‘I’ve left it in the usual spot. Just . . . be discreet, please. I can’t oblige these sorts of favours for everyone.’

Favours? Secrets? ‘But—’

‘Good day, Miss Gillies,’ he said briskly, assuming his usual manner as he noticed the three men now ahead of him on the path. ‘I must get on. Our visitors will be requiring some refreshments after the afternoon’s . . . excitement. Just remember what we discussed. We shall have to hope first impressions don’t stick.’

Chapter Two

The next day dawned clear and bright, brown puddles winking in the sunlight. It had rained in the night, the day’s excitable winds steadily agitating throughout the evening and tossing storm clouds into their path. When the rain had come – as she climbed from her bath – it fell like silver knives, confining the villagers to their cottages and the visitors with the minister and factor. As expected, Effie caught a supper from her father for ‘showing off’; Uncle Hamish had been quicker than usual to come round and enlighten him of the afternoon’s events. It seemed to be Angus McKinnon’s humiliation, and not her mortal danger, that was the principal issue.

Now, though, everything felt washed clean and fresh again. It was a new day and Effie had slept well; her exertions always meant she fell into oblivion as soon as she lay down but she had woken to an effervescent feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t quite explain. Her body felt as if it had tuned to a higher frequency.

She went about the morning duties with her usual rigour – collecting a slab of peat from the cleit for the fire, fetching water from the burn, cooking oats for their breakfast and milking the cow – but with one eye out, as if casting around for something. She was both distracted and highly focused. Her gaze came back time and again to the magnificent yacht now sitting serenely on the glassy sea.

Would its owners really stay a week? Most visitors only managed three days at the very most; they struggled to adapt to the simple ways over here, no matter how pretty or charming they first thought it on arrival. It was unfortunate it was such a busy time for the village, too. As it was the second Wednesday of May, they were leading into the fulmar harvest. The towering cliffs, and the rock stacks that rose like needles from the sea, were bleached white with the legions of seabirds come to nest and brood, and any day now – today even – the men (and Effie) would catch and kill thousands of fulmars that the women would then pluck, and the feathers would be stored. Finally the carcasses would be salted to preserve through the coming winter and transferred to the cleits. The days would be long and hard; there’d not be much time for play.