Jean was at her shoulder, then. “It’s time to go.”

Her father gave a final hug to little Bessie, who wrapped both her arms around his neck and told him, “Don’t cry, Daddie.”

He squeezed his eyes tight shut as though they pained him, and he blinked them, hard, but they were nearly dry when he hugged Lily. “Be a good girl, mind your prayers, and ye will see me, by and by.”

“I will,” she promised, wishing he were anything at all except a soldier. “I’ll pray every day, for then ye’ll come home safe, and will not die.”

His eyes filled brightly once more with the sheen of unshed tears, the line of his mouth turning downward slightly as he sought to hold it steady.

She clung to his hand. “Daddie.”

“Go, now.”

“But, Daddie…”

He looked at Jean. “Please, take them.”

Gently, Jean took Lily’s hand and loosed it from her father’s, and said, “Come, we have to leave him now.”

The walk home was the longest one that Lily could remember. It was also the first time she did not fear the dark.

For nothing waiting in the darkness could hurt her more deeply than the pain of letting go her father’s hand.

Chapter 6

Wednesday, 17 June, 1685

Lily had not slept. At home in bed, with Bessie at her side, she’d tried to raise from memory all her father’s words of comfort. He had said them only hours ago at Captain Graeme’s house and yet already they were losing force, so Lily brought them to her mind repeatedly, that she would not forget what he had told her: “Be a good girl, mind your prayers, and ye will see me, by and by.”

And so she prayed, in a small whisper, being careful not to wake the others, that God would watch over him and bring him safely home.

When she’d been very small, he had been called away to fight the covenanting rebels once, with Jamie’s father—back when Jamie’s father had been a lieutenant colonel in the army, and not captain of the Edinburgh town guard—and although the fighting had been fierce, both men had been returned from it unharmed.

She had faith the same would happen now, if she did as her father asked—if she was good, and prayed. And yet, she could not lose the sense that something was yet left undone this time, about his leaving.

It worried her all morning, even after she had risen and begun her daily work, but she said not a word to Jean, because it seemed to Lily that Jean also had not slept well and was weary, and Jean’s forehead bore the lines that meant her head was aching.

Lily did not wish to be the cause of any trouble. She kept quiet, did her chores, and tried to bury her misgivings.

Then, not long past midday, came their visitors.

The Laird of Abercairney’s lady—Robin Moray’s mother—was a graceful woman with a slender figure and fine clothes to show it to advantage. Today she wore a gown that Lily had not seen before, of deep blue silk so dark that it was nearly black, her skirts protected by a pretty apron edged with lace. There was lace also on the cap she wore tied over her brown hair that had been artfully arranged in curls that massed around her temples and were elsewhere gathered, leaving one long ringlet, tied with ribbon, hanging past her shoulder.