The guide’s brows rose, but he didn’t seem offended; if anything, he appeared faintly amused. “Ah, the gold. A popular question,” he said. “Aye, there are tales—Spanish and French coin meant for the Prince, shifted across the Highlands after the defeat. Some say it passed near here on its way west. Others claim it vanished near Loch Arkaig. But as for Culloden itself…” He gave a small, rueful smile. “No proof of treasure under our feet. Just stories that stick to the name.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the group. Heather’s heart gave a small, traitorous lift.
Stories that stick.
Flynn’s hand brushed hers again, the touch casual to anyone watching, his thumb giving one quick, reassuring stroke. When she met his eyes, he only tilted his head, as if to say:You were wondering too.
“Relax, lass,” he murmured. “If the question bothered them, they’d have banned it from the script by now.”
Heather huffed, fighting a smile. “A little warning would be nice next time.”
“And miss that look on your face?” His lips twitched. “Never.”
As the group began to drift back toward the visitor centre, an older man in a weathered cap and with a walking stick lingered near them. His gaze slid from Flynn to Heather, sharp despite the age in his face.
“Ye asked about the gold,” he said, voice roughened by years and weather.
Flynn dipped his head respectfully. “Aye. Old stories travel far.”
The man’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile. “They do that. I’ll tell ye this much: Culloden didnae keep it. If there’s truth to the tales, it’s Loch Arkaig ye want. Chests went West, so they say.”
Heather’s fingers curled at her sides. “You believe that?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
The man’s eyes crinkled, but his gaze was steady. “When I was a lad, I believed it enough to try.” He leaned on his stick, voice dropping. “Took a wee boat out with a mate. Thought we’d map out the shallows, find somethin’ clever men had missed. Loch turned on us quick—wind, current, all at once. Boat near went over. My friend swore somethin’ had hold of his leg, pullin’ him under.”
Heather felt a prickle race down her arms.
He tapped his stick lightly against the path. “We made it back. I never set foot on that loch again.”
Heather tried for a skeptical smile. “Currents can be nasty in the Highlands, I’ve heard.”
“Aye,” the man agreed easily. “Or maybe the old ones are right, and there’s a kelpie guardin’ what’s not meant for mortal hands. Either way…” His gaze lingered on Heather a heartbeat longer. “Loch Arkaig’s taken more than one fool’s boat. The gold doesnae seem fond of bein’ found.”
He straightened with a soft grunt. “Stories keep folk alive, lass. Best not forget that.” Then he tipped his cap and shuffled back toward the group.
Heather exhaled slowly, watching him go.
Flynn slid his hand into hers, fingers warm against her chilled skin. “Och, Campbell. Gold, ghosts, and now a water horse,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Quite the day out.”
Heather let out a short laugh. “He nearly lost his friend,” she said quietly. “That’s not exactly a tourist anecdote.”
Flynn’s smile faded to something more thoughtful. “No. But he’s here to tell it, and the friend is too, by the sound of it. Some folk wrap close calls in legend. Makes it easier to point at the monster than the map.”
She glanced up at him. “So you think there’s truth in it?”
He nodded once. “There’s always a reason stories hang on. Maybe it’s not a kelpie, just a current that doesnae care how clever we are. Maybe it’s superstition layered over something very real. Either way, sounds like Loch Arkaig’s no place to swagger in blind.”
Heather’s stomach did a little flippy, anxious-excited twist. Eleanor’s warning nudged at her again, but so did the pull of the hunt. “Then that’s where we have to go,” she said, voice softer but sure. “Carefully. But still… go.”
Flynn studied her, storm-grey moor reflected in his eyes. “Aye,” he said finally. “We’ll go. But we do it steady. No heroics. I’ve no mind to let a cursed loch—or a very cranky current—take you from me, mo chridhe.”
Heat bloomed low in her chest at the endearment, at the simple, unshowy way he said it.
She squeezed his hand. “Then steady steps,” she agreed.
Flynn leaned in, his lips brushing her temple, words meant only for her. “And if the loch has teeth,” he murmured, “let it try biting me first.”
Chapter 7
