Dark eyes. Sharp. Intelligent.
“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said.
“And you’ve got half the Crown’s army huntin’ yer shadow.” Fiona snatched the whisky from his hand and downed what was left. “Ye know, I thought you’d be smarter than to tie up your mythic beastie right outside the tavern facin’ the gallows.”
He took the empty glass back, setting it down with a soft thud. “If you’re tryin’ to flirt with me, lass, you’re doin’ a mighty poor job of it.”
Fiona scoffed. “I’m tryin’ to keep you alive, Mackenzie.”
That got his full attention.
His gaze narrowed. “Who told you my name?”
“My brother,” she said quietly. “Before the redcoats dragged him from the stall he was hidin’ in after Culloden. He said you carry what’s left of our hope.”
Harris’s expression flickered—pain, buried quick.
“You’d do well to forget me.”
She leaned closer, hands braced on the table.
“Not a chance.”
He rose abruptly, chair scraping. The lantern light caught the tension in his jaw, the tremor in his injured arm he tried to hide.
“Ye’ve no idea what you’re walkin’ into,” he tossed, sharp as an insult. “Go home, lassie.”
“No,” she said simply.
His breath left him in something akin to disbelief. “Christ above. Stubborn fool of a woman.”
“Stubborn enough to help you,” she shot back.
“I dinnae need help.” He stepped past her.
She caught his sleeve.
“You do,” she whispered. “You’re wounded. Exhausted. Alone. And a bigger target than Dubh’s arse.”
A startled laugh escaped him—unwilling, begrudging.
But then his face shuttered again.
“Go,” he said, voice low. “While you still can.”
Fiona squared her shoulders. “I’m not afraid.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You should be.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that she felt the heat of him. Close enough to smell smoke and rain and whisky on his skin.
“Turn around,” he said softly. “Walk out those doors, and forget you ever saw me.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “No.”
Something wild sparked in his eyes.
And that was when the tavern door slammed open.
