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that.”
    They returned to their meals, she taking tiny bites of egg and bacon between sips of coffee; he giving the illusion of eating without actually doing so. Finally, she looked up from her food, fixed him in her gaze and, in typical out-of-the-blue water-bearer fashion, asked, “What’s your position on off-shore drilling in the North Sea?”
    “I oppose it,” he said, meaning it.
    “Because it’s an environmental travesty, right?”
    “Because not one penny of the revenue winds up in Scotland’s coffers,” he corrected her—not that she was wrong about the devastating environmental impact of the practice. “England reaps the profits from mining our national resources and invests the money in its own enterprises whilst cutting Scotland’s public services to the bone. It’s bloody appalling.”
    “I can see why you feel that way, but I don’t want to see anybody profiting from off-shore drilling. We should be arresting our dependence on fossil fuels, not looking for new sources to feed our addiction—especially at the expense of the natural environment.”
    The waitress was back, looking from him to Vanessa with a frown. “Didn’t you like the food, Lord Lyon? You’ve barely touched a bite.”
    “It was fine,” Callum told her. “I’m just not very hungry.”
    “Would you like me to box up the leftovers?” the waitress asked. “You could take it with you and have a picnic later. It’s a lovely day for it.”
    “No, thank you.” He fished out his wallet. “Just the bill, if you don’t mind.”
    The waitress brought the check, which he promptly paid before he and Vanessa walked to the car in silence. On the winding drive to the next stop on his sightseeing tour, he thought long and hard about taking her back to John o’Groats and leaving her on the doorstep of the inn. It was by far the safest and most sensible thing to do. So why was he still driving toward Whaligoe? Lust? Loneliness? A bit of both?
    By the time he pulled into the unmarked parking tarmac above the Whaligoe steps, he had made up his mind to take her to Barrogill. She’d find nothing at his castle to substantiate the rumors, so he could see no harm in doing so. Plus, he’d like very much to be rid of Sorcha’s ghost. If Vanessa could help with that, the benefits would vastly outweigh the risks.
    Leaving the car, he led the way along a track through a farmstead edging the sea cliffs until they reached the top of the steps, a steep flight of more than three hundred terraced flagstones zigzagging down the face of the cliff. Locals claimed there were 365 steps in all, one for each day in the year. He’d always been too preoccupied with keeping his footing in the thick sea haar that so often engulfed the lower portion of the steps to keep count.
    Even without the fog, the grade was steep, the flagstones slippery, and the height off-putting for those suffering from vertigo. On the plus side, the hike down was abundant with wild flowers and seabirds, and the downward view into the “goe”—a small rocky inlet surrounded by soaring cliffs—was nothing short of breathtaking.
    “Where do they lead to?” Vanessa asked as they began the walk down.
    “To a grassy area called the Bink, and the ruins of an old salt store once used to cure fish. From there, you can climb down to a rocky shelf known as the Neist, if you’re so inclined.”
    “Are we going all the way to the bottom?”
    “Probably not.”
    He kept a firm grip on her hand. Her boots, while becoming, weren’t the best choice for this endeavor, and he wanted to be sure she didn’t slip.
    “Why were they built?”
    “Harbors are scarce along this stretch of the coast, so the locals who fished here needed a way to get their catches up the cliffs and to the market at Wick.”
    He liked the feel of her hand in his. Too much for his own good. They walked in silence for a while, concentrating on the steps. The path was lined with an assortment of wildflowers. The