Would he prefer her to lie? But she’d never lied to him, and just as important, she had long since stopped deluding herself. “I don’t,” Margaret said. “I regret hurting you, but not turning you down. It was the right thing to do at the time.”

He looked up, smiling crookedly. “Do you know, that’s what I thought you’d say.” He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet.

“No, wait!”

“I thought we could go for a walk down to the loch side. It’s a beautiful evening—it would be a shame to waste it.”

“Oh. I thought you were—I thought . . .” To her horror, Margaret found herself on the brink of tears.

“You thought that I was about to storm off in a sulk?”

She laughed weakly. “I’m not sure you know how to sulk. I thought you still hadn’t forgiven me.”

“Oh, Margaret, don’t be daft. There was never anything to forgive. Come on, let’s take that walk, shall we?”

“Please.” She sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her linen napkin.

“Do you want to fetch a jacket or a shawl?”

“Oh no. This blasted tartan gown of Mary’s is wool, but there was no time to change for dinner. I was so hot earlier in the sunshine, I felt like a boiled lobster. How you managed to look so cool in all that regalia, I don’t know, though I must agree with the queen on this one point, Donald, you looked very handsome in it.”

“It was heavier than a suit of armour, but if it pleased you, then I’m sorry I discarded most of it the first chance I got.”

They had reached the terrace at the rear of the house, where a path led down to the river. Above them, the moon was bright in the dark-blue sky, making mere twinkling points of the stars. Donald was still wearing his jacket, kilt, and sporran, though he had lost the plaid and the various belts, buckles, and ceremonial swords and daggers. Margaret wondered at her younger self taking so long to see how attractive he was and to understand that he felt the same about her. “I am sorry,” she said gently, “for hurting you all those years ago.”

“You’d have hurt the pair of us a great deal more if you’d accepted my proposal when you weren’t ready. I told you at the time, remember—I didn’t want a half-hearted bride. I still don’t.” He took one of her hands, kissing the fingertips. “Shall we let the past be?”

“Yes.” She caught his hand, lifting it to her cheek, and couldn’t resist pressing a kiss in return to his fingertips. “Please.”

They made their way down to the river in silence, both lost in their thoughts, turning to follow the tumbling water to the pier at the head of the loch, where the Scarba was berthed.