The Winter Sea (17 page)

‘All right.’

‘See you tomorrow, then. At lunch.’

‘OK.’

He stood a moment longer, as though wanting to say something else, but in the end he only flipped his hood up, smiled, and started off again along the path while I turned round to fit my key into the cottage door.

My hands were cold and wet and couldn’t work the lock, and then I dropped the key and heard it ping on stone, so that I had to crouch and search for it, and by the time I’d found it I was well and truly soaked.

I straightened, to find Graham standing once again beside me. Thinking he’d come back to help, I told him, ‘It’s all right, I found it.’ And I raised the key to show him.

But when I began to try the lock again, his hand came up to catch my face, to stop me. I could feel the warmth of his strong fingers on my jawline, as his thumb traced very gently up my cheekbone.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I didn’t tell my dad, because I didn’t want to share you. Not just yet.’

I was convinced, at first, I hadn’t heard him properly. And even if I had, I couldn’t think of what to say. If I’d been writing this, I thought, I would have had no problem. It was easy writing dialogue for characters in books, but in real life, the words just never came to me the way I wanted them.

He took my pause for something else. ‘I’m sure that sounds insane to you, but—’

‘I don’t want to share you either.’ Which, considering the way that tumbled out, was not exactly the sophisticated answer I’d been aiming for, but seconds later I had ceased to care.

The kiss was brief, but left no room for me to misread his intentions. For that swirling moment, all I felt was him—his warmth, his touch, his strength, and when he raised his head I rocked a little on my feet, off balance.

He stood looking down at me as though he’d felt the power of that contact, too. And then his teeth flashed white against the darkness of his beard. The grey eyes crinkled. ‘Put
that
in your book,’ he dared me.

Then he turned and, shoving both hands deep into his pockets, walked off whistling down the wet path while I stood behind and watched him, standing speechless in the rain.

VI

Y
E’VE LOST YOUR MIND
,’ said Kirsty. ‘He’s a handsome man. If I were of the proper birth, I’d smile for him myself.’

Sophia’s own mouth curved. ‘I doubt that would please Rory. And besides, you said you want a man who’ll settle down, and give you bairns. I do not think that Mr Moray leads a settled life.’

‘I’d take his bairns,’ said Kirsty. ‘Or the making of them, anyway.’ She tossed her hair and smiled widely. ‘But now I’ll be shocking ye, to talk so like a wanton. And ’tis true, your Mr Moray is nae farmer.’

They were outside in the little kitchen garden, where Sophia had found Kirsty searching for mint leaves to season the dish Mrs Grant was preparing. The morning was fine, with a warm sun above and a gentle breeze blowing instead of the fierce wind that had for the past three days rattled the windows and rolled the sea into great waves that had looked, to Sophia, as high as a man. Wicked weather for May, she had thought it. She greatly preferred days like this one, that let her come out of the house and away from the whirling confusion of feelings that pressed her when she was confined to close company with Mr Moray.

Kirsty asked her, ‘Did ye ken he was a colonel in his own right? A lieutenant-colonel, in the French king’s service. Rory telt me.’

‘No, I did not know that.’ But she did know his first name, because the Earl of Erroll called him by it: John. She thought it suited him. A simple name, but strong: John Moray.

Now she added ‘Colonel’ to it, tried it in her mind, while Kirsty shot her one more disbelieving look and asked, ‘Why did ye say ye would not ride with him?’

‘I did not say I
would
not. I but told him I was occupied with other things this morning.’

Kirsty’s eyes danced. ‘Aye, ’tis fair important watching me pick mint.’

‘I have my needlework.’

‘And heaven kens the tides might stop their flow were ye to leave that for an hour.’ She paused, and waited for the next excuse, and when none came she said, ‘Now tell me why ye telt him that ye would not ride with him. The truth.’

Sophia thought of saying that she hadn’t thought the countess would approve, but that was not the reason either, and she doubted Kirsty would be fooled. ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘He sometimes frightens me.’

That came as a surprise to Kirsty. ‘Has he been unkind?’

‘No, never. He has always been a gentleman towards me.’

‘Why then do ye fear him?’

Sophia could not answer that, could not explain that it was not the man himself she feared but the effect he had upon her; that when he was in the room she felt like everything inside of her was moving faster somehow, and she trembled as with fever. She said only, once again, ‘I do not know.’

‘Ye’ll never best your fears until ye face them,’ Kirsty told her. ‘So my mother always says.’ She’d found her mint and taken what she needed. Now she stood. ‘The next time Mr Moray asks,’ she said, and smiled more broadly, ‘ye might think to tell him yes.’

A week ago, Sophia would have followed her inside and spent a warm hour sitting chatting with the servants in the kitchen, but the protocol within the house had changed now that the Earl of Erroll had returned. Although the earl himself had never made a comment, it was plain that while he was in residence, the servants had resolved to run a tighter ship.

And so, when Kirsty left, Sophia stayed outside and wandered in the garden. Here at least there was fresh air and peace. The songbirds flitted round in busy motion, building nests within the shadowed crannies of the wall, and flowers danced among the grasses that blew softly by the pathways. The scents of sunwarmed earth and growing things were welcome to her senses, and she closed her eyes a moment, reaching back within her memory to the spring days of her childhood, and the fields that tumbled greenly down towards the River Dee…

A hand closed hard around her arm.

Her eyes flew open, startled, and she found the sharp face of the gardener close beside her own. She felt the sudden and instinctive crawl of fear that every animal must feel when in the presence of a predator. And then, because she would not show her fear to Billy Wick, she damped it down, but he had seen it and she knew it gave him pleasure.

‘Have a care,’ he said. His voice was not the scraping one that should have matched his face. It had a softer edge but to Sophia’s ears its tone was yet unpleasant, like the whisper of a snake. ‘Ye should keep both eyes open when ye’re walking in my garden.’

She kept her own voice calm. ‘I’ll mind that, Mr Wick.’

‘Aye, see ye do. I widna wish tae see ye come tae harm, a bonnie quinie like yerself.’ His dark eyes stripped her with a slow glance as he held her by the arm.

She pulled away, but he did not release her and she knew that if she struggled it would only please him more. So, standing still, she told him, ‘Let me go.’

‘Ye look a bit unsteady on yer feet,’ he said, and smiled. ‘I’d nae want ye tae fall. Leastwyes, that’s what I’ll tell her ladyship, if ye should have a mind tae speak against me. I’ve been here at Slains a wee while longer than yerself, my quine. Her ladyship puts value on my word.’ His other hand was reaching for her waist as he was speaking, and Sophia realized that, where they were standing, they were all but out of sight of anyone within the house. She felt the panic and revulsion rise like bile within her throat, and choke her words as she repeated, ‘Let me go.’

‘I dinna think I will, the now.’ The hand had reached her waist and clasped it, and begun a progress upwards. ‘I’d best be making certain ye’ve nae done yerself an injury.’

The footsteps on the pathway were a welcome interruption. In an instant Billy Wick had dropped his hands and moved away, so there was nothing untoward in the appearance of the scene that greeted Mr Moray when he came upon them. But he slowed his steps, and with a brief look at Sophia’s face, stopped walking altogether, as his eyes swung, cold and watchful, to the gardener.

‘Good morning, Mr Wick,’ he said, but leaving no time for the other man to make reply, he added, ‘I am sure this lady did not mean to keep ye from your work.’

The gardener scowled, but touched his cap respectfully and, picking up his tools from where he’d set them down beside the path, he slipped away as neatly as a viper in the grass.

Sophia’s shoulders sagged a little with relief. Feeling Moray’s eyes upon her once again, she waited for the questions, but they did not come. He only asked, ‘Is everything all right?’

She could have told him what had happened, but she dared not, for beneath his calm she sensed that he was very capable of violence, in a just cause, and she dared not give him any reason to defend her honor, lest in doing so he called attention to himself. She would not have him be discovered.

So she told him, ‘Yes,’ and smoothed her gown with hands that barely trembled. ‘Thank you. Everything is fine.’

He nodded. ‘Then I’ll not detain you, for I see you are, indeed, quite fully occupied this morning.’

He’d gone past her by the time she found her courage. ‘Mr Moray?’

Once again he stopped, and turned. ‘Aye?’

‘I do find my situation changed.’ She’d said it now. She could not lose her nerve. ‘If you still wish to ride, I could come with you. If you like,’ she finished, conscious of his steady gaze.

He stood a moment in consideration. Then he said, ‘Aye, Mistress Paterson, I’d like that very much.’

She didn’t bother changing from her gown into her borrowed habit. Dust and horsehair could not harm the fabric of her skirts more than the years themselves had done. This gown was the not the oldest one she owned, but she had worn it several seasons and had mended it with care because its color, once deep violet, now a paler shade of lavender, did set off her bright hair to some advantage.

At the stables, Rory brought her out the mare, and ran his hands along the broad girth of the sidesaddle to see it was secure. But it was Moray’s hand that helped Sophia to her mount.

She felt again that shooting charge along her arm that she had felt when they’d first touched, and as she drew her hand back he remarked, ‘Ye should be wearing gloves.’

‘I’ll be all right. My hands are not so soft.’

‘To mine, they are,’ he said, and handed her the gauntlets from his own belt before swinging to the saddle of his gelding, where he sat with so much ease he seemed a part of the great animal. To Rory, he said, ‘If her ladyship should ask, we’ll not be riding far, and we’ll be keeping close to shore. The lass is safe with me.’

‘Aye, Colonel Moray.’ Rory stepped well clear and watched them go, and though he made no comment, from the look of interest on his face Sophia guessed that Kirsty would soon hear of her adventure.

But while Kirsty would undoubtedly approve, Sophia did not know what thoughts the countess or her son might have upon the matter. True enough, the countess had been in the room when Moray had first asked her to go riding after breakfast, but Sophia had declined that offer with such haste the countess had not had the time or need to voice her own opinion. Nonetheless, Sophia reasoned, there could scarce be an objection. Mr Moray was an honorable man and of good family—a woman under his protection surely would not come to harm.

She told herself this last bit for a second time to fortify her confidence. They were beyond the castle now and heading to the south. He held the gelding to an easy walk although she sensed, had he been on his own, he would have settled on a pace more suited to his restlessness. It must, she thought, be difficult for someone such as him, a soldier, bred and trained for action, to be confined to Slains these past few days. She’d often seen him taking refuge in the library among the shelves of books, as though by reading he could give his mind at least a taste of liberty. But mostly he’d reminded her of some caged beast who could but pace the grounds and corridors without a worthy purpose.

Even now, he seemed to have no destination in his mind, as though it were enough for this brief time that he should breathe the sea air and be free.

He seemed in no great mood to break the silence, and indeed he did not speak till they had splashed across the burn and passed the huddle of small dwellings just beyond, and turned their mounts to where the soft beach grasses blew atop the dunes of sand. And then he asked, ‘How do ye find those gloves?’

She found them warm, and overlarge, and rough upon her fingers, but the feeling had a certain sinful pleasure to it, as though his own hands were closed round hers, and she would not have wished them gone. ‘They are a help to me,’ she said. ‘Though I confess I feel that I should have a falcon perched upon my wrist, to do them justice.’

She had never seen him smile like that—a quick and sudden gleam of teeth and genuine amusement. Its swift force left her all but breathless.

‘Aye,’ he said, ‘they are not of the latest fashion. They were sent me as a Christmas present by my sister Anna, who greatly loves all tales of knights and chivalry, and no doubt chose those gloves with that in mind.’

She smiled. ‘My sister’s name was also Anna.’

‘“Was”?’

‘She died, last year.’

‘I’m sorry. Did ye have no other family?’

‘No.’

‘Ye’ve but to ask, and ye may freely borrow some of mine.’ His tone was dry. ‘I have two sisters and three brothers.’

‘It must vex you that you may not see them while you are in Scotland.’

‘Aye. My elder brother William, who is Laird of Abercairney, has a wee lad not yet eighteen months of age, who would not ken me from a stranger. I had hoped that I might put that right this month, but it appears I will not have the chance.’

She tried to temper his regret with the reminder, ‘But a lad so young, were he to meet you, still would not remember you.’

‘I would remember him.’ There was a tone within his voice that made her glance at him and wonder if he found it very hard to live in France, so far from those he loved. It was no strange thing for a Scottish man to live abroad, and younger sons of noble families, knowing well they never would inherit lands themselves, did often choose to serve in armies on the continent, and build lives far from Scotland’s shores. The Irish Colonel Hooke, so she’d been told, had done just that and had a wife and children waiting now for him in France. She did not know for certain that John Moray did not have the same.

‘Have you any sons, yourself ?’ she asked, attempting to speak lightly so that it would seem his answer did not matter.

He looked sideways at her. ‘No, I have no sons. Nor daughters either. Or at least no lass has yet presented me with such a claim. And I’d think my mother would prefer it were I married first, afore I brought new bairns into the family.’

‘Oh,’ Sophia said, because she could not think of any other thing to say.

She felt him watching her, and though he had not altered his expression she could sense he was amused by her confusion, so she turned their talk along a different course.

She asked, ‘And do you live at Court?’

‘At Saint-Germain? Faith, no,’ he said. ‘’Tis not a place for such as me. I find my lodgings where the King of France sees fit to send my regiment, and am content with that, although I do admit that when, from time to time, I am called back to Saint-Germain, I find King Jamie’s court a grand diversion.’

She had heard much of the young King James—the ‘Bonny Blackbird’, so they called him, for his dark and handsome looks—and of his younger sister, the Princess Louise Marie, and of the grandeur and gay parties of their exiled court in France, but she had never had occasion to meet someone who had been there, and she longed to know the details. ‘Is it true the king and princess dance all night and hunt all morning?’

‘And make promenades all afternoon?’ His eyes were gently mocking. ‘Aye, I’ve heard it rumored, too, and it is true they both are young and on occasion have a mind to take such pleasure as they can, and who can blame them, after all that they have lived through. But the duller truth be told, the princess is a lass of charming sensibility, who does comport herself in all ways modestly, and young King Jamie spends his hours attending to his business matters, foreign and domestic, with the diligence that does befit a king. Although,’ he added, so as not to disappoint her, ‘I recall that Twelfth Night last, there was a ball held at Versailles at which King Jamie and the princess danced past midnight, and at four o’clock were dancing still, the princess all in yellow velvet set with jewels, and diamonds in her bonny hair, and some two thousand candles burning round the hall to give the dancers light. And when the ball was over and the king and princess came out in the torchlight of the Cour de Marbre, the Swiss Guard of the French king did salute them to their carriage, and they drove back home to Saint-Germain surrounded by a company of riders, richly dressed, and with the white plume of the Stewarts in their hats.’