‘But that’s not fair. There are things we have to say. Everything’s different now.’ Her right hand was resting on the wall and she felt his fingertips inch onto hers, covering them by the tiniest of margins. He glanced up, his gaze catching on something briefly, before he leant into her. ‘Effie, you said to me when we met that you would never leave here because you’d never leave your father. But now he is leaving.’

‘Aye, I know—’

‘And you said you had nothing to leave for anyway, nothing to go to . . . But that’s changed now, hasn’t it? . . . Hasn’t it?’

She looked away. How could she possibly answer that? ‘I don’t know.’

She saw him look over her shoulder, watching someone. ‘I know you’re blind-sided by this. You can’t imagine what the future looks like now. And I know it’s still months before you leave here, but if we could talk . . . I don’t know, make a plan?’

She blinked. ‘A plan?’

But he kept looking over her shoulder distractedly. He looked concerned. ‘Can you get away? Meet me somewhere before we go,’ he whispered urgently. ‘We have to talk. I’ll get a message to you . . . at the bull’s house.’ His eyes rested upon something that made him straighten up sharply.

The factor again?

‘Mr Gillies,’ Sholto said loudly, managing a smile. ‘What news!’

Effie turned on her heel just in time to see her father nod in reply. It wasn’t deferential, but neither was it an outright slight. Like the factor, he sat right on the boundary of politeness. The balance of things had changed. It no longer mattered that the Earl of Dumfries and his son were close friends of their laird, when Sir John MacLeod was now soon to be their former laird.

‘Home,’ her father said gruffly, taking her by the elbow. ‘There’s things to discuss.’

‘But—’

‘No buts.’ He pulled her away before another word could be said.

Chapter Twelve

The winds had arrived, hot, torrid squalls catching and smashing the waves upon the shore before barrelling up the slopes. Effie’s hair flapped wildly in front of her like a bird’s wings, catching her in the eyes several times and making them water, but she couldn’t pull it back. Her hands were full, carrying a fresh bundle of hay and a bucket of soaked oats as she made the walk from her cottage to the bull’s house.

She walked alongside the burn, past the mossy-topped cleits where they stored the peats and sidling sideways through the gap in the head dyke. The dusk sky looked bruised by the turbulence in its atmosphere, purple clouds hanging low and setting off one of her father’s headaches.