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smoothly and plainly, yet the plainness of its style could not disguise its thickness.His right eye had the beginning of a slight cast as if he were not looking quite directly at her, notwithstanding the intensity of his gaze. His complexion was of that darkness which distinguishes a man accustomed to be outdoors both summer and winter. But it was his mouth which she could not avoid looking at. It was set in a tight line with a downward inflection at the corners, as if trying to hide something, and as he spoke, Isabella could see that it was a fullness which might have been a tender curve had he allowed it full play.
    ‘Why are you out alone in the snow, Miss Ramsey?’
    Isabella stepped backwards, her knuckles grazing on a rock behind her, so that it was pointless trying to back further away from him.
    ‘Who are you?’ She was playing for time, making him explain himself, though she knew perfectly well who he was.
    ‘Norman McLeod.’
    ‘Oh, so you are. Yes, the Norman McLeod.’
    ‘I beg your pardon, Madam?’
    ‘I hear of you often. The preacher, no less.’
    He smiled, or almost. She felt she had stroked a vanity.
    ‘You haven’t answered me.’
    ‘How d’you know me?’ she parried.
    His look narrowed, and she realised that he was a person who did not enjoy prevarication, however much he might indulge in it himself if it were to his advantage. She straightened, and looked at him more boldly.
    ‘I don’t choose to fall into loose conversation with strangers, Mr McLeod,’ she said. ‘If you wish to speak with me, then I must know a little more of your interest in me.’
    ‘I have no interest in you,’ he said. ‘Your name is known in these parts. You are talked of by men.’
    He said this with so much accusation that she flinched as if he were attacking her, and in his way she could see that he was.
    ‘I hope they speak well of me,’ she said, but her voice faltered.
    ‘Oh, the man who is so smitten with you, so foolishly running this way and that and deserting his parents and family who need him sorely, so that he can catch stray glimpses of your vain silly face and immodest ankle, speaks kindly of you. But that is to be expected of a man who has lost his mind. I speak of Duncan MacQuarrie, of course.’
    He waited but she said nothing, and she felt his anger hardening against her.
    ‘You know nothing of it,’ she said, turning away.
    ‘There are other men who speak less well of you.’ His voice followed her relentlessly. ‘They despair at the sight of a good man led astray by wilful and flirtatious unkindness.’
    She turned back to him, placing her feet across the path like a man, as if she were the adversary.
    ‘You have no business to speak in such a way to me, you, a student who is running foul of the authorities in Edinburgh from what I hear, for speaking out as if he knew more than the trained men of the church. Why don’t you wait until you are one of them yourself before you start pestering young women who walk alone, minding their own business?’
    ‘I am no longer at Edinburgh University.’
    ‘Forgive me, I had not heard of your ordination.’
    ‘It has not taken place. It will not.’
    ‘You have failed the course? I had heard that Norman McLeod never failed in any of his undertakings.’
    McLeod turned aside, and for a moment she glimpsed his weariness. When he spoke it was as if she was not there. ‘I find I’ve done forever with Edinburgh, Madam,’ and he turned back towards her and addressed her as if they had known each other all their lives and were very close. Afterwards she would recall that moment and wonder if she had misread him; at other times it occurred to her, as it did then, that in his own critical hour he had stumbled upon and recognised the kind of woman whom he most desired, one who would challenge him at every turn, and match his senses, too. She would also come to understand, in the future, that he would never forgive her for having exposed him to his