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.’