She learned he’d been stationed in Pittenweem eight months, having arrived not long after she left last summer. He didn’t expect to be there much longer, what with the war escalating, and was merely waiting to be sent to join the Duke of Marlborough’s men. The idea he might be leaving soon affected Sorcha more than she had a right to be. She convinced herself it was because he really did protect the Weem women. How could they be assured the officer who took his place would be so solicitous?

When on two occasions he was riding the back roads as she was returning from the farms over St Monan’s way, she began to think it was more than a coincidence. What reason would he have to be visiting St Monan’s? She didn’t have the courage to ask — not about that — though she did ask about her brother.

‘I hate to bother you, Captain Ross,’ she began one day, ‘but did you get a chance to ask your superiors about my Robbie?’

It was a drackie afternoon and the combination of fog and low clouds made the day dim early. Shivering as a frigid wind snatched at her cloak and bit her exposed skin, she raised her face to his.

‘I wrote the day you asked, Mrs McIntyre. Alas, I’ve heard naught. Not that it means anything,’ he added quickly, seeing her disappointment. ‘It takes a long while for letters, let alone information, to arrive. War disrupts everything. But I ask you not to lose heart.’

Grateful for his efforts, she made a solemn promise she would do her best not to relinquish hope.

Once, when they were walking back from Anster way and the weather closed in, he lifted her onto his horse so they could reach their destination faster. Pressing herself against his back, her hands around his waist, she’d enjoyed the feel and smell of him, conscious of her breasts squashed against his coat, her inner thighs moving against him. She was aware of the way the muscles in his back responded to the movement of his arms, how his legs looked so very fine in their tight breeches where they rubbed against her skirts. That day, the wind blew against them, unravelling Sorcha’s hair so it alternated between whipping and embracing them.

When Captain Ross deposited her at the door to her cottage that day, she was tempted to invite him inside, only she knew she’d never hear the end of it from Nettie or from Reverend Cowper, whom she’d seen lurking in the graveyard as they rode past. Reverend Cowper would ensure the villagers knew and the type of gossip that would attend her would be worse than ever. Instead, she made a show of saying goodbye, being sure to thank him prettily in a voice that carried.