‘What a view!’ the earl exclaimed, much as he had the day before, and she knew this was his cue to take a rest. She let the bag drop from her shoulder and sank to the grass, knees up, but Sholto remained standing with his hands planted on his hips, looking out over her domain. His eyes were slitted against the bright light, enjoying the wisps of warm breeze over his skin. She remembered again the sight of him cutting through the water in the moonlight. Was he a master of every element he ventured into?

‘I hadn’t expected the weather to feel so clement,’ the earl remarked, getting his breath back.

‘It’s often good here in May, sir,’ she said. ‘May and June are the best months.’

‘Not July or August?’

‘Not so much. It always blows a gale in July and August is usually wet, which brings out the midges.’

‘Blasted things,’ the earl tutted. ‘They always go for me, I’m afraid. I look like a pin cushion by the time they’ve finished feasting on me.’

‘How about December, what’s it like here then?’ Lord Sholto asked.

‘December is often calm, often mild. Sometimes it feels like a sort of spring.’

‘How odd. In Ayrshire you could swear the house will get blown down.’

‘Ah, that’s January for us. Roaring gales that do bring the houses down. This year there was a storm with winds so fierce, we were all deaf for a week afterwards.’

‘Deaf?’

‘Yes, the wind batters you here. It doesn’t just howl, it screams. There’s no escaping it and I suppose the shape of the glen helps it echo. It’s usually a north-easterly wind then and it’s bitter.’ She shrugged. ‘Then it snows in February. Drifts so deep – forty feet sometimes – we have to rescue the sheep; it piles up by the fank walls and they’d suffocate to death if we left them.’ She laughed softly. ‘Although Father always says the sheep are so stupid, they’d die twice if they could.’

Both men laughed and they resumed the hike.

They skirted the side of the island in full sun, the density of birds increasing as they drew closer to the edge. To their right, the land fell away sharply, down sea cliffs that were the highest in the British Isles. Many times a misstep had been fatal.

‘It looks like someone’s just had a pillow fight,’ Sholto remarked, smiling up at the sight. ‘Don’t you think? White feathers everywhere.’