I tried the same approach as Henry Browne, and said, “I take no part of politics.”

“A politician’s answer. But to take no part of politics is, in itself, to take a part. Let no man tell ye otherwise.” He did not lean against the table as he had the first day, only drew the single chair around to face me as he sat, so once again the window was behind him. “I wondered how long it would take them to send ye back.”

“What do you mean?”

“My wife’s letter. It came to me opened, of course, meaning they had all read it and knew what it said—knew I’d managed to write her a letter from here and find someone to see it delivered. My guard appears to be above suspicion,” Moray said, “and I’ve not had many visitors. They’d never imagine that Gilroy would do it. He is, as I told ye, predictable, and he’d not venture his neck for another man. But ye are unknown.” He gave a nod toward my pen and papers. “They’ll have sent ye as a test, and when ye leave they’ll have ye searched.” He paused, then added, “They are confident I’ll try to write my wife another letter, since in hers she told me we’re to have another bairn, and any man who’d not reply to that is heartless.”

I heard the fine edge of frustration undercutting his calm words. I gave him my congratulations, all the same.

“Thank ye. No doubt she believed the news would give me hope,” he said.

I gathered, from his tone, it had the opposite effect. It was a helpless feeling to have those we loved beyond our reach where we could ill defend them, and I knew this word of an unborn bairn would have added to the weight he carried while his wife and child were left unguarded.

I said, “I’m sure your wife has everything in hand.”

“Yes, she is rare,” he said, “and I do not deserve her, and I know it. The men among my family do not seem to choose the easy road too often, and we owe a great debt to the women who consent to tangle up their lives with ours. My road would be a lonely one without her.”

I had walked so long alone I could say nothing useful in reply.

Moray read my silence with his keen perception. “Not every man is meant to settle in his youth. I did not marry till five years ago, when I was two and thirty. I had met my wife when I was younger, but her father did not hold me in great favor then. He wished to see his daughters married onto men of consequence and wealth.”

He stood so obviously higher than myself in social ranking that I know my face revealed my thoughts on just how likely it would be that any father would reject him as a suitor.

“What?” he asked.

“You are the son of Abercairney.”