She wrenched herself away, drew back her hand and slapped him with such force her palm burned. ‘You want-o-wut blaggard!’ Fury made her slip into local dialect. ‘You fasionless dowgit. How dare you!’

Peter lightly touched his cheek, which was fast becoming red, and staggered back from the heat of her rage.

‘What’d you do that for? Don’t you understand? Now your capt’n’s gone, you can be mine, Sorcha McIntyre. I can protect you.’

Sorcha gaped in disbelief. ‘You think I’d look at you whether the captain was here or not?’ She spluttered, ‘I’d rather be locked up in that Tolbooth and named a witch than have you ever touch me again, you hear? Protect me? You near killed me.’

Immediately, Sorcha regretted her words. God, she’d called the lad stupid and thoughtless, limp and downtrodden, as if he was an abused pup. His face changed like a summer sky before a storm as a welter of emotions came and went. She saw confusion, before hurt took its place followed by a hardening of his eyes and mouth. His hand rested against where his face flamed. Much to her horror, his eyes began to well. He dashed the tears away.

‘You’ll regret this, Sorcha McIntyre. You mark my words. You tell me you’d rather be locked up than kiss a man who gives you his love; who wishes you safe. Wait and see. What you said’ll come true.’ He tried to glare at her, but his swimming eyes relayed only sadness and pain. ‘And that’ll just prove the reverend right, won’t it?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sorcha, wanting to hate the lad, but finding only pity.

‘I’ll recant and name you the witch that you are. A witch that steals men’s hearts and then fucking well breaks them.’

With one last look of loathing and longing, he turned and stomped down the road, pushing through the group of children, one of whom fell in a puddle and began to howl.

Something Sorcha felt like doing herself.

Just as word of the discovery of another coven of witches spread about the countryside bringing those sightseers prepared to brave the cold and snow back to the Weem, gentlemen from Edinburgh also came. There were a number of lairds among them — Randerston, Lyon and Kellie. Once again the lawyers, Mr Ker of Kippilaw and Mr Robert Cooke, made an appearance.

Insisting on interviewing each of the accused witches without either the reverend or a member of the local council present, they also asked to see Peter Morton.

Sorcha could only imagine how the lad felt about that, especially after he’d been sent home from the city in disgrace. Whereas the townsfolk had been in two minds about his treatment then, this time most were sympathetic and ready to defend his claims. Including, Sorcha imagined, when he named her a witch.