The Winter Sea (Slains, #1)(93)

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I do regret I am come unannounced, but till today I did not know my business would compel me so far north. I thought only to pay my respects, I’ll not trouble the family by staying. No doubt they’ve had enough guests, lately.’

She saw it for herself, that time—the briefest flash behind his smiling eyes, but still she saw it, and knew she had done right to treat him warily. ‘No guests as gracious as yourself,’ was how she stepped around the trap. And then she asked, as any young and guileless girl might ask, what news there was from Edinburgh, what gossip from the English court, and what the latest changes were in fashion.

Their conversation was a sort of dance, she thought, with complicated steps, but as the time wore on she grew to know the way of it, and when to step, and when to twirl, and when to simply stand and wait.

He led with skill, not asking questions outright but arranging his own statements so that she would follow on with some small bit of information, but she kept her own wits sharp and always countered with a seemingly ingenuous response that gave him nothing in the way of satisfaction.

She felt sure he did not know she was doing it deliberately—the duke was not the sort of man to credit someone like herself with that kind of ability—but still, throughout the afternoon his speech took on a faint edge of frustration, as a man might feel who tries to do a simple task and finds himself confounded.

Yet he did not leave, not even after four o’clock had come and they’d been brought the usual refreshments for that hour of wine and ale, and little cakes in place of bread today because there was a visitor. Sophia had thought, after that, the duke would surely take his leave and carry on his way to where he meant to spend the night, but he did not. He only settled deeper in his chair, and spoke at greater length, with greater charm, to make the dance steps still more intricate.

Sophia matched the effort with her own, but found it tiring. By the time she heard the sound of steps and voices from the entry hall that told her that the countess and her son had finally come, Sophia’s mind was near exhaustion.

She was grateful when the countess, with her vibrant presence, swept into the drawing room. ‘Your Grace, this is an unexpected pleasure.’ From her easy smile one would have thought she meant it. ‘I confess that I did scarce believe the servants when they told me you were here. Have you been waiting long?’

‘I have been well attended,’ he assured her. He had risen from his chair to greet her, and now gave a nod towards Sophia. ‘Mistress Paterson and I have passed the time in conversation.’

The countess’s own glance at Sophia betrayed none of the concern she must have felt at that revelation. ‘Then I do not doubt that you have found her as delightful a companion as I do myself. Her presence in this house does daily bring me joy, especially since all my girls are married now, and gone from home.’ Returning her attention to the duke, she said, ‘You will stay the night?’

‘Well…’ He made a show of protestation.

‘Yes, of course you will. ’Tis nearly dusk, you cannot venture out upon the road so late.’

The Earl of Erroll, coming through the doorway of the drawing room, agreed. ‘We would not hear of it.’ He gave the duke a hearty greeting, proving that his acting skills were equal to his mother’s. ‘It has been some time since you were last here. Come, let me show you the improvements we are making to the house.’

When the men had departed the countess sagged visibly, showing the strain of her hard ride from Dunottar. Turning to Sophia, she began to frame a question, but Sophia said, ‘He came just after midday and has been with me for all this time. And as you did suspect, he seemed determined to confuse me into telling him the secrets of this house.’

The countess softened. ‘Oh, my dear.’

‘I told him nothing.’ She was feeling more than tired, now. The sickness was returning, but she fought it as she used the chair’s support to rise and stand before the countess. ‘I was careful.’

‘Oh, my dear,’ the countess said again, but with a thread of warm approval in her voice. ‘I am but sorry you were here alone to shoulder such a burden.’

‘It was no great trouble.’

‘Nonsense. It has wearied you.’ The countess moved to help her. ‘You are pale.’

‘’Tis but a headache.’

‘Go and rest, then. You have earned it.’ Once again Sophia felt that gentle touch upon her cheek, so like the memory of her mother’s loving hand. The countess smiled. ‘You have done well, Sophia. Very well. Now go and get some rest. The earl and I are equal to the duke’s designs. We have him well in hand, and I would not for all the world have you fall ill because of such a man.’ Her brief embrace was soothing. ‘Up you go, and seek your chamber. I’ll send Kirsty to attend you.’

So Sophia gladly went, and after that remembered little of the evening, which she passed in waves of sickness and of sleep. But in the morning, whether from the drink of herbs that Kirsty’s sister had supplied or from some miracle, the sickness had departed, and the duke had gone as well, his dark coach setting off along the northern road before the sun was fully risen, and himself no wiser than he’d been before he’d come to Slains.



‘It isn’t broken.’ Dr Weir’s hands moved reassuringly across my swollen ankle. ‘If you’d broken it, you’d feel it here’—he gently squeezed the place—‘not here. It’s just a sprain.’ He’d slipped easily into the role he’d retired from. He might have been sitting here wearing a white coat and stethoscope, questioning one of his surgical patients, not sitting here next to my fireplace and wearing a fisherman’s sweater that still held the damp from the rain.