Captain Ross quietly gave orders to his sergeant. His blade gleamed in the light from the doorway, a reminder that he would enforce his orders if he had to. Sorcha thought he looked rather grand astride his silvery steed, high above them, wreaking vengeance upon these drunken sots who would call themselves soldiers. He was like a character from a tale. Only, he wasn’t. He was as real as the blood upon her lips and cheeks.

She swiftly found a kerchief and began to clean her face, her mouth. She longed for a dram to rinse out the taste of Jamie Dyson.

At the sergeant’s prompting, the men lined up in single file and, when he barked a command, began to run down the street. He followed on horseback.

Their equipment jangled as they jogged, their hats bounced until Private Donall staggered towards the graveyard wall. Leaning against it with one hand, he loudly lost the contents of his stomach. The sergeant waved for him to continue, and the man straightened, spat and stumbled after his friends, who hadn’t stopped to help him.

Once they had rounded the corner, the captain sheathed his sword and drew off his hat, allowing Sorcha to see his face for the first time. It was a hard face, a worn one framed by black hair; large, deep-set eyes took in everything around him, including her. Self-conscious suddenly, Sorcha put a hand to her head. She’d lost her scarf in the tussle, her hair had come unbound. She tried to gather it in her fingers, twist it into a semblance of a bun.

‘You have my apologies for the behaviour of my men,’ said the captain, watching Sorcha’s efforts. ‘The sergeant and I saw them following you up the High Street and guessed they were up to no good.’ He sighed. ‘Rest assured, you’ll not be bothered by the likes of them again. As for the others stationed hereabouts… While they ken not to touch the local lasses, it’s the incomers I cannot always protect — as much as I try.’

‘Sorcha be no incomer,’ said Beatrix, a wide grin revealing her missing teeth. ‘She’s a born and bred Weem lass like the rest of us.’

‘That be her place,’ said Nicolas, pointing to the open door behind them.

‘Is that so?’ asked the captain, studying Sorcha with interest before examining the house. ‘Why have I not seen you before?’ He gave a half bow over the horse’s withers. It was a surprisingly elegant effort.

Laughter issued from a nearby house. A pipe began to play, followed by voices raised in song. Underpinning it all, the ocean breathed.