Lost in her reverie, it took Sorcha a moment to register that a horse and rider had come up behind her. She spun around and was astonished to see Captain Ross.

‘You have an uncanny way of sneaking up on folk,’ she said, immediately regretting her tone.

‘I did hail you, Mrs McIntyre,’ said the captain apologetically, walking the horse forward till it was level with her and touching his hat. ‘I’m sorry. Wasn’t my intention to scare you.’

Sorcha looked up at him. It appeared he’d been on a long ride. Not only was the mare splattered with mud, but his breeches and boots were as well. His riding cape had received a soaking then dried. His dark hair had mostly escaped the ribbon at his nape and his black eyes, despite appearing tired, managed a twinkle. Seeing it, Sorcha felt guilty.

‘Nae,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s me who should be sorry. I was unforgivably rude. I was all dwamish and you startled me.’ She brushed his leg lightly with her fingers, aware of the firmness beneath the smooth fabric, then withdrew her hand swiftly, aware the gesture could be misread.

His eyes darkened. ‘Considering we’re both so full of apologies, would you allow me to escort you back home so at the least we’ve time to offer them properly?’

Sorcha laughed. As much as she enjoyed being alone, some company would be nice. ‘That would be most gracious of you, sir. But only if you promise not to say sorry again.’

The captain grinned. ‘Only if I can extract the same promise from you.’

‘Done,’ said Sorcha.

He dismounted and offered to take the creel strapped across her shoulders, but Sorcha refused. She’d not carried one for so long, it was reassuring to wear it again.

They walked in peace a while. In the distance, shouts came from the men labouring in the fields. A donkey brayed nearby. She could hear the captain’s breathing, smell the musky odour of his clothes, of him. It was pleasant. More than pleasant. It made her think of rolling seas, the earthy scent of peat smoking.

‘That’s a fine ride you have there, Captain Ross,’ said Sorcha finally, flashing an admiring glance at his horse. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Liath,’ said the captain, patting her neck. The horse shuddered in pleasure.

Sorcha nodded appreciatively. Well, what else would you call a grey horse, but grey?

‘Not very imaginative, is it?’ dimpled the captain. ‘I should have called her spirit or ghost, or something with an uncanny ring.’

‘I think Liath suits her fine, doesn’t it, girl?’ said Sorcha, leaning across to stroke the horse’s withers.

They fell into comfortable silence once more.