Sorrow welled. In all the months she’d been locked away, it had never occurred to her what it would be like to be free, how much she longed for someone to ache for her, to want her, to fight — not just for justice, there were so many doing that, God bless them all — but just for her. Not even Dagny had been able to put aside her anger and offer support, let alone a welcome. Dagny’s absence hurt her more than was right.

Casting aside self-pity and determining to put on the brave face that was needed, that they all deserved, she found a smile.

Then she saw him.

Standing apart from the others, over by the Mercat Cross, Liath beside him, was Captain Ross. Their eyes fastened on each other. She saw a look pass over his face — aversion? Anger? She wasn’t certain, she only knew it wasn’t directed towards her — before he gestured to his mount and invited her to join him.

With a deep, deep sigh that came from the soles of her boots, carrying within it a great promise that she dared not examine, she weaved her way through the mob. As each woman emerged from the prison, there was a burst of noise behind her, making her twitch. Fixing her eyes on the captain, afraid if she looked away he’d vanish, she became aware her gait was uneven, her clothes were rags hanging from her scrawny frame; her shorn hair, which had regrown to at least cover her head in a bronze cap, needed a wash. Nonetheless, she didn’t stop. Not until she reached his side.

Uncertain what to do, what to say, she stood and stared at him, taking in his worn coat, the damp hat, but more importantly, those black, black eyes and the way they drank her in.

He took her hand in his large warm one and, much to her utter astonishment, raised it to his lips.

‘I’m glad to see you, Mrs McIntyre.’ Though the press of his warm mouth against her cold skin was gentle, the heat of rage and something else burning in those coal-black eyes was not. Something within Sorcha broke. She staggered and, before she could fall, he swept her into his arms and, pressing her to his body tightly first, lifted her onto his horse.

She cried out in pain as he gripped her beneath the arms and again as her legs, unprepared, struck the saddle.

‘Dear God, what have they done to you?’ His voice was hoarse, his eyes as they left hers to gaze at some point over her shoulder, were murderous.

Unable to explain, not really wanting to lest she relive the experience all over again, she shook her head and stayed mute. He placed his large hand over where hers rested on the pommel and didn’t move it. She didn’t want him to.