He watched her for a few moments before turning back into the room. ‘. . . Well, this is almost ready for you and your father. The chimney work’s finished and a new door hung. There’s just some slates left to fix on the roof and she’ll be all set for whatever the winter wants to throw at her.’

Effie looked back out of the window, wondering what winter looked like here – was it all sedate blankets of snow and crackling fires? Or the fearsome monster she knew of howling gales, wind-whipped waves and ice on the beach?

‘When will you move in?’

She shrugged. ‘My father stayed behind in Lochaline to await the sale of our livestock at Oban, but that’s done now. If this is almost ready, then sometime in the next week.’

‘It was a big thing, all of you moving over, as you did.’

So he knew she was a St Kildan? Word travelled, it seemed. ‘Aye, it was. But for the best,’ she said quickly, knowing he would only ask otherwise. There was no doubt living here, in this sturdy, pretty cottage, was a distinct step up from what they’d had before. The earl had been true to his word; he had been able to offer her better.

A sound came to her ear, a rhythmic drubbing that she couldn’t place. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, twisting back to see a dark, gathered mass rocketing along the field.

Mr Felton didn’t answer immediately. ‘Someone out for a ride,’ he said, straightening up.

It was too late for him to get downstairs, however. In the space of a few seconds, the rider had pulled the horse to a dramatic stop and it was now trotting in excited circles on the grass below. Its coat was a gleaming blackish brown, with chestnut nostrils and socks. It was also huge; Effie wasn’t sure she’d be able to see over its back, much less get up on it. She had never seen a horse close up before, nor in full gallop; there had been none on the isle during her lifetime, although Ma Peg had told her there’d been a shire when she was girl, to help with the ploughing.

Sholto stared up at them, breathing hard and flushed. He was wearing a tweed hacking jacket and a pair of brown riding trousers with long black boots that came up to his knees; he seemed to have no awareness of the imposing figure he cut as he frowned at the sight of them both upstairs talking out of the bedroom windows.

‘Miss Gillies. Felton,’ he said briskly. ‘Mrs McKenzie said I would find you here.’

‘You want to see me, sir?’ the gamekeeper asked.

‘What? . . . No, no,’ Sholto said, shaking his head irritably. ‘Miss Gillies.’ He scowled at the two of them. ‘What are you doing up there?’