The Winter Sea (Slains, #1)(86)

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.’

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.’