Sorcha might be younger than Thomas Brown by some decades, but she was exhausted and looking forward to a whisky, a meal and bed. Nettie had decided it was time to visit her husband for a few days and so had taken some of the catch to cook for him. It was weeks since Sorcha had the cottage to herself and she was relishing the thought. Lost in planning her evening, it took her a moment to notice someone walking close beside her.

It was none other than Peter Morton.

Squashing the disappointment that it wasn’t someone else, she swiftly concealed her surprise that the lad they’d been discussing by the harbour only yesterday should suddenly manifest.

‘Evening, Mrs McIntyre,’ said Peter, touching his cap. ‘Can I take that for you?’ he asked, nodding at her creel.

‘Nae, lad, but thank you. It’s not very heavy. I’ve only enough in here for myself; managed to sell the rest on the High Street.’

‘I saw you,’ said Peter, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Thought I’d take the chance to see how you’re faring now you’re back. I see you in the kirk, but we haven’t had the opportunity to chat.’ He gave her a wide smile, his eyes holding hers a bit too long. For someone so young, he had a way about him that belied his years, a confidence and strut that made her a tad uneasy.

‘I am faring very well considering, thank you, Peter. How about yourself?’ she asked, putting some distance between them on the road. She nodded to the McKenzies as they came out of the tavern, their dog at their heels. Peter beamed at them and touched his cap.

‘I be grand today, Mrs McIntyre. Not only did I just deliver the nails Bailie Whyte had me make for his ship, but now I have the pleasure of your company.’

Sorcha didn’t quite know what to say.

‘I’ll be the envy of all the lads,’ said Peter, stepping closer to her and acknowledging the men loitering outside the tavern. ‘There’s no one who wouldn’t want to be in my shoes, walking with the bonniest lass in town.’

Sorcha stopped in her tracks. ‘Are you flirting with me, Peter Morton?’

Facing her, Peter put his hands on his hips and winked. ‘Aye,’ he said, a cheeky grin splitting his face.

Sorcha couldn’t help it, as uncomfortable as she felt, there was something disingenuous about the lad. Anyhow, what harm did it do? Why, he was sixteen if he was a day, and what was she? An old widow of twenty-five. She could indulge him his fantasy. She was only practice, after all. As for him being the envy of the men for being in her company, more likely they’d be wanting to bathe him in holy waters, touch cold iron or perform an exorcism.