As if to make the point, she pulled a small notebook from her climbing bag and – watching intently – began making notes of the bird’s behaviour, sketching its bill, the crown of its head . . . They lay in the grass for a while, all watching the bird as she fussed, moving on the egg and off again as much as she could in the confines of the nook. She pulled at a stalk of grass that wasn’t laid to her liking. Her feathers ruffled again, stretching out her wings.

‘That’s it . . .’ Effie murmured, eyes narrowing in concentration. ‘Go on . . .’

A few moments later, the bird took off, skimming and half-circling over the cliffs and out above open water.

‘Hurrah!’ the earl exclaimed as the egg was exposed in its brilliant perfection.

‘And now you may take it without having your clothes ruined.’

‘Well worth the wait – and I can get it myself now.’ He struggled back up to standing.

‘My mother’s always telling me patience is a virtue. She says the best things are always worth waiting for,’ Lord Sholto said.

‘Then your mother and I are in agreement,’ she said evenly, resisting the light in his eyes as he lay on his stomach watching her. For all his easy laughs and gentlemanly charm, she sensed there was something in them that could lift her up and carry her away. She broke cover, sitting up into a cross-legged pose now that the petrel had flown. For something to look at, other than him, she watched the birds pitching above them, her pencil still poised in her hand.

Lord Sholto rolled onto his side and rested his head in his hand, watching her as she sketched. The earl had gone over to the nest and was crouching, cradling the egg tenderly. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he called over. ‘Quite a rough texture, as you said.’

‘You shall need to blow it properly, sir, if you want to preserve it.’

He glanced over at her. ‘I suppose you have expert tips for that too?’

‘I’m no expert, I can only tell you how we do it here, sir.’ Blown bird eggs were one of the main things tourists liked to buy from the islanders, along with their soft tweed and home knits.

‘Au contraire, Miss Gillies,’ the earl said, baffling her completely. ‘I can see that when it comes to your sea birds, you are indeed the expert and we your humble students. Tell me again, who was the lady who recommended you to us? We must thank her.’

‘Mad Annie?’

Lord Sholto laughed. ‘Heavens. Is she mad?’

‘No,’ Effie grinned. ‘But she smokes the pipe and curses and doesn’t go to kirk. The minister despairs of her.’

‘Why doesn’t she go to church?’

‘She hasn’t since the day her husband died. He was one of them that drowned. She said God had abandoned her so she would abandon him.’

‘She sounds a strong character.’