Jayne seemed to grow calmer in the face of Flora’s panic. ‘Flora, you can tell her I’ve not had any dreams – or visions – about any of the McKinnons, family or no.’

‘Then that should guarantee I’ll have a good night’s sleep tonight. Thank you.’ Flora sighed again with more relief, but her eyes seemed to catch on something over Effie’s shoulder. She sat straighter. ‘Who . . .?’

Effie twisted to look. For a few moments she could see nothing beyond a dark silhouette winked out by a harsh gleaming sunlight that bloomed around it with every step. And yet she would know that physique anywhere, in the light, in the dark. It was like feeling a heat moving towards her.

Sholto walked closer and she automatically rose to greet him. He was carrying a fishing rod over his shoulder, two silver fish dangling behind on a hook. ‘Miss Gillies. What a surprise to see you here.’ He seemed pleased, but she heard the reserve in his voice too.

‘Have you taken to catching your own dinner then, sir?’ It had become their private joke, but neither of them was much in the mood for laughing.

‘Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,’ he said, coming to a stop just a few feet away and looking back at her. There were questions in his eyes, as there were in hers. That sense of easy connection that had sparked between them at their first meeting had, over the ensuing hours and days, become steadily more complicated: looks had weight; words had hidden meanings. But what could come of it? Something primitive in her recognized something primitive in him, but if it drew them to one another, equally powerful class boundaries were pulling them apart.

She jolted. ‘. . . Forgive me – these are my friends. This is Mrs Ferguson. And Miss Flora MacQueen. This is Lord Sholto . . .’ She realized she didn’t know his surname.

‘Crichton-Stuart,’ he said quickly. ‘But please let’s not concern ourselves with formalities.’

All the same, the two women rose, nodding their heads respectfully, demurely.

‘A pleasure to meet you, sir,’ Jayne said, as the elder and therefore more senior woman.

Effie felt a sudden jab of alarm at how Sholto would react upon seeing her beautiful friend. Would he fall in love on the spot, like every other man?

‘Mrs Ferguson, Miss MacQueen, the pleasure is mine,’ Sholto said, his gaze lingering slightly upon Flora. He frowned. ‘Miss MacQueen, I have not yet seen you in the village, I don’t think?’

Effie’s heart fell to the floor. And so it began . . .

‘No, sir. I’m summering with Mhairi McKinnon with the livestock over in Glen Bay.’

‘Glen Bay,’ Sholto echoed. ‘Now that is up Mullach Mor and over the other side of the ridge?’