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five minutes, ten at most, and you know it.’
    She bit her lip and wished she could take the words back.
    â€˜I wasn’t talking about that time,’ he replied, ‘but about the night of the Northern Lights.’
    â€˜The Northern Lights?’ As soon as she spoke, elusive images of a dreamlike sky filled with colourful and shimmering patterns flickered in her memory.
    â€˜What about them?’ she asked, but a feeling of unease crept inside her.
    Ignoring her, McGunn picked up a large cooking pot and took two earthenware tumblers from a shelf.
    â€˜I’ll get some water from the stream and wash those cups, so we can have a hot drink,’ he declared before opening the door and going out into the night.
    â€˜Wait! Tell me…’ She shouted after him, but he was already gone.
    Restless, she paced the floor for what felt an eternity. What did he mean about them spending the night together? And what on earth was taking him so long?
    At last he came back. He opened the door, letting a blast of cold wind and snowflakes into the cottage.
    â€˜What should I remember?’ she asked as soon as he walked in.
    He shook the snow off his boots, pushed the door shut with his shoulder and carried the cooking pot to the fireplace.
    â€˜That’ll take a while to heat up,’ he said as he hanged the pot to a hook above the fire Next he pulled the two tumblers out of his coat pockets and placed them on the table.
    She stepped closer. ‘I asked you a question.’
    â€˜And I heard you.’ He unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off then looked straight at her.
    â€˜What do you remember about the Northern Lights?’
    â€˜They were beautiful lights in the sky.’
    â€˜That’s a start. What else?’
    She frowned. ‘Nothing… I hope you’re not implying that I slept in your room that night.’
    â€˜Well, you weren’t exactly in my room,’ he said, throwing his wet coat on a chair.
    â€˜So I wasn‘t in your…ahem… bed?’
    â€˜No.’
    She blew a sigh of relief. ‘That’s all right then.’
    He said nothing as he sat at the table, pulled a knife out his pocket and proceeded to cut the bread into thick slices. When he’d finished, he looked up and said.
    â€˜Not really. You see, sweetheart… you were sitting very comfortably in my lap, in front of the fireplace.’
    The blood drained from her face. She swayed against the table.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜That’s not all. I woke up at dawn and was about to take you back to your room when some of my staff came in and saw you.’
    A terrible foreboding now crept into her heart. Her mouth, her throat became dry. She swallowed hard.
    â€˜People saw me? How many?’
    â€˜One or two.’ He grimaced. ‘Make it a dozen.’
    Her legs were suddenly too weak to carry her. She pressed her hand against her heart and collapsed on the bench opposite him.
    â€˜This is awful,’ she whispered at last. ‘What must people think of me?’
    This time he grinned.
    â€˜That you‘re just another woman who succumbed to my charm? I suppose it could be worse. At least you were dressed – in a fashion.’
    â€˜In a fashion?’ she squeaked. ‘What was I wearing?’
    His grin widened. ‘A very fetching combination of frilly nightshirt, thick woolly socks – mine, I reckon – and cute little boots.’
    â€˜This isn’t funny!’ She snapped. ‘Why didn’t you wake me up before the morning?’
    â€˜Believe me, sweetheart, I tried, but you’re one hell of a deep sleeper.’
    She closed her eyes. The Northern Lights – the Merry Dancers, wasn’t that what he had called them that night? Fragments of memory now rushed back to her: disjointed images of Lord McGunn standing on the cliff edge under a magical, colourful night sky. He was cold, and drunk, and she had walked him back to his