‘Old Thunder was holding court as ever,’ I say, taking the offered whisky from her hand. ‘With Popeye the Sailor, his second.’

‘You shouldn’t call them that,’ Mary says. Touches her glass against mine.

‘You care what I call Charlie?’

This time her smile doesn’t dim. ‘I care what you call Kenny and Charlie. What you call all of them. I care that they might find out. Fiona says some of the men have been talking about how … unapproachable you are.’ She pauses. ‘They’re our neighbours, Robert. I want them to be our friends.’

And unspoken is You wanted to come here. You said it would be better than it was in Aberdeen.

I drink the whisky down in one. I’d be willing to bet unapproachable wasn’t the word they used. ‘I told Euan I wanted to discuss the land tenancy again, and he said that he’d been round here last week. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Mary presses her lips together, shakes her head. Looks at me with a stoic kind of resignation. ‘He just stopped by to see if we needed anything. There was nothing to tell.’

‘You asked Charlie to fix the quad.’

‘I did not. I was making conversation, Rob. That’s what people do.’ Mary sets her whisky down. Her eyes go flinty. ‘Stop it. Don’t twist things. Don’t do that.’

Mary thinks I’ve a persecution complex about this place and the men living here, and maybe she’s right. Because the closer winter creeps, the darker my dreams and misgivings become. My distrust is born of experience, although I can hardly tell her that. But no one here knows who I am. Who I once was. I’m attacking when there’s nothing yet to defend. And that might be how I’ve lived most of my life, but I’ve vowed not to do that any more. I think abruptly of my mother. Not the mamaidh who took me mussel picking and called me her good boy, her wee warrior. But the mother I was left with after my father died. As if all his rage, his bitter-sour disappointment had been passed on to her, like a tairsgeir or a parcel of land. If I do that to Mary, I’ll never forgive myself.

I smooth my palm against her hair, her neck. ‘I’m sorry.’ I step closer, feel the heat of her breath against my skin, the drum of her pulse against my fingers. ‘I’m a jealous, grumpy git.’

‘You don’t care about Charlie or Kenny or Euan Morrison. And the rent’s fair, you told me that. But if you really care about owning the land, then antagonising the man who owns the job lot of it is pretty rash, even for you.’

‘Pretty rash?’ I smile, kissing the corner of her mouth.

‘The swear ar’s full. I’m trying to practise what I preach.’

I press her against the wall next to the fireplace, and she presses back. I groan when she moves harder against me, and lift her up enough that she has to wrap her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck as she laughs.