slowly crossed to her long window. She saw the high masts of the Heroine some distance still off shore, but bearing steadily towards them.

‘Get you dressed,’ the countess said, ‘and come downstairs. We will have one last meal together, and wish Colonel Hooke and Mr Moray well before they must depart.’

Sophia nodded, and she heard the door close as the countess left the chamber, but she seemed to be stuck fast upon the spot, her gaze fixed fiercely to the French ship’s sails, as though she somehow could hold back its progress, if she tried.

She was so focused on it that she nearly failed to see the sweep of movement at the far edge of her vision, as another ship came darkly round the shoreline, like the shadow of a shark. It was the second British ship that they had seen the day before, not Gordon’s ship but Captain Hamilton’s.

Monsieur de Ligondez had seen it, too, and must have known he’d get no friendly welcome from this interceptor bearing down upon him. French ships on the coast of Scotland were but seen as privateers, rich prizes for a man like Captain Hamilton to capture. Sophia, with her breath held, watched the great prow of the Heroine begin to turn about, sails changing shape and swinging desperately to catch the wind. Go on, she urged, go on!

But Captain Hamilton was closing. In a few more moments he would surely be in range to use his guns.

Sophia’s knuckles whitened as her fingers gripped the window-ledge, as though she could herself control the French ship’s helm, and turn it with more speed.

There seemed to be a rush of new activity aboard the Heroine. The flags at both the topmast and the mizzen fluttered downward to the deck, and different colors were hauled up the ropes to take their place against the sails. Sophia recognized the Holland ensign, and the old Scots blue and white. The signal, she thought suddenly—the signal that had been arranged between Monsieur de Ligondez and Gordon so the ships would know each other when they met.

Except the ship that now had the French frigate in its sights was not in the command of Captain Gordon.

Captain Hamilton took no apparent notice of the changing of the ensigns, but continued on his course to close the distance between his ship and the Heroine.

And then, across the water, came the rolling boom and echo of the firing of a gun.

Sophia jumped, she could not help it. She could feel the very impact of that shot within her chest, and feeling helpless, turned her eye towards the Heroine, to see the damage done.

To her relief, she saw the French ship sailed as swiftly as before and seemed unharmed. And then a third and even larger ship slid smoothly from behind the northern headland and came fully into view, its great sails billowed with the morning wind. Again a great gun sounded, and Sophia this time saw it was the third ship that was firing—not upon Monsieur de Ligondez but out to sea, apparently with no intent of hitting anything.

The ship was Captain Gordon’s, but she did not understand his purpose until Captain Hamilton began to turn, reluctantly, and change his course.

And then she knew. The gun, she thought, had been a call for Hamilton to give up his pursuit. How Captain Gordon would explain that to his colleague, she could not imagine, but she did not doubt that he would find some passable excuse.

His ship was running close along the shore of Slains now, close enough for her to see him standing to the starboard of the mainmast. And then he turned, as though to give an order to his crew, and in a crashing spray of white the great ship passed, and headed south behind the ship of Captain Hamilton, while out to sea the white sails of the Heroine danced lightly on the fast-receding waves.

‘They’ll hear us, John.’

‘They won’t.’ He pressed her close against the garden wall, his shoulders shielding her from view, while at his back and overhead the thickly laden branches of a lilac tree hung round them, filling all the shadowed corner with a sweet and clinging scent.

All around, the final dying light of day was giving way to darkness, and Sophia found she could not take her eyes from Moray’s face, as someone going blind might look her last upon the things best loved, before night fell. And night, she knew, was falling. In the shelter of the cliffs below the castle walls, the Heroine was back, and riding silent on the waves. When it grew dark enough, the boat would come to carry Hooke and Moray from the shore.

She did not wish him to remember her in tears. She forced a smile. ‘And what if Colonel Hooke is looking for you now?’

‘Then let him look. I have my own affairs to tend before we leave tonight.’ He touched her hair with gentle fingers. ‘Did ye think that I’d be parted from my lass without a farewell kiss?’

She shook her head, and let him raise her face to his, and kissed him back with all the fierceness spilling from her soul, the wordless longing that would not be held, but rushed upon her like the flooding tide. There was a quiver in her lips, she knew, but when he raised his head she’d overcome it and was trying to look brave.

She might have saved herself the effort. Moray studied her in silence for a moment with his solemn gaze, then gathered her against his chest, one arm around her shoulders and the other hand entangled in her hair, as if he sought to make her part of him. His head came down so that his breath brushed warm against her cheek. ‘I will come back to ye.’

She could not speak, but nodded, and his voice grew more determined still.

‘Believe that. Let the devil bar my way, I will come back to ye,’ he said. ‘And when King Jamie’s won his crown, I’ll no more be a wanted man, and I’ll be done with fighting. We’ll have a home,’ he promised her, ‘and bairns, and ye can wear a proper ring upon your finger so the world will see you’re mine.’ Drawing back, he brushed a bright curl from her cheekbone with a touch of sure possession. ‘Ye were mine,’ he told her, ‘from the moment I first saw ye.’

It was true, but she did not yet trust her voice to tell him so. She could but let him read it in her eyes.

His hand withdrew a moment, then returned, to press a small, round object, smoothly warm, into the yielding softness of her palm. ‘Ye’d best take this, so ye’ll not doubt it for yourself.’

She did not need to look to know what he was giving her, and yet she raised it anyway and held it to the fading light—a heavy square of silver, with a red stone at its centre, on a plain, broad silver band. ‘I cannot take your father’s ring.’

‘Ye can.’ He closed her fingers round it with his own, insistent. ‘I’ll have it back when I return, and bring a gold one in its place. ’Till then, I’d have ye keep it with ye. Any man who knew my father knows that ring, as well. While I’m away, if ye need help of any kind, ye’ve but to show that to my family, and they’ll see you’re taken care of.’ When he saw that she still hesitated, he went on more lightly, ‘Ye can keep it safe for me, if nothing else. I’ve lost more things than I can name, on battlefields.’

She clenched her fingers round the ring, not wanting the reminder of the dangers he would face. ‘How soon must you rejoin your regiment?’

‘As soon as I am ordered to.’ He met her eyes and saw her fear and said, ‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ve kept myself alive this long, and that was well before I had your bonnie face to give me better cause. I’ll keep my head well down.’

He wouldn’t, though, she knew. It was not in his nature. When he fought, he’d fight with all he had, and without caution, for that was how he’d been made. Some men, the countess had once told her, choose the path of danger, on their own.

Sophia knew that he was only seeking now to lift a little of the heaviness that weighed upon her heart, so she pretended to believe him, for she would not have him bear her worries, too, beside his own concerns, however broad his shoulders. ‘Will you write to me?’ she asked.

‘I wouldn’t think it wise. Besides,’ he said, to cheer her, ‘likely I’d be back myself before the letter found ye here. ’Tis why I thought to leave ye this.’ He took a folded paper from his coat and passed it over. ‘I’ve been told by my sisters a lass likes to have things in writing, to mind her of how a man feels.’

She was struck silent for a second time, the letter feeling precious beyond measure in her hand.

He said, ‘Ye burn that, if the castle’s searched. I’d not have Queen Anne’s men believing I’m so soft.’ But underneath his stern expression she could sense his smile, and she was well aware her shining eyes had pleased him.

She did not try to read the note. The light was too far faded, and she knew she’d have more need of it when he had gone, and so she kept it folded in her hand, together with the ring that still felt warm from being on his finger. Looking up, she said, ‘But I have nothing I can give you in return.’

‘Then give me this.’ His eyes held all the darkness of the falling night as, lowering his head once more, he found her mouth with his, there in the closely scented shelter of the lilac tree against the garden wall. His movement freed a fragrant scattering of petals that fell lightly on Sophia’s face, her hair, her hands. She hardly noticed.

Moray, when he finally raised his head, looked down at her and half-smiled in the darkness. ‘Now ye look a proper bride.’

She did not understand at first, but coming slowly to awareness of the feathering of lilac petals, moved to shake them off.

He stopped her. ‘No,’ he said. ‘’Tis how I would remember ye.’

They stood there, in the little silent corner of the garden, and Sophia felt the world receding from them as a wave withdraws along the shore, till nothing else remained but her and Moray, with their gazes bound together and his strong hands warm upon her and the words unspoken hanging still between them, for there was no need to speak.

The night had come.

She heard the sound of someone opening a door, and footsteps starting out on gravel, and the hard, unwelcome sound of Colonel Hooke’s voice, calling Moray.

Moray made no move to answer, and she tried again to find a smile to show him, and with borrowed courage, told him, ‘You must go.’

‘Aye.’ He was not fooled, she thought, by her attempt at being brave, yet he seemed touched by it. ‘’Tis only for a while.’

Sophia held her smile steady when it would have wavered. ‘Yes, I know. I will be fine. I’ve grown well used to being on my own.’

‘Ye’ll not be that.’ He spoke so low his words seemed carried by the breeze that brushed her upturned face. ‘Ye told me once,’ he said, ‘I had your heart.’

‘You do.’

‘And ye have mine.’ He folded one hand over hers and held it close against his chest so she could feel its beating strength. ‘It does not travel with me, lass, across the water. Where you are, it will remain. Ye’ll not be on your own.’ His fingers held the tighter to her smaller ones. ‘And I’ll no more be whole again,’ he said, ‘till I return.’

‘Then come back quickly.’ She had not meant for her whispered voice to break upon those words, nor for the sudden tears to spring behind her eyes.

Hooke called again, some distance still behind them, and she tried to step aside to let him go, but Moray had not finished yet with his farewell. His kiss, this time, was rougher, raw with feeling. She could feel the force of his regret, and of his love for her, and when it ended she clung close a moment longer, loathe to leave the circle of his arms.

She’d told herself she would not ask again, she would not burden him, and yet the words came anyway. ‘I would that I could go with you.’

He did not answer, only tightened his embrace.

Sophia’s vision blurred, and though she knew he would not change his mind, she felt compelled to say, ‘You told me once I might yet walk a ship’s deck.’

‘Aye,’ he murmured, warm against her brow, ‘and so ye will. But this,’ he said, ‘is not the ship.’ His kiss, so gentle on her hair, was meant for comfort, but it broke her heart.

Hooke’s steps were coming closer on the gravel.

There was no more time. Sophia, moved by impulse, freed her hands and reached to draw from round her neck the cord that held the small black pebble with the hole in it she’d found upon the beach.

She did not know if there was truly magic in that stone, as Moray’s mother had once told him, to protect the one who wore it from all harm, but if there was, she knew that Moray had more need of it than she did. Without words, she pressed it hard into his open hand, then quickly pushed away from him before her tears betrayed her, and ran soundlessly between the shadows to the kitchen door.

Behind her, she heard Hooke call Moray’s name again, more loudly, and an instant later Moray’s steps fell heavily along the garden path, and in a voice that sounded rougher than his own, he said, ‘I’m here. Is everything then ready?’

What came after that, Sophia did not hear, for she was through the door and running still, past Mrs Grant and Kirsty, and she did not stop till she had reached the solace of her chamber.

From her window, she could see the trail of moonlight on the sea, and rising dark across its silver path the tall masts of the Heroine, her sails now being raised to take the wind.

She felt the small, warm hardness of his ring, clenched in her fist so tightly that it bit into her hand and brought her pain, but she was grateful for the hurt. It was a thing that she could blame for all the tears that swam against her vision.

There was nothing to be gained, she knew, by weeping. She had wept the day her father, with one last embrace, had sailed for unknown shores, and she had wept still more the day her mother had gone after him, and weeping had not given them safe passage, nor yet brought them home again. She’d wept that black night that her sister, with the unborn bairn inside her, had been carried off in screams and suffering, and weeping had not left her any less alone.

So she would not weep now.

She knew that Moray had to leave, she understood his reasons. And she had his ring to hold, his unread letter to remind her of his love, and more than these, his promise that he would come back to her.

That should have been enough, she thought. But still the hotness swelled behind her eyes. And when all the frigate’s sails were filled with wind, and set for France, and the dark ship was loosed upon the rolling sea, Sophia blinked again, and one, small traitor of a tear squeezed through the barrier of lashes and tracked slowly down her cheek.

And then another found the path that it had taken. And another.

And she had been right. It did not help. Although she stood a long time at her window, watching steadily until at last the winging sails were swallowed by the stars; and though her tears, the whole time, slid in silence down her face to drop like bitter rain among the lilac petals scattered still upon her gown, it made no difference, in the end.

For he was gone from her, and she was left alone.