While he slowed down and waited for her, Bartholomew compared this sensitive young lady of quality unfavourably to Kerensa. It wasn’t the fact that she was not beautiful that annoyed him, it was her ladylike ways. Kerensa would tramp barefoot over the beach, not pick her way slowly and fussily. Kerensa would not be wearing gloves, she would have pulled off her hat to allow the breeze to flow through her hair, she would have laughed with him and been at ease. He’d enjoyed lambasting Ameline, he was enjoying the power he was exercising over her. Now he had a mind to try to seduce her, just for the sport of it.

Bartholomew held out his hand: ‘Here, take hold of this.’

Unused to more than a leisurely stroll through the park lands of Tolwithrick, Ameline’s passage over the shingle was growing more difficult. As she was disinclined to argue with him, and as she was wearing kid gloves and wouldn’t actually have to touch his skin, she complied. She was breathless, her ordinary round face pinched as he closed his long fingers on the gloved hand she put out awkwardly to him.

‘Where are we going, Mr Drannock?’ she asked, her chest heaving.

Bartholomew suddenly felt a little sorry for her. He smiled as he answered. ‘To the end of the beach under Mother Clarry’s rock.’

‘Oh, Lady Pengarron told me about that,’ Ameline said, as they walked on. Bartholomew checked his long strides to match her stumbling steps. She wanted to take the initiative away from him and took the lead in conversation. ‘Lady Pengarron said Mother Clarry was supposed to be an evil witch and the smooth, flat rock, high up on the cliff, is reputed to be her seat. She would sit up there on nights bearing a full moon to laugh and gloat over the mischief she had caused. I wonder what she looked like. I should think quite hideous with dirty straggly hair with warts all over her face and a long hooked nose.’

‘She looks worse than that, Ameline,’ Bartholomew said seriously. ‘I saw her myself only the other day perched up on her seat.’

‘You saw her…?’Ameline stopped walking to read his face. His eyes looked into hers and then the corners of his mouth turned upwards. He was grinning, his eyes gleaming wickedly. And then he was laughing, not unkindly, just a low gentle laugh.

Ameline smiled herself, eventually. ‘Yes, I did believe you,’ she admitted.

‘What an innocent,’ he murmured.

She lowered her eyes and they resumed their walk. ‘I don’t recall giving you permission to call me Ameline.’

‘I had no intention of asking you for it.’

‘Indeed, and now I suppose you want me to call you Bartholomew.’