‘Enough about the reverend,’ said Sorcha, sitting up. ‘Tell me more about this Captain Ross, Nettie. Who is he? Where does he hail from? He doesn’t sound like he’s from these parts.’

‘Ah,’ said Nettie, sinking back into her chair. ‘There be a man for you.’

Sorcha’s chest tightened before she understood Nettie was talking in general terms. ‘I hear tell he’s a Skye lad. Since he’s been here, he’s stopped the soldiers in the village from running amok the way they used to.’

‘I was thinking he’s either a good man or very good at appearing to be one.’

Nettie cast her a sly look. ‘Maybe you’ll just have to find out for yourself.’ She nodded towards the door. ‘We can still hope he’s your first-footer. You know what they say, if a handsome dark stranger is the first-foot come Hogmanay, then you’ll have good fortune for the whole year. There’s not many more handsome or dark than Captain Bonnie.’

Sorcha shrugged. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

Nettie gave a bark of laughter. ‘Aye, and I be blind as well.’

‘Mind you,’ continued Sorcha, ignoring her, ‘I could do with some good luck.’ About to outline what she’d do with it, there was a loud noise outside. She stared at Nettie. ‘What was that?’

Before Nettie could reply, the door flew open, bringing an icy gust of wind and a bedraggled, terrified young woman.

Sorcha and Nettie leapt to their feet.

It was the seamstress Isobel Adam, a poor lass who lived with her father on the eastern shore and made a meagre living making shirts and doing mending for the fishermen. Pretty, with a small upturned nose, pale freckled skin, and a mane of golden hair, she was much sought after by the lads.

‘Dear God, lassie,’ cried Nettie. ‘What’s happened? What are you doing in this part of town?’

Sorcha wrapped an arm around the girl’s thin waist and grabbed her shaking hands, propelling her into the room. ‘Are you hurt?’

Nettie closed the door, but not before she’d taken a good hard look outside.

Sorcha pushed Isobel gently into her da’s chair and crouched at her feet. Looking over at Nettie, she raised a brow and mouthed the word ‘Soldiers?’ Nettie shrugged, poured another ale and knelt next to Sorcha.

Taking Isobel’s fingers in her own warm ones, Sorcha was astonished how cold they were. She brushed a lock of hair from Isobel’s face and stroked her cheek.

Still trembling, Isobel could barely lift the ale to her mouth. Nettie undid her own shawl and threw it around Isobel’s shoulders, rubbing her arms, trying to restore warmth.

As the heat returned to her body, Isobel looked around and her eyes alighted on Sorcha. ‘Bless me darned tights. The rumours are true. You’re back.’