‘I do not have much luck at games,’ Sophia said.

‘’Tis not a game of luck.’ He set eight smaller figures in a row before the others. Sending her a reassuring glance, he said, ‘It is a game of strategy. A battle, if ye will, between my men and yours. My wits, and yours.’

She smiled. ‘Then yours will surely win.’

‘Ye cannot start a battle, lass, by thinking ye will lose it. Now come, let me show ye how it’s played.’ He was a soldier, and he taught the movements from a soldier’s viewpoint, starting with the forward lines. ‘These wee men here, the pawns, they’re not allowed to make decisions. They can only put one foot before the other, marching in a straight line to the enemy, except when they attack. Then they follow the thrust of their sword arm, see, on the diagonal.’ Moving his pawn against one of her own, he demonstrated. ‘Now, the knights, at their backs, they can move that much quicker because they’re on horseback, and bolder…’

And so piece by piece he revealed all the players and set them in play on the battlefield. Leading her through their first game, he took time with each turn to explain all her options, which moves she could make with which men, but he did not advise her. The choice was her own, and he either sat back in approval or with a good-natured grin captured the piece that she’d placed into jeopardy.

Sophia tried to learn from each mistake, and though the colonel won as she’d suspected that he would, she felt a sense of triumph that she’d given him some semblance of a battle. And her pride grew greater when the colonel said, ‘Ye did uncommonly well, lass. Did I not say ye had the brain for it?’

‘I like the game.’

‘Aye, so I see.’ He smiled at her. ‘We’ve time for yet another afore supper, if ye like.’

Her skill improved with every day.

‘She’ll have you beaten, Colonel,’ was the earl’s opinion as he watched them idly from his reading chair one afternoon.

‘Aye, ye might be right, at that.’ With steepled fingers, Colonel Graeme eyed the board and whistled lightly through his teeth. He took his time. The piece he finally moved seemed, to Sophia, a mistake because it left a weakness in his ranks that she could then attack. But when she took advantage of the opening, she saw that the mistake had been her own, as Colonel Graeme slid his bishop silently across the board and told her, ‘Check.’

She had not seen it coming, and she stared in disbelief now at the bishop sitting poised to take her king. To her dismayed expression, Colonel Graeme said, ‘Ye have to watch the whole field, lass, and use your wits afore your weapons. When ye saw me move that knight, your first thought was to take the rook that I’d left unprotected, was it not? And so most soldiers who are new to battle think their first directive is to take the ground, to run against the enemy and do him damage where they can.’

‘And is it not?’

He shook his head. ‘Not always, no. In war, as in the game of chess, ye also must defend your king.’ His smile was wise, forgiving of her youth and inexperience. ‘No battle can be called a victory if the king is lost.’

Sophia gave a nod to show she understood, her frowning gaze directed at the board. She saw no move that she could make to bring her own king out of danger, yet she knew there must be one because the colonel had not told her ‘checkmate’, merely ‘check’. Her stubborn concentration did not waver till the countess came in search of them.

The older woman’s face was set in firm lines as she told her son, ‘We have another visitor, and one who does not sit well in my favor. He has come to us with letters from the Earl of Marischal, but there is something in his aspect which I do not trust.’

The visitor was waiting at his leisure in the drawing room—an older man who looked to be past sixty years of age, though he was large in body with a heavy-featured face and hands that seemed to swallow up the earl’s when they shook formally in greeting. He was taller than the earl, which made him well above six feet, and wore the costume of a Highlander, and would have been a fierce imposing figure had his face not held the weariness of one who had been beaten down by time.

‘By God!’ said Colonel Graeme, just now entering the room behind Sophia, ‘Captain Ogilvie!’

The countess turned. ‘You know each other?’

‘Aye, we served in France together,’ Colonel Graeme said, and crossed to greet the older man with pleasure. ‘We do share a long acquaintance. How the devil are ye?’

Captain Ogilvie seemed equally as pleased to find a comrade and a fellow soldier in the house, and stood a little straighter as he answered, ‘Well enough, though I’ve grown too old now to fight, and must seek my living elsewhere.’ From his tone Sophia guessed the change of livelihood had been a bitter tonic for him, one that he’d found difficult to take. ‘What of yourself ? I would have thought ye’d be in Flanders.’

‘Aye, well, I was given leave to come to Scotland on a family matter,’ was the colonel’s smooth excuse. ‘But I’ll be returning shortly.’

Standing to one side, the countess watched this unforeseen reunion with a guarded face that gave no hint of what she might be thinking. Sophia could not see herself what troubled the countess so much about Ogilvie. His eyes, to her, seemed kind enough when she was introduced to him.

The countess said, ‘You must be tired, Captain, if you’ve ridden from the Earl of Marischal’s this day. You must stay here at Slains until you are recovered from your travels.’