Harris was already dressed, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the crack beneath the door.
“Three sets,” he murmured. “Fresh. Heading straight for Flora’s croft.”
Her blood iced. “Redcoats?”
“Aye.” His voice was flat. “Or paid hunters. Either way, they’re too close.”
He grabbed her cloak and settled it around her shoulders with hands that were steady, but only barely.
“We leave. Now.”
They slipped out the back, climbing uphill into the heather, wind slashing their faces. Shouts echoed across the valley—much, much too close.
“Harris,” Fiona panted, “we’ll never reach the ferry. They’ll have the ports locked.”
“We’re not going near the ports.”
“Then where?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just reached out, instinctively covering the slight swell beneath her bodice with his palm.
“Home,” he said. “To Glenoran.”
Her throat tightened.
“Then… we run.”
Mist curled around them like specters by the time they reached the base of the great basalt spire. Fiona’s legs burned. Her lungs clawed for air. It was hard enough climbing the mountain not pregnant, and it was near impossible doing it when six months heavy with child.
Harris knelt beside the stone where they had carved a thistle months ago; softened now by wind and rain, but unmistakably theirs.
He took out their leather bound journal.
And the brass buckle marked H.M. 1747.
Fiona placed the journal into the hollow. Harris set the buckle on top.
“For Flora,” she whispered. “Or whoever comes after.”
Together, they replaced the stone.
A promise buried.
A breadcrumb for a future they’d never see.
A horn echoed across the moor—closer now.
“We go,” Harris urged. “Now.”
Flora found them before the soldiers did.
She burst through the mist like the wind had hurled her there—skirts soaked, cloak flung back, breath ragged, the journal clutched to her chest with the buckle missing.
Fiona’s heart jolted.
Flora never misplaced anything.
“Ye fools,” Flora panted. “Half the King’s dogs are on this hill.”
