‘I think – and I may be wrong – but I think possibly I’ve some whisky in the cupboard downstairs. Would you like me to go and look? I can’t let you come with me, obviously.’ He frowned. ‘Not that there’s another woman here. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. God, would you listen to me? You make yourself comfortable and I’ll find us something to toast with.’ He hustled out.

Elspeth waited until she heard the key turning in the lock before ripping the wedding dress from her shoulders. Fergus Ariss was deluded about many things, but not about the need to keep her secured. She was his prisoner first, his wife second. He knew she would bolt given the opportunity.

The alcohol would help, one way or another. If she could persuade him to drink enough and minimise her own intake, perhaps she could disable him. It was clear from the state of his face that he’d been in other altercations, and recently. His nose was still scabbed in a long line from top to bottom, and his forehead bore yellow patches with a faint purple trim that highlighted the old bruising. One of his fingers was bandaged. If she could attack those still-vulnerable parts of him, perhaps she could cause him additional pain.

Smoothing her T-shirt and her hair, she sat back down on the ancient heavy sofa and tried to control her breathing. She did it in yoga every week. Surely all those hours of practice had to count for something. Breathe in, expand her chest fully from the bottom of her ribcage, breathe out slowly, making sure her shoulders and neck were relaxed.

Fergus Ariss was going to rape then kill her. She couldn’t fool him. She could barely stop herself from shaking.

Breathe in. Imagine she was an empty well that she was filling with life-giving cool spring water, cleansing and refreshing her.

If she tried to attack him and it didn’t work, what then? Presumably he’d beat her skull in with his bare hands, or drug her like he had when he’d kidnapped her, maybe wait until she came round again and then take his time torturing her. Maybe this time she’d wake up in a cage.

Breathe out. Let all her worries flow out on that used-up air, sending the toxins from her system into the atmosphere. Be aware of the strength and potential of her own body, of how alive she felt, how vital.

How terrified.

Yoga was bullshit, she decided. If she’d taken self-defence classes three times a week instead, she wouldn’t be in the position she was. What a waste of time and Lycra.