She approached the storm cleit, staggering on the spot for sight of him, her hair flying like streamers. Lights were glowing from the cottages down below, those on the yacht masts dipping forward and back as the sea rocked the boat with simmering menace.

‘Sholto!’ She ran to the cleit, ducking slightly to look in, just as he was walking out.

Effie felt her heart miss several beats. She felt her blood pressure dramatically fall as she staggered backwards.

What . . .?

‘His lordship’s not here,’ Mathieson said, stepping out into the evening too.

‘I . . .’ she whispered, her voice fled. She couldn’t get her breath back, couldn’t control her heartrate. Her body was in a high state of exhaustion and alarm. Where was Sholto?

She looked around again, bewildered by what was happening. The note . . . the bull’s house . . .

‘I’m sorry, sir. I—’ she panted, turning back and trying to gather her wits.

‘Ah. We’re back to “sir” again now, are we? Now that you no longer have the protection of a powerful man by your side?’

What? She felt her bewilderment begin to shift, become something else. ‘. . . What is it you want?’

He didn’t reply immediately. He was watching her through dark, narrowed eyes, reading the changes in her like they were coloured lights, seeing her dawning fear. ‘. . . I want what I’ve always wanted, Miss Gillies. What I’ve been waiting for, most patiently, these past six years.’

Six years? The timing didn’t have any immediate significance for her, other than that was when he’d become MacLeod’s factor, when he’d first come over here.

‘I don’t understand. What have you wanted for six years?’

He gave an abrupt laugh, but the sound was ugly. Joyless. ‘. . . You, Miss Gillies! I want you!’

She looked at him with slow-dawning horror. The gifts, nothing to do with education and socialist aspirations at all? His agitation any time she was near Sholto – not to do with sucking up to the laird or furthering his career, but blocking them because he wanted her for himself?

He read her understanding and grabbed her arm suddenly, holding her in place.

‘He who would enjoy the fruit must not spoil the blossoms. I’ve been patient long enough. You didn’t think I was just going to let him swoop in and take what was mine, did you?’ he hissed, his mouth pulled back in a grotesque sneer.

Her head was shaking from side to side in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t mean these things. ‘But . . . I’m wicked. I’m wild, you always say. You hate me,’ she whispered.

‘Love. Hate. It’s a fine line. But you’ve spirit, Effie Gillies, and I like that. I can use that.’