The laughter that comes from me is tainted. ‘You don’t understand a thing.’ I am tempted to reach out and touch the thick cloth of his tunic, the plump flesh of his cheek. ‘How can you? Leave me to my life and be grateful for the comfort of your own.’

‘But you’re not in it.’

His voice shakes a little. His words leave me stunned, more than any blow I’ve taken.

‘You don’t want me in it,’ I say.

‘What if I do?’

‘Then God help you.’

I have a feeling of eyes upon me. There is a movement in the trees, and I turn sharply to see the white flash of ears and tail. The horse shifts and Daniel reaches to steady her, hushing softly. I stare at where the hare was, for surely that is the creature I saw, but there’s nothing now. He looks down, scuffs the grass with his boot. ‘Can I ask – what is it that you feel?’

A big question. He has filled my thoughts since the day we washed Annie’s hair in the beck. The echo of his touch warms my hand at night. The thought of his idiotic, freckly face will not leave me be. I cannot name how I feel. I will not.

‘Cold,’ I say. Turn my back. Make to leave.

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘Your family are safe. Stay here with me a while?’

His expression remains open. I can see no malice in him, and now I’m shamed at my ill temper after he saved us. Mam’s voice rings in my mind. I must go. But I do not move.

We stand for a moment, in silence. The horse steps towards him and nudges his shoulder. He almost loses his footing, flushing and clearing his throat. ‘Jealous,’ he says.

She’s beautiful, gleaming in the moonlight, mane lifting in the breeze. I stroke her neck and she presses into me, whinnying gently.

My tongue sticks in my mouth, empty of words, and I flail for something to say that might please him. ‘She’s bonny,’ I say. Hardly impressive, but all I can manage.

He rests his face against hers. ‘She is.’

She lifts her head and snorts. Daniel laughs. ‘And she knows it. But without her I’d not have reached your house in time, so we must be grateful.’

I watch him stroking her. ‘I am grateful,’ I say.

‘Is that – that’s what we’ll call her. Bonny. Shall we?’

‘It’s – yes. That’s good.’ I’ve never struggled so to hold a conversation. We smile, too much and without reason, each a reflection of the other.

The breeze whips the grasses at our feet, lifts sandy clods to scour our legs, brings the scent of mud and sharpness of the beck. I shiver, and he frowns.

‘We could light a fire, if only I’d brought a flint,’ he says. ‘I’ll remember next time.’