She turned toward Inverness, its lamps still guttering in the early light. Narrow wynds. Stone streets slick with rain. Taverns thick with whisky and regret. And rising among them—thegallows had gone up overnight, as if the English feared even the ghosts.
Find the Mackenzie of Glenoran.
Rumor said he’d been the Prince’s shadow.
A spy in the dark.
A blade in the fog.
The English thought him dead.
The clans whispered otherwise.
She followed the noise of a tavern spilling raucous music into the street: fiddles, shouting, the scrape of chairs on stone. Then she stopped short.
Tied to a post outside the door, reins knotted hastily, stood Dubh.
A coal-black stallion with a thick mane and a temperament that could frighten half a regiment. A horse that had carried kings, messengers, and, according to legend, one Harris Mackenzie.
Fiona gaped at him. “Well,” she muttered, “subtlety’s no’ yer master’s strong suit.”
Dubh turned his head and snorted, unimpressed.
“Ye look like a curse dressed in horseflesh,” she said fondly, stroking his warm flank. “They’ll see ye comin’ from a village away.”
Fiona stroked his warm flank, but Dubh flicked his head back, nearly nipping her.
She smirked. “If you’re tryin’ to stay hidden, laddie, you might consider bein’ less… magestic.”
The horse cocked an ear, as if agreeing.
Inside, the reek of whisky, sweat, rain-soaked wool, and woodsmoke hit her like a blow. Drunken laughter rolled across the room, loud enough to conceal sins.
She wove through the crowd, ignoring the stares her flame-bright hair always invited.
Then she saw him.
Corner table. Half in shadow.
Harris Mackenzie.
His reputation had not done him justice. Tall, with shoulders broad enough to block the firelight behind him. Hair falling unkempt over his brow. A dark stubble cut along a jaw clenched tight. A man carved from equal parts grief and grit.
His left sleeve was ripped, bandaged underneath. A bruise bloomed along his temple, and his fingers curled around a near-empty dram of whisky.
He looked tired enough to break, but stubborn enough to refuse.
Fiona stepped to his table.
“Ye’ll be needing a different horse,” she said.
He didn’t look up at first, just swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
“And who are you to tell me what I need?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.
“Someone observant,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dubh is magnificent, but he’s a bloody beacon. The redcoats could spot that brute from half the Highlands away.”
That made him look up.
