With a swiftness that belied his state, the man grabbed her face between his hands and pressed his moist lips against hers. One of the men restrained her arms, pushing himself against her. The kiss deepened as the local groaned and his slimy tongue dredged her unwilling mouth. Her burlap was dragged from her shoulder, her shawl with it. Hands began to roam over her body, grasping, squeezing. She strained against them, tried to cry out, pull away. Their breath was loud, heavy, rancid.

They began to force her away from the house, towards the cemetery gate, holding her upright, half-carrying her into the darkness. Before they reached the wall, she leaned into the man kissing her, surprising him. Pretending to enjoy his mouth upon hers, she drew his lower lip between her own then bit down hard. Throwing her head back, she pulled a chunk of flesh with it.

There was a yowl of pain, followed by a hot gush of blood. Then, she was free. She spat the piece of lip out as the man staggered away in shock, forcing the others to break their hold.

‘The fucking bitch bit me,’ he cried, blood pumping from his ravaged mouth. ‘She fuckin’ bit me.’

Sorcha grinned, swiping the back of her hand across her lips, uncaring that her face was smeared with his blood. ‘Aye, and I’ll do it again if you come near me, you fucking bastard.’

Down by the kirk, a dog howled. A curtain shifted in a nearby window, but no one came to her aid.

The mood altered.

‘You can’t bite us all, lass —’ The Englishman lunged.

Sorcha tried to move, but he was too fast. He seized her dress. Sorcha let out a scream, before it was cut off as she was struck across the face.

‘Maybe she can’t,’ shouted a welcome voice. ‘But we can.’

Pouring through the doorway of Sorcha’s house, silhouetted against the sudden light, were three women brandishing gutting knives and a broom. It was her friends Nettie Horseburgh, Beatrix Laing and Nicolas Lawson.

They ran towards the men, weapons raised, their faces grim. Sorcha was thrust away as if she were a hot coal.

Before Sorcha could call out a warning, the man with the torn lip raised a dirk. The wicked blade glinted in the dim light. The other men drew theirs. One pulled a gun from his breeks.

Sorcha ran to join the women, turning to face the men. There was nothing but the slash of a blade separating them.

‘How about you put those away, lasses,’ said the Englishman calmly, nodding towards their knives. He gave a bold wink. ‘And we take this party inside.’ Quick as a gull snatching a fish, he disarmed Nettie and levelled his weapon at her breast. Beatrix and Nicolas raised their own knives higher.

There was a loud cough. The men froze. The women twisted to see where it came from.