He crossed the room in three strides and bent to kiss Fiona’s temple, then the bairn’s head—eyes closing as if the touch steadied him. His breath lingered longer than usual. His hand lingered, too, spread over the baby’s back like he was committing the feel of her to memory.
“She’s sleepin’?” he murmured.
“Aye.” Fiona smiled, though her gaze searched his face. “She fights it like a warrior.”
Harris’s mouth curved. “Takes after her mother.”
She nudged him, but the softness in her eyes didn’t fade. Still, something tugged uneasily at her ribs.
“You’ve been gone longer than usual,” she said lightly. “Dubh causin’ trouble?”
“Aye.” Too quick. “Somethin’ like that.”
He didn’t meet her eyes.
These four months had been strange, stolen, and precious. Time was measured not by calendars, but by ordinary miracles: shared meals, mended walls, the rise and fall of a newborn’s chest. The world still hunted Jacobites, but the search had shifted—toward Arkaig, toward Skye, toward any ruin or cavern rumored to hide gold. No one expected the rebel laird to return home, settle under his own roof, live quiet.
Be a father.
Be a husband.
Bound by kirk, not by crown, they’d chosen each other anyway—every day since the Old Man of Storr. Fiona had never known peace like this. Harris had never known anything like safety.
And their daughter…
She was a piece of heaven that had somehow found its way into their fallen, weary hands.
But even as Fiona watched Harris stand there, framed by the nursery window, she felt it again: that prickle of unease. Like the air before a storm, when the birds go quiet and the land holds its breath.
Harris glanced once, just once, toward the door.
Then the knock came.
Hard. Heavy. Three times.
Not a question.
A claim.
Fiona froze.
Harris’s head snapped fully toward the sound, every line of his body tightening, the softness vanishing as if it had never been there at all.
“Downstairs,” he said. “Voices. Boots.”
Her throat closed.
“Harris—”
He took the baby from her arms so gently, it broke something inside her. He held the bairn close, took one long breath—shuddering this time—and kissed her head again, slower.
Then he placed her back in Fiona’s arms, careful as if setting something holy where it belonged.
“She was never meant to be ours alone,” he whispered. “We only keep her a while.”
“Keep her close,”
Fiona clutched the child, heart thundering. “They found us,” she breathed. “We can run. We’ve done it before—Skye, Raasay, the crossings… Harris, we can run—”
