‘Well, there’s a good bluff just by the narrow inlet over there,’ she said, turning and pointing to a spot over to her right. ‘Seeing as we’re up here now anyway. The ground drops a little on the approach, so the cliffs aren’t quite as high, and the fall line is off vertical. It’s not Connachair, in other words. You’d be quite safe.’

But he didn’t look concerned by safety. In fact, she felt sure danger was what he sought. He had pinned her with his eyes again, holding her up, the factor locked out once more. ‘. . . Shall we, then?’

They walked as a unit over the plateau, in the direction of the place where they had collected the fork-tailed petrel’s egg the first day, coming quickly to the inlet which burrowed back into the land like a cleft.

‘Why is that cleit so much larger than the others?’ Sholto asked as she spooled out the ropes into coils on the ground, checking them over in silent concentration.

She glanced up. ‘Oh, it’s a storm cleit – for if you get caught up here when the weather turns and there’s no time to get back to the village. We keep it clear especially.’

‘Ah, yes, you mentioned – when you have to race the sheep.’

She smiled, dividing the ropes into two sets of two and laying them flat on the ground. Retrieving her thick, trusty peg and finding a suitable rock, she began looking for the best place to anchor.

‘May I?’ Sholto asked, offering to do it for her.

She shook her head. ‘We each take responsibility for our own anchors, sir. That way, if the worst happens . . .’

‘Oh I see, no blame. Very wise.’ He watched as she drove the post into the ground with the rock and began securing the rope.

‘And what type of knot are you using to secure yourself to the post there, Miss Gillies?’ he asked, coming over and crouching beside her so close that their thighs touched.

She took a small breath at the daring closeness. ‘It’s a bowline knot, sir.’ She sensed he already knew this. She knew he had rock-climbed in France and she had seen the way he’d climbed after her the day before. He was already a proficient climber, in no particular need of her tuition. This was a ruse.

‘Might it not slip?’

‘I’ll back it up with a stopper knot.’

‘Ah.’ He watched her dexterous manoeuvrings with intense focus, the factor standing by like a shadow.

Eventually, satisfied with her fixings, she rose to standing. Sholto followed.

‘Mr Mathieson,’ Effie said, handing him one of the ropes. ‘I know you know how to fasten yourself.’

The factor looped the working end of the rope around him with an unhappy look.