‘Reverend Cowper,’ she gasped. ‘What are you doing?’

He tilted his head to look up at her, a tic in his cheek working furiously. ‘Och, I knew a blow wouldn’t kill you, witch. And for that, I’m glad. There’s yet time to save your black soul.’

Sorcha shut her eyes and leaned back against the mast. The reverend had lost all reason. Madness twisted his features, his one good eye was as cold and hard as iron as he continued to bind her ankles together.

Blinking, she raised her chin. The storm was at its peak. Gusts of wind battered the harbour. Kelp had been flung against the seawall and lay strewn along the sands. From where she was, she could see the town’s lanes and wynds awash with sea and rainwater. Gushing back down to the shore, the foaming wash carried a catch of baskets, buckets, pieces of wood, a broken wheel and the dead bodies of birds.

A wall of water rose and broke against the stone wall that edged the pier, sending a fresh curtain of spray over her. Coughing and spluttering, she shook her head, fighting as her body tried to pull her back into the ease of unconsciousness. She had to resist, she had to. But where exactly was she? Why was the pier over there?

‘Please, reverend,’ she shouted as realisation struck. ‘You must release me. We have to get off this ship. It’s not safe.’

‘Safe!’ The reverend finished what he was doing and stood, grasping the mast above her head to stop himself falling as the deck lurched. ‘Nowhere you are is safe. That’s why I have to finish this once and for all. Cast Satan out of you, out of all you witches, and return the Weem to the godly haven it used to be.’

His face was so close to her, she could smell his stale breath, the whisky he’d drunk, the wine and ale as well. Stumbling, he fell against her but made no effort to pull away. Their noses touched.

‘I see you for what you are, Sorcha McIntyre.’ His breath was hot against her cheek. ‘What your mother was as well. A temptress, sent by the devil himself to test me. To test all good Christian men.’

With his free hand, he pressed against her breast, squeezing hard.

Sorcha refused to cry out, even as he stared at her and twisted her nipple. She gritted her teeth. ‘Aye,’ she shouted. ‘I knew you were tempted, reverend. Did I not see what you tried to do to my mother with my own eyes? I saw how when she turned to you for comfort after the death of her husband, her son, you leapt upon her, ripping the clothes from her body so you could fuck her.’

The reverend pulled away, his eyes narrowing. ‘’Twas not me, but the devil in her that made me do it.’