“Crew’s complainin’, roof’s holdin’, weather’s still shite,” he said cheerfully. “How’s the scholarin’?”
She showed him the entries. “She knew Storr mattered. She just… couldn’t finish.”
Flynn rested a hand on her knee. “Then we’ll finish it. Carefully.”
She swallowed. “I think Henderson was tracking her even then. Maybe she was getting too close.”
Flynn’s jaw flexed. “That’s why every man on my crew now thinks we’re stayin’ all weekend to oversee gutters. No suspicions, no questions.”
Relief loosened her shoulders.
Flynn unwound the napkin around the clasp. “We’ll take this to Kilmuir tomorrow. Old parish archives might give us a trail that’s no’ haunted by angry giants.”
Heather rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Aye.” He smirked. “But effective.”
He moved toward the en-suite door, then paused when her fingers wrapped around his wrist.
“Flynn… don’t tell the crew. Any of it.”
He softened. “Lass, the only thing they know is that you like your tea scaldin’ and your ceilings straight.”
Flynn sat beside her, warm and solid, and cupped her jaw gently. The kiss they shared was brief, but sweet.
Her fingers curled into his damp shirt. “Stay,” she whispered.
“Where else would I go?” he murmured against her mouth.
She kissed him again, deeper this time, until the room blurred to warmth and rain and the soft scrape of breath against breath. Flynn’s hands trembled when he cupped her face. Her name left his lips like a prayer.
Heather stopped thinking about Eilidh, or Harris, or Henderson, or the shadow on the ridge.
She just breathed.
Just felt.
Justlived.
Chapter 28
Fiona Cameron—Isle of Skye, 1746
Fiona woke by degrees: first to warmth, then to weight, then to the soft, steady rumble of someone breathing against her spine.
For the space of a single disoriented heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was.
Then everything slammed back into her.
Skye.
Flora MacDonald.
The gold hidden in the saddle.
Her own jealousy sparking like flint.
Harris kissing her like a man who’d been dying for years.
