He risked a glance at the dashboard. Surely they had come far enough? They seemed to have been journeying blindly for hours over the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. His sense of impending catastrophe strengthened when he read the mileometer. In the heady planning of this trip, Carol and he had pored over maps, measuring, estimating how far the cottage was from Edinburgh. And now the mileometer told him they had covered a distance in excess of seven miles farther than they should have from Fort William.

He drew up, slipped the gear lever into neutral.

‘I think we’re lost,’ he said. He switched on the interior light. ‘Let me see the map.’

Without a word she handed it across. He followed the road on the map, tracing its route from Lochailort along the coast before it curled round the flanks of Sgurr Dhomhuill Mor. He remembered crossing the river Moidart, a black spate-swollen flood, then coming down towards the little village of Kentra. All that he remembered. They had struck off due west at that point. But beyond that . . .

He rubbed his aching eyes. If they had been on the right road there should have been no climb up this cliff road. Where on earth could they be?

The wind howled and they felt the car cringe under its onslaught. The girl shivered in spite of the warmth.

‘We can’t turn here.’

‘I know. We go on. But be prepared to spend your wedding night in the back of this car.’

‘In a blizzard.’ She summoned a smile. He smiled back.

‘Don’t worry. There may be a house or a village at the end of this road. It can’t go on forever.’

He wondered if he sounded convincing.

He put the car in gear, let in the clutch. The wheels spun, squealing. He tried again, gingerly. The car moved forward. The road was dropping now, so fast he dare not change out of lowest gear. The car showed a tendency to weave. The easiest touch swung the steering wheel. Hunched forward, he peered ahead. The steep slope on the right melted back to be replaced by snow-laden trees; on the left the drop gave way to rising wooded ground. The blizzard was appalling now in its cold fury. Thoughts of people found frozen to death in cars came to him. He seemed to remember reading that leaving the engine running to heat the car produced death by carbon-monoxide poisoning. And if not – after the petrol ran out – what then?

Carol gripped his arm.

‘I see a light!’

‘Where?’

‘To the left!’

He saw nothing in the swirling snow but black clumps of trees. He slowed the car.

‘Do you still see it?’

‘No. It’s gone.’

‘I’ll go forward slowly. Was it ahead of us?’

‘Yes.’