The way Henderson always knew where they’d been.
“You were listening,” Heather whispered.
Henderson didn’t deny it.
She reached into her coat.
Flynn surged forward. “Don’t.”
Henderson smiled thinly, and produced a small iron key.
“You should never have brought this mess out of Glenoran,” she said. “You made it visible.”
Heather stepped forward despite Flynn’s grip. “The gold doesn’t belong to you.”
“Oh?” Henderson’s voice sharpened. “Then to whom, exactly? A dead laird? A widow erased from history? Your mother—”
“Don’t,” Heather said, low and shaking, “say her name.”
Henderson’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Eilidh was brilliant. And reckless.”
Heather’s throat closed. “You sent them after her.”
“I told them to stop her.” A shrug. “She ran.”
Grief punched the air from Heather’s lungs.
Flynn moved, but Heather held him back with both hands.
Henderson stepped closer to the case. “This ends tonight.”
“No,” Heather said. “It doesn’t.”
Henderson’s gaze flicked to her—cool, appraising. “You won’t make it back in time.”
Flynn went still. “Back where?”
Henderson’s lips curved. “My people left Edinburgh an hour ago.”
Heather’s blood iced.
“The coal cupboard,” Flynn breathed.
Heather shook her head. “Flora MacDonald didn’t entrust this toyou.”
Henderson smiled—not cruelly. Almost kindly.
“She entrusted it to history.” She stepped toward the display case. “AndI amhistory.”
Henderson slid the key into the lock.
The lights went out.
Total darkness.
Glass shattered.
Heather screamed as someone slammed into her shoulder.
