‘They are yours?’ asked Captain Gordon.
‘Aye. Ye surely did not think that they belonged to Mistress Paterson, with hands so small as hers?’ His tone dismissed the notion of her having been connected to the gauntlets, but it did not keep the captain from regarding him with keener interest, as a swordsman might assess the strength of a new challenger.
The captain smiled thinly. ‘No.’ And raising up Sophia’s fingers in his own, he said, ‘Such hands as these would want a softer covering.’ He handed back the second glove to Moray. ‘You must take better care, in future, where you leave these, else you’ll lose them.’
Moray said, ‘No fear of that.’ He took the glove from Gordon’s hand, and folding it together with the other, tucked them both into his belt. ‘I do not lightly lose the things that are my own.’
And having said that, he stepped back to let Sophia pass on Captain Gordon’s arm and with the faintest smile fell in behind them.
CHAPTER 12
THERE, I THOUGHT, WITH satisfaction, printing off the pages I’d just written. Now Sophia’s love life was as messed up as my own. Just as I’d had to deal with Stuart’s coming back, she’d have to deal with Captain Gordon, though admittedly John Moray had reacted to the challenge rather differently than Graham had. The benefit, I thought, of writing fiction was that I could twist my characters to do the things real people never did in life.
The printer finished humming and I shut down my computer, arching back against the chair to stretch my shoulders, arms upraised.
I didn’t know what time it was. It had been light outside my windows for a while now, but the sky was flatly grey and there was no way I could judge how high the sun had climbed behind the clouds.
I only knew that it was morning, and I hadn’t been to bed, and all I wanted was a piece of toast, a glass of juice, and several hours of sleep. So when the shadow of a person passed my window, my first impulse was to let the knocking go unanswered and pretend I wasn’t home. But curiosity won out.
‘I’ve brought you lunch,’ said Stuart, standing on my doorstep with a winning smile and something wrapped in newspaper that smelled so good my stomach flipped. It wasn’t exactly a peace offering, since Stuart, I felt certain, didn’t realize he’d done anything to warrant one—but in return for fresh-made fish and chips, I might forgive him for the trouble he had caused me.
‘Come on in.’ I pushed the door wide. ‘Your timing’s amazingly good, by the way. But it’s breakfast, for me.’
Stuart arched a dark eyebrow. ‘It’s nearly twelve-thirty.’
‘That late?’
‘D’ye never go to bed?’
I took the fish and chips from him and crossed to the kitchen while he shrugged off his coat by the door. As I parceled the food out on plates, I explained, ‘I got into the flow last night. I didn’t want to stop.’
His eyes danced as though I’d just made a dirty joke. ‘That happens to me sometimes. Not with writing,’ he admitted, with a Casanova smile, ‘but it does happen.’
Indulging him, I let the double meaning slide and handed him his plate. ‘You’ll either have to eat it standing up, or sitting by the fireplace,’ I apologized. ‘There’s no room on the table.’
‘So I see.’ He chose an armchair, settling back and nodding pointedly towards the mess of papers that was covering my writing table. ‘How far along are you, then?’
‘Maybe a third of the way, I don’t know. I never know how long a book will be until I’ve finished it.’
‘Don’t you work to a plan?’
‘No. I’ve tried, but I’m no good at it.’ My characters refused to be contained by any outline. They were happiest when charting their own course across the page.
Stuart grinned. ‘I’m not much good at planning either. Graham’s the organized one of the family.’ He glanced at me. ‘What did you think of him?’
‘Graham?’ I opened the door of the Aga and prodded the coals with a bit too much force before saying, ‘I thought he was nice.’
‘Aye, he is that.’ My bland choice of words had apparently satisfied Stuart. ‘The only time I ever saw him lose his manners, to be honest, was when he played rugby. And even then I don’t doubt he apologized to everyone he stomped on.’
I’d been right, then, thinking Graham was an athlete. ‘He played rugby?’
‘Oh, aye, he almost went professional.’
Clanging the Aga door shut, I crossed to join Stuart, my plate in my hand. ‘Really?’
‘Aye, he was recruited, had the papers nearly signed, but then Mum died, and Dad…well, Dad, he didn’t do so well. And rugby would have meant that Graham had to live away, so he just turned the offer down,’ he said, ‘and stayed at university until they took him on there as a lecturer. I’d not say that it would have been his choice, but then, you’d never hear him moan. He’s too responsible. He sees his job as taking care of Dad, that’s all. He comes up every weekend to look in on him.’ A sideways glance, and smile. ‘He’s given up on taking care of me.’
I could have told him no, he hadn’t, but I kept my concentration on my plate. ‘He’s never been married, I take it?’
‘Who, Graham? He’s never come close.’ His initial amusement changed, slowly, to something approaching suspicion. ‘Why do you ask?’