‘Well, now,’ Kirsty turned the praise aside, self-consciously, ‘it helps me to relax at night. I made one for my sister when she married, and ye’ve been a second sister to me since ye did arrive, and so I thought it only right that ye should have one, too. I ken ye canna wear it here at Slains, but when ye’ve gone to France…’ She paused then, as Sophia turned her gaze towards the floor. ‘He will take ye to France when he goes, will he not?’
Sophia thought of what he’d told her on the bridge when she had asked if they were truly married: Ye can tell that to the countess, when she comes to try to marry ye to someone else. Still looking down, she said to Kirsty, ‘No. He does not mean to take me with him.’
‘But why not?’
She did not know. She only knew that Moray came to no decision lightly, without cause. She raised her head, and showed a smile she did not feel. ‘It is enough that he did take me for his wife.’
Fine words, she thought, and bravely spoken, but they did not cheer her then, nor yet an hour later, when she summoned them a second time within her mind as she stood lonely in her chamber.
The wind had changed from off the sea, and cooled the air so sharply that, although it was now early June, the fires had been lit. She shivered out of gown and shift beside the warmth of her small hearth, and let the lovely nightgown slide like satin down her arms, her shoulders, till its hemline softly brushed her feet. Before the looking-glass, she stood and stared at her reflection, seeing not herself but an uncertain bride, with brightly curling hair and shining eyes and cheeks that seemed so highly colored that she raised her hands to cover them.
A voice spoke from the darkness. ‘Christ,’ said Moray, ‘you are beautiful.’
Sophia dropped her hands, and wheeled about. She could not see him clearly, just his shape, deep in the shadows of the corner of the chamber. He was standing with his back against the wall, beyond the flicker of the firelight.
His quiet voice would not have carried through the walls, she knew, and she took care to keep her own voice just as low. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Ye needn’t look so nervous. ’Tis no crime,’ he said, ‘for me to watch my wife prepare for bed.’
Her face grew warmer still within the pause that followed, and she felt his eyes upon her.
‘Where,’ he asked her, slow and with appreciation, ‘did ye get that garment?’
Smoothing both her hands along the soft folds of the nightgown, she replied, ‘It was a wedding-gift, from Kirsty.’
‘So ye’ve told her, then.’ His voice held mild surprise.
‘She knew already. Rory saw us on the footbridge.’
‘Well, I don’t doubt they’ll keep the secret. And ’twill be some comfort to ye, having Kirsty to confide in.’ When I’m gone. He did not speak the words, and yet they hung as clearly in the air between them as if they’d been said aloud.
Sophia wrapped her arms around herself as though she’d felt a sudden chill. ‘Will you not come into the light? I cannot see you. ’Tis like talking to a ghost.’
She heard the slight, half-laughing breath that told her he was smiling, but he did not leave his place against the wall. ‘Two years ago,’ he said, ‘when Colonel Hooke first came to treat in Scotland, he did set a secret meeting with the Duke of Hamilton at Holyroodhouse. A daring thing, and dangerous for both of them if they had been discovered. Hooke did tell me that the chamber where they met was kept in darkness, by the order of the duke, so that if he were later asked if he had seen Hooke, he could answer with full honesty that he had not.’
‘And do you then intend that we should do the same?’ she asked him lightly. ‘So that if the countess asks me, I can tell her with my conscience clear that I did never see you in this room?’
‘It is a thought, at that.’ His tone was quietly amused. ‘Ye’ve no great gift for lying, lass.’
‘I’ll have no need to lie. And you already gave me leave to tell the countess we were man and wife.’
‘Aye, so I did, but only if she aims you at the altar with another man. Till then, ’tis best we keep it private. Just for us.’ She heard his shoulders shift against the stone, and then he stepped into the light, and smiled. ‘This night is ours alone.’
And she did close her eyes, although she had not meant to, and stood trembling while he came to her, his hardened hands not hard at all as they brushed warm upon her hair, her upturned face, her shoulders. There they stopped, and slipped beneath the lace-edged neckline of the nightgown. Moray’s head bent so the angle of his jawline pressed her cheek, his mouth against her ear. She felt his warm breath stir her hair. He asked, ‘Why are ye shaking? Are ye frightened?’