Her vision blurred.
The handwriting was neat. Efficient. As ifmercywere a boxalready ticked.
She unfolded the smaller cloth packet inside.
Harris’s watch.
His ring.
A small lock of raven-black hair tied with a ribbon.
Her breath hitched only once.
Then Fiona lifted her daughter against her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her head—soft, silent, anchoring.
She whispered, not aloud, but deep where prayer lived.
God is my oath.
For Scotland.
For him.
And for the child He had entrusted to her.
And she did not cry.
Not then.
She had run out of tears long before this moment. Grief had carved its place; now, resolve would fill it.
Chapter 37
Heather—Present Day
Heather woke to the smell of tea and rain on pine.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling above her was low-beamed and familiar, the kind of place made for quiet things: books, mugs, the slow drip of a kettle.
Flynn’s cottage.
Safe.
The memories arrived a second later—blue lights, sirens, Kerr’s voice like oil in her ears. She winced and touched her cheek; the bruise ached beneath her fingertips.
“Easy,” Flynn’s voice came from the doorway. He winced as he leaned his injured shoulder against the frame, barefoot and rumpled, holding two mugs. “You were out cold for nearly ten hours. Thought I’d let you sleep.”
She sat up, the quilt sliding to her lap. “Ten hours?”
“Doctor’s orders.” He crossed the room and handed her a mug. “You were punch-drunk on adrenaline. Body needed the break.”
Heather took a sip, grimacing at the strength. “You brew this for masonry work?”
“Aye. Fixes what ails ye.”
He sat on the edge of the bed, his thumb brushing a stray curl from her face. The gesture was gentle, careful. “How’s the head?”
“Still attached,” She smiled faintly. “How’s your arm?”
