She knelt beside the tub and put her hand on his knee above the water. “Don’t you love me, Mack?”

To his shame he began to feel aroused. He longed to embrace her and make her feel all right again, but he hardened his heart. “You’re dear to me, Annie, but I never said ‘I love you,’ no more than you did.”

She slipped her hand under the water and between his legs. She smiled when she felt how stiff he was.

He said: “Where’s Esther?”

“Playing with Jen’s new baby. She’ll be away for a while.”

Annie had asked her to stay away, Mack inferred: otherwise Esther would have hurried home to talk to him about his plans.

“Stay here and let’s get married,” Annie said, caressing him. The sensation was exquisite. He had taught her how to do it, last summer, and then he had made her show him how she pleasured herself. As he remembered that, he became more inflamed. “We could do anything we liked, all the time,” she said.

“If I get married I’m stuck here for life,” Mack said, but he felt his resistance weakening.

Annie stood up and pulled off her dress. She wore nothing else: underwear was reserved for Sundays. Her body was lean and hard, with small, flat breasts and a mass of dense black hair at the groin. Her skin all over was gray with coal dust, like Mack’s. To his astonishment she climbed into the tub with him, kneeling astride his legs. “It’s your turn to wash me,” she said, giving him the soap.

He rubbed the soap slowly, working up a lather, then he put his hands on her breasts. Her nipples were small and stiff. She moaned deep in her throat, then she grasped his wrists and pushed his hands down, across her hard, flat belly, to her groin. His soapy fingers supped between her thighs and he felt the coarse curls of her thick pubic hair and the firm, soft flesh beneath it.

“Say you’ll stay,” she pleaded. “Let’s do it. I want to feel you inside me.”

He knew that if he gave in his fate was sealed. There was something dreamily unreal about the scene. “No,” he said, but his voice was a whisper.

She came closer, pulling his face to her breasts, then lowered herself until she was poised over him, her sexual lips just touching the swollen end of his cock where it stuck up out of the water. “Say yes,” she said.

He groaned and gave up the struggle. “Yes,” he said. “Please. Quickly.”

There was a terrific crash and the door flew open.

Annie screamed.

Four men burst in, filling the little room: Robert Jamisson, Harry Ratchett and two of the Jamissons’ keepers. Robert wore a sword and a pair of pistols, and one of the keepers carried a musket.

Annie got off Mack and stepped out of the bath. Dazed and frightened, Mack stood up shakily.

The keeper with the musket looked at Annie. “Cozy cousins,” he said with a leer. Mack knew the man: his name was McAlistair. He recognized the other one, a big bully called Tanner.

Robert laughed harshly. “Is that what she is—his cousin? I suppose incest is nothing to coal miners.”

Mack’s fear and bewilderment gave way to fury at this invasion of his home. He suppressed his anger and struggled to remain controlled. He was in grave danger, and there was a chance Annie would suffer too. He had to keep his wits about him, not give in to outrage. He looked at Robert. “I’m a free man and I’ve broken no laws,” he said. “What are you doing in my house?”

McAlistair was still staring at Annie’s body, damp and steaming. “What a pretty sight,” he said thickly.

Mack turned to him. In a low, even voice he said: “If you touch her I’ll tear the head off your neck with my hands.”

McAlistair looked at Mack’s bare shoulders and realized he could do what he threatened. He paled and took a step back, even though he held a gun.

But Tanner was bigger and more reckless, and he reached out and grasped Annie’s wet breast

Mack acted without forethought. A second later he was out of the tub and grasping Tanner by the wrist. Before anyone else could move he had thrust Tanner’s hand into the fire.

Tanner screamed and writhed, but he could not escape from Mack’s grip. “Let me go!” he screeched. “Please, please!”

Mack held the man’s hand in the burning coals and yelled: “Run, Annie!”

Annie snatched up her dress and flew out the back door.

The butt of a musket cracked into the back of Mack’s head.

The blow enraged him, and with Annie gone he became heedless. He released Tanner, then grabbed McAlistair by the coat and butted him in the face, smashing the man’s nose. Blood spurted and McAlistair roared with pain. Mack swung around and kicked Harry Ratchett in the groin with a bare foot as hard as a stone. Ratchett doubled up, groaning.

Every fight Mack had ever fought had taken place down the pit, so he was accustomed to combat in a confined space; but four opponents were too many. McAlistair hit him again with the butt of the musket, and for a moment Mack swayed, stunned. Then Ratchett grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms, and before he could release himself the point of Robert Jamisson’s sword was at his throat.

After a moment Robert said: “Tie him up.”

They threw him across the back of a horse and covered his nakedness with a blanket, then they took him to Castle Jamisson and put him in the larder, still naked and tied hand and foot. He lay on the stone floor, shivering, surrounded by the dripping carcasses of deer, cattle and pigs. He tried to warm himself by moving as much as he could, but with his hands and feet tied he could not generate much heat. Eventually he managed to sit up with his back against the furry hide of a dead stag. For a while he sang to keep up his spirits—first the ballads they crooned at Mrs. Wheighel’s on Saturday nights, then a few hymns, then some old Jacobite rebel ditties; but when he ran out of songs he felt worse than before.

His head hurt from the musket blows, but what pained him most was how easily the Jamissons had taken him. What a fool he was to have delayed his departure. He had given them time to take action. While they were planning his downfall he had been feeling his cousin’s breasts.

It did not help to speculate about what they had in store for him. If he did not freeze to death here in the larder they would probably send him to Edinburgh and have him tried for assaulting the gamekeepers. Like most crimes, that was a hanging matter.

The light coming through the cracks around the door gradually faded as night fell. They came for him just as the stable yard clock struck eleven. There were six men this time, and he did not attempt to fight them.

Davy Taggart, the blacksmith who made the miners’ tools, fitted an iron collar like Jimmy Lee’s around Mack’s neck. It was the ultimate humiliation: a sign for all the world to see, saying he was another man’s property. He was less than a man, subhuman; he was livestock.

They untied his bonds and threw some clothes at him: a pair of breeches, a threadbare flannel shirt and a ripped waistcoat. He put them on hastily and still felt cold. The keepers tied his hands again and put him on a pony.

They rode to the pit.

The Wednesday shift would begin in a few minutes’ time, at midnight. The ostler was putting a fresh horse in harness to drive the bucket chain. Mack realized they were going to make him go the round.

He groaned aloud. It was a crushing, humiliating torture. He would have given his life for a bowl of hot porridge and a few minutes in front of a blazing fire. Instead he was doomed to spend the night in the open air. He wanted to fall on his knees and beg for mercy; but the thought of how that would please the Jamissons stiffened his pride, and instead he roared: “You’ve no right to do this! No right!” The keepers laughed at him.

They stood him in the muddy circular track around which the pithead horses trotted day and night. He squared his shoulders and held his head high, although he felt like bursting into tears. They tied him to the harness, facing the horse, so that he could not get out of its way. Then the ostler whipped the horse into a trot.