Fiona already knew what lay inside.
She had touched the metal.
Had cursed him for carrying it like a fool.
Had held the weight of history in her hands.
But seeing Harris present it to the Prince—steady, solemn—hit her differently.
The Prince crouched, fingertips brushing the lining. “Still intact?”
“Aye,” Harris confirmed. “Held better than men did.”
Fiona’s throat tightened at that.
Flora folded her arms. “The English came close more than once. One patrol nearly took his head.”
“Aye,” Fiona muttered. “He nearly lost it again in that damned loch.”
The Prince blinked. “Loch?”
Harris glared. “We’re no’ tellin’ that story.”
“Oh, I am,” Fiona said. “Walked straight into Arkaig like he meant to baptize himself. Would’ve drowned if I hadn’t—”
“You dragged him out?” Flora hissed, half-impressed.
“How else?” Fiona shrugged. “He’s half stubborn mule and half martyr.”
The Prince stared between them, something resembling astonishment dawning.
“So this is the partnership,” he said softly.
“Wasn’t my idea,” Harris muttered.
“Wasn’t askin’,” Fiona shot back.
Flora smirked behind her hand.
The Prince straightened slowly, eyes turning toward the ridge as if measuring the weight of the future, as Fiona told them all the tale of how their unlikelypartnershipbegan—pub and foul redcoats included.
“Interesting… A man alone,” he said, “draws suspicion. Soldiers track him. Spies whisper his name. He does not last long in these isles.”
His gaze moved to Fiona.
“But a man traveling with his wife…”
Harris froze.
Fiona’s pulse jolted.
“…passes unnoticed,” the Prince finished. “A couple is forgettable. Ordinary. Safe. And everyone knows that the infamous Mackenzie of Glenoran is… unattached…”
“You want us tae keep up the ruse,” Fiona breathed.
“For Scotland’s sake,” the Prince said quietly. “Hide the gold. Hide yourselves. Let the clans remember only that a young pair settled somewhere quiet near Glen Sligachan.”
Harris swallowed. “You’re askin’ us tae run.”
