When she shifted, his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. “Mornin’, Campbell,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. One blue eye cracked open, glinting with mischief. “Were ye plannin’ to slip off and leave me snorin’?”
She huffed, propping herself on her elbow. “You were snoring. Loudly.”
His mouth curved. “Snorin’? Och, lass, that was the noble rumble of a Highland warrior at rest.”
Heather bit back a smile. “Noble, huh?”
Flynn stretched lazily, grin turning wicked as he leaned in. “Aye. And every noble warrior needs his strength before facin’ a cursed loch. Which means…” He dropped into that exaggerated fireside brogue, rolling the words like a storyteller. “A grand bowl o’ parritch. Thick as mud, hot as the devil’s own breath, wi’ cream and honey enough to scare the kelpies right off.”
Heather laughed, covering her face with her hand. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously hungry,” he corrected, tugging her hand down to kiss her knuckles. “C’mon, Campbell. Ye cannae face mythic beasts on an empty stomach.”
Downstairs, the pub was almost unrecognizable from the night before. Gone were the low lights and haunting songs. Morning bustle had taken over as coffee steamed in mugs, dishes clattered, and damp jackets draped over chair backs.
The air smelled like bacon, toast, and something thick and oaty. Heather followed Flynn to a small table by the window. A serving woman set down two bowls without asking.
“Parritch,” Flynn announced like he’d conjured it. He passed Heather a spoon with a flourish. “Fuel for cursed-loch chasin’.”
She eyed the bowl. Thick and steaming, with a drizzle of honey pooling in the middle. “This looks like cement.”
“Cement that’ll stick to yer ribs and keep ye warm when the kelpies come sniffin’,” Flynn said. “Eat up. Ye’ll thank me when we’re knee-deep in mud.”
She poked at it, then tried a bite—and paused. “Okay, rude. That’s actually really good.”
His brows shot up in triumph. “Och, careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”
“Don’t push it,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.
They ate quietly for a few moments, the hum of voices folding around them.
“So…” Heather set her spoon down. “Strategy. We know the stories point to Loch Arkaig. Eleanor saw Culloden as the doorway. But the loch itself… it’s not just folklore scary. Undertow, caves—real danger.”
Flynn leaned his elbows on the table, serious now. “Caves, aye? Then that’s the kelpie’s den.” His grin was quick but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll start simple. Shoreline first. No boats till we ken what we’re dealing with.”
“And if we find something?” Heather asked, raising a brow.
“Then we take it slow. No heroics, no daft risks.” His hand brushed hers, thumb tracing her knuckles. “I meant what I said last night. I’m no’ lettin’ some loch take ye.”
Her chest tightened, warmth creeping up her neck. She ducked her head, staring into her bowl. “Guess I’ll have to trust my rugged bodyguard, then.”
Flynn’s lips twitched. He slipped back into the brogue again. “Aye, yer braw manservant’ll see ye right. Even if he has to wrestle a water horse bare-handed.”
“I would pay to see that,” she said with a laugh.
“Stick wi’ me long enough, lass,”—he winked—“and ye might.”
By the time they pulled out of Fort William, the rain had eased to a fine mist. The wipers ticked lazily across the glass.
“So,” Heather said, nudging the canvas satchel with her boot, “what exactly did you cram in there? Please tell me it’s more than oatcakes and optimism.”
Flynn’s grin went smug. “Rope. Torches… or as you Americans call them,flashlights.Extra batteries. First aid kit. Compass and a proper map in case your precious GPS has a wee hissy. Work gloves. Knife. Binoculars. Oatcakes…” He lifted a brow. “And a flask.”
Heather opened the satchel and rifled through, pulling out a battered notebook. “And this? Treasure-hunting diary?”
“Notes, sketches, clues,” Flynn said easily. “And maybe the occasional doodle of a certain redheaded menace if the trail goes cold.”
She snorted and dropped it back in. “You’re insufferable.”
