Instead, she opted for friendliness, to disarm them with a smile — not too welcoming, but showing no fear either. ‘Evening, lads,’ she said with false brightness. ‘Happy Hogmanay to you. I can see you’ve been celebrating. I guess it’s time I go to my family — they’ll be waiting for me.’ She nodded towards the door of her cottage and pulled her burlap further onto her shoulder.

‘Who’s your family?’ asked the shorter of the Scottish soldiers, reaching out to delay her. She didn’t recognise the face but the accent was local. ‘That be the McIntyre place. I heard the woman who lived there leased the cottage to the Horseburgh woman. You’re not her, by chance, are you?’ He leaned forward to peer at her face, blinking.

Not wanting to reveal who she was, she danced around the outstretched hand and straight into the clasp of another.

Fingers tightened on her wrist. Determined not to cry out, she forced another smile. ‘Please, let me go. I don’t want any trouble.’

‘Please,’ said the Englishman, imitating her burr perfectly, ‘let me go. I don’t want any trouble.’

The men laughed loudly.

‘Not so fast, lass. We just want to talk,’ said the local soldier. Sorcha tried to place him. He must be from over Anster way.

Before she could wrench free, the men closed around her. The odour of ale and whisky combined with peat smoke and oysters was overpowering. Their clothes were wet and bore the stench of their bodies — unwashed and stale. Their faces shone under the burgeoning moonlight peeping through the clouds.

‘What about?’ asked Sorcha more bravely than she felt.

‘I ken who you are,’ said the local man suddenly. ‘You be Sorcha McIntyre.’ He elbowed his friend in the ribs. ‘Andy Watson’s widow.’

Sorcha shut her eyes briefly. Damn the man.

‘Andy Watson?’ The other soldier scratched his head. ‘Weren’t he the one who drowned because his wife didn’t carry him to the boat?’

‘Aye, that’s the one,’ said the local. He jerked his chin towards Sorcha. ‘And she be the wife —’

Sorcha could barely move, the men were pressed so tightly against her.

‘So, you’re the bitch what killed Andy…’ said the soldier, his breath hot in her ear. ‘I think you need to be taught a lesson…’

‘Gentlemen,’ said the Englishman from behind her, his mouth against her hair. ‘You’re missing the point. This woman is a widow, you say? It’s not a lesson she needs…’

Sorcha felt a rush of gratitude. Perhaps this man could yet talk sense into the others.

‘It’s a man.’

Her blood turned to ice.

‘Och,’ chuckled the local. ‘What she needs is three…’