… the Lords do hereby recommend to Sir James Steuart, Her Majestie’s Advocat, to raise a process and lybell at this instance… against the magistrats of Pittenweem, for their not keeping the peace of the place, and suffering such tumults and rables and other such outrages to be committed within their burgh… also recommends to… raise a process… against (Here follows the names of five persons), or any other persons who have had any hand in, and been accessory to, the murder committed upon Janet Cornfoot at Pittenweem…

— The Annals of Pittenweem, Being Notes and Extracts from the Ancient Records of that Burgh, 1526–1793

‘Who told them?’ shouted Patrick Cowper, staring down the bailies as they sat before him in his study. ‘Who among you lily-livered blaggards informed the authorities? Hmm? Which one of you was it?’

As he spoke, a face appeared in his mind. A lovely face with seacoloured eyes and full lips. Of course… who else would it be?

The reverend could scarce see the men as rage stole his sight, turned them into a morass of dark lights and shifting shadows. What else did he expect? The lass had to interfere; she couldn’t leave well enough alone. Didn’t ken when to respect the wishes of her betters. She had to stick her nose into lads’ business.

With startling clarity he recalled the time she caught him with her mother. If he’d had but a few minutes more, there would have been nothing for her to see, no guilt to attribute. But she’d caught him at the worst moment, just as he was about to have his way. Her mother’s gown torn and bunched around her waist, her hands captured by his, her quiet weeping, his damp, hot face; his breeks bunched around his knees. He forced the memory away.

He took a deep breath and his vision returned to normal, even if his heart did not. Unwilling to share his suspicions yet about who had alerted Edinburgh — the most literate of the fishwives, the one who brazenly turned her back on his suggestion she remarry, rejecting the fine offer of his son, and yet boldly sinned with that meddlesome Captain Ross — he would wait until he was certain, and once he knew, act.

Heat suffused his cheeks and his throat grew dry. What a damn nuisance. The last thing he needed was a contingent from Edinburgh descending upon Pittenweem again, not now when everything was under control. Half the town were in his hands and the other half too afraid to challenge him lest they suffer a similar fate to Cornfoot.

All except one brazen besom.

What happened to the Cornfoot carline would be nothing to what he’d do to Sorcha McIntyre and her friends. Or, better still, what the townsfolk could…

The clock ticking on the mantelpiece crawled into his head, bringing him back to the present, the warm room and the disgruntled, anxious men arrayed before him.