The visitor was waiting at his leisure in the drawing room—an older man who looked to be past sixty years of age, though he was large in body with a heavy-featured face and hands that seemed to swallow up the earl’s when they shook formally in greeting. He was taller than the earl, which made him well above six feet, and wore the costume of a Highlander, and would have been a fierce imposing figure had his face not held the weariness of one who had been beaten down by time.

“By God!” said Colonel Graeme, just now entering the room behind Sophia, “Captain Ogilvie!”

The countess turned. “You know each other?”

“Aye, we served in France together,” Colonel Graeme said, and crossed to greet the older man with pleasure. “We do share a long acquaintance. How the devil are ye?”

Captain Ogilvie seemed equally as pleased to find a comrade and a fellow soldier in the house, and stood a little straighter as he answered, “Well enough, though I’ve grown too old now to fight, and must seek my living elsewhere.” From his tone Sophia guessed the change of livelihood had been a bitter tonic for him, one that he’d found difficult to take. “What of yourself? I would have thought ye’d be in Flanders.”

“Aye, well, I was given leave to come to Scotland on a family matter” was the colonel’s smooth excuse. “But I’ll be returning shortly.”

Standing to one side, the countess watched this unforeseen reunion with a guarded face that gave no hint of what she might be thinking. Sophia could not see herself what troubled the countess so much about Ogilvie. His eyes, to her, seemed kind enough when she was introduced to him.

The countess said, “You must be tired, Captain, if you’ve ridden from the Earl of Marischal’s this day. You must stay here at Slains until you are recovered from your travels.”

Ogilvie’s bow was deep, and filled with open gratitude. “You are too kind, your ladyship.”

She smiled. “Not at all. Come, let me call a man to show you to your room.”

When he’d left the room her smile vanished, and she turned to Colonel Graeme with an air of expectation. “Patrick, tell me all you know about this man.”

The colonel told her bluntly, “He’s deserving of your trust.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he’s withstood more than you or I have done, in service to the Stewarts. Twenty years ago he fought for old King James, and he was one of those brave Highlanders who charged the pass of Killiecrankie with Dundee and broke the English lines. And when the tide then turned again, he joined that band of Highland men who chose to follow old King James to exile. A hundred and fifty of them there were, and they sacrificed all that they had to serve James, surviving on a common soldier’s pay. There is an island in the Rhine yet called the Scotsmen’s isle, because they charged it in the Highland way, by night and wading arm in arm through water to their shoulders, and they took that island from a stronger force. The king of France considers them a legend, as do all at Saint-Germain. But there are few of them surviving. When I first met Captain Ogilvie ten years ago, the hundred and fifty had dwindled to twenty. By now it must surely be less.”