the faint beam of the light and realise that there’s land between him and the mouth of the loch.
I jump out of the Land Rover and the storm grabs me, almost blowing me off my feet, knocking the breath out of me. I stumble towards the cliff edge, grabbing on to handfuls of heather to anchor myself to the solid ground. And there it is again, the tiny light struggling against the waves. But it’s still heading towards the rocks, and I scream and wave my arms, even though I know that I can neither be seen nor heard above the roaring of the sea.
‘Turn away!’ I scream. ‘Turn away!’
I jump back into the car and frantically dip and raise the headlights, flashing out a warning.
The pinprick of light appears, then is swallowed once again by the waves.
And then I give a sob of relief. Because the next time it appears it’s changed course, heading away from the treacherous rocks of Furadh Mor. Its progress is painfully slow as it struggles against the force of the storm. Then it disappears completely for a few interminable minutes, battling the oncoming waves and hidden from view on the far side of the island. When it reappears to the right of the headland, safely past the rocks, I gasp in air, only then discovering that I’ve been holding my breath as I’ve waited to catch a glimpse of the dot of light again, that tiny glimmer as fragile as starlight in the black expanse of the ocean.
I wait until the boat is well clear of the point and can turn to starboard, running into the mouth of Loch Ewe with the waves. And then I reverse carefully back along the track until I reach a place where I can turn. As I drive back around the shore of the loch, I crane my head at every turn in the road where it’s possible to see out across the water. I’m rewarded here and there by glimpses of the light, ploughing steadily onwards now towards Aultbea. The darkness seems a little less dense, at last, and the faint gleam of dawn creeps beneath the blanket of thick storm clouds above the turbulent, pewter-dark waters of the loch.
I drive the Land Rover on to the jetty. Word has got out and there are men gathered there, waiting to catch the ropes Davy throws and help him bring the Bonnie Stuart into the shelter of the harbour. Hands reach to pull him ashore and he shouts his thanks above the raging of the wind. They clap him on the back, each thankful that one of their own is safe home once more, snatched back from the grasp of the storm kelpies. And then he sees me, waiting beside the stack of creels, and he strides towards me. I step forward, meeting him halfway, and hold him more tightly than I’ve ever held anything before.
‘So,’ he says, when at last he’s got his breath back enough to speak, ‘who’s the rescuer now, might I ask, Lexie Gordon?’
Flora, 1944
As the day of Alec’s departure approached, she sensed the darkness growing in him once more. The precious couple of days they’d spent camping in the old bothy had brought them closer than ever before, and for a little while she’d been able to convince herself that her love really could be enough to heal him, keeping the shadows at bay. But as the coming weeks of separation loomed, she could feel him pulling away from her again, distant and distracted. Her doubts came rushing back in to fill the gap.
She’d wanted to spend every moment she could with him, but her work at the base kept them apart. And her anxiety increased still more when he stopped coming to Keeper’s Cottage for his usual evening visits to sit in the kitchen with her and her father and Ruaridh and share a dram or two of whisky.
The activity in the harbour had taken on a greater sense of urgency, signalling the imminent departure of the convoy, and Flora was struggling to concentrate on the engine she was fixing. She glanced up when she heard the crunch of boots on the shingle, pushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes with the back of one oil-streaked hand.
‘Alec!’ Her heart gave a bound at the sight of him.
He returned her kiss, but not her smile, and his eyes didn’t quite meet hers.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she continued. ‘I was worrying