Her mind drifted back to Aidan and she marvelled that such a man had come — nae, ridden — into her life.

For some reason, thinking of Aidan made her conjure an image of Reverend Cowper. There was another man who wanted more from life, but whereas what Aidan wanted was based around love and helping others, what Cowper most desired was all about power and controlling people.

Squinting, she looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was well past midnight, now Sunday — no longer, in her mind, the Lord’s day, but Cowper’s. She wondered what treats he’d have in store for his congregation, how he would seek to malign the fishwives and link them to witchcraft this time. Would he know about their wee party? What was she thinking? Of course he would.

Finishing her drink, she was disappointed to find only a few drops remaining in the bottle. She’d really had enough. Not enough to push thoughts of Cowper away and not nearly enough to send her to bed. How could she sleep when she still hoped and prayed Aidan would arrive?

She turned to look out the window again. Gusts shook the house and rattled the glass, though the rain had eased. It was a wild night. No one in their right mind would be abroad, certainly not navigating the roads between here and the city.

There was a raspy cough, the jingle of harness. Sorcha sat up, the room temporarily spinning.

The door opened and in swept Aidan. Drenched, his hair was stuck to his face, his coat sodden. As he plucked at the buttons, Sorcha could see his full-dress uniform beneath. It at least was dry. Instead of taking his coat off, Aidan strode towards her, gripping her hands and pulling her up into his arms.

‘You’re all wet!’ exclaimed Sorcha, laughing but not really objecting as he held her close. When he didn’t speak, didn’t release her immediately, she grew still.

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself away slightly, searching his eyes. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘Wrong, why would anything be wrong?’

‘Och, I don’t know,’ she said, extracting herself from his arms and gesturing to his apparel. ‘Maybe the fact you’re drookit and dripping on my floor, or that you’ve ridden that damned road,’ she pointed in a vague direction, ‘in the middle of the night in this weather. Risking your neck. And then you have that look.’ She stood on tiptoe, screwing up her eyes and bringing her face close to his.

‘You’re drunk,’ he said, swallowing a grin.