“The map points to Skye,” he said. “To whoever’s holdin’ that saddle now, whether they know what they’ve got or not. Henderson will keep diggin’ at Glenoran and Arkaig and Culloden because that’s the story she’s bet her career on. Shedoesn’t know the truth’s been trottin’ around an island for two hundred years.”
Heather let out a wet, incredulous laugh. “The greatest unsolved mystery in Jacobite history, and the answer might be… hanging in someone’s tack room.”
“History’s a bastard like that,” he said. “Hides the sacred in the ordinary.”
She wiped her cheeks with the back of her wrist, careful not to smudge the ink. “We have to go,” she said. “Back to Skye. Find where Dubh’s saddle ended up. Find who Flora—or Fiona—trusted.”
“We will,” Flynn promised. “Tonight we put this back as best we can, lock the house behind us, and let Henderson chase her own tail a wee while longer.”
Heather glanced at the open chamber, at the map, the sword, the small bright coin.
“None of it goes back,” she said quietly. “The diary. The map. Fiona’s letter. The ingot… They come with me. It’s been buried long enough.”
Flynn hesitated, but finally relented. “Fine, but I dinnae like the thought of carrying it across the country. We stow it at my place. Stealthy like.”
He wrapped the dagger again, tucking it back into the box. Heather re-rolled the canvas, fingers respectful of the painted lines, and slid it back into its leather case. She laid Fiona’s pages atop the diary in her satchel, feeling the odd, solid comfort of their weight against her hip.
When they were done, they eased the iron box and lone ingot into a large duffle and left just enough ash and old cloth to disguise the hidden compartment’s disturbance. The coin, Heather kept in her palm a second longer, memorizing its weight, before slipping it into the inner pocket of her jacket.
“For evidence,” she said when Flynn raised a brow.
“Aye,” he said through a chuckle. “If ye say so, lass.”
Together, they heaved the stone panel back into place. The hearth sighed shut, the seam disappearing once more into shadow and carved thistle.
For a long moment they knelt there, side by side, hands braced on cool stone, listening to the house settle.
Finally, Heather exhaled.
“Holy hell,” she said. “Can you believe this is actually happening to us?”
Flynn got to his feet and offered her his hand. “Campbell, with you, I’ve come to expect the unexpected. This is just another Tuesday.”
She jokingly swatted his hand away as she rose. “Whatever. You love it.”
He wrapped her in his arms, and placed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Aye. You’re right about that.”
They turned off the flashlights and slipped back through the darkened hall, locking Glenoran behind them once more.
Outside, the night had cleared. The stars over the hills were cold and fierce, pricking holes in the dark. Heather tipped her face up to them, Fiona’s words a pulse in her chest.
Flynn slid an arm around her shoulders. “Next stop, then?” he asked quietly.
She leaned into him, eyes on the distant line where land met sky.
“Skye,” she said. “We go back to Skye.”
Chapter 46
Heather—Present Day
Flynn pulled the truck back into Glenoran’s drive the next day in broad daylight, the sky washed clean after the morning drizzle. The house looked innocuous—sleepy, quiet, almost bashful in the winter light. Heather forced her shoulders down from around her ears.
“Right,” Flynn said, killing the engine. “Let’s make this place look like we’ve done nothin’ more dangerous than drink tea and argue about paint colors.”
Heather snorted. “Easy.”
They carried nothing in with them—not the duffle, not Fiona’s satchel. Those stayed hidden in the truck bed under a tarp. Today was about misdirection.
