She bit her lip. ‘There’s one person who might be able to . . . guess.’

‘Who?’

‘. . . I asked one of the trawler captains to buy me some whisky from the mainland. There was never any on the isle.’

‘Hmm. I see no reason for the captain to link your whisky bottle with the factor’s death. What did you tell him you wanted it for?’

‘Doping the bull. For the evacuation.’

A hint of a smile came into his eyes, gone again in the next second. He looked away, his gaze distant, lost in his own thoughts. ‘. . . It’s been a couple of weeks now since he was found and no one’s come knocking. That must be cause for hope,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll ask Sir John what the police know anyway. Find out where the investigation’s at.’

‘Please, you mustn’t interfere. The less you’re involved—’

‘If you think I’m letting anything else happen to you on account of him—’ His voice was sharp but she knew it wasn’t her he was angry with. Immediately, he reached for her hand and pressed it to his cheek. He turned his head and kissed the inside of her wrist. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But I won’t let him take you from me again, Effie. He did it in life but I’ll be damned if he does it again in death.’

She stared up at him, seeing his desperation to protect her and knowing it was hopeless. Even if the captain hadn’t yet any cause to connect her whisky with Mathieson’s death, once Weir proved her ‘unnatural’ relationship with the factor – a compelling reason to kill him – he would make the link soon enough. But there was no benefit to worrying Sholto with something he couldn’t control. ‘I’ll be fine. I’m certain no one saw us. Like you said, they’ve not come for me yet and every day that passes . . .’

He nodded urgently, kissing her wrist again and holding her like she was something holy, sacred and rare. Something to be protected, but not possessed.

He looked back at her with eyes full of sorrow and regret. How much had they suffered – lost – for these few sweet moments? How many more would they get to have?

Or was this it?