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.