Redcoats burst in, muskets raised. “Search every table!”
Harris’s jaw snapped tight.
Fiona’s pulse thundered.
His hand closed hard around her wrist.
He leaned in, breath hot against her ear.
“Stay close to me.”
“I told you,” she whispered. “I’m not leavin’.”
His grip tightened—a warning, or a surrender, she couldn’t tell.
“Aye,” he muttered, dragging her toward the back door as soldiers fanned out. “And God help me…”
His eyes met hers, his voice thick with emotion.
“…maybe that’s the problem.”
Chapter 11
Heather—Present Day
Heather hadn’t left her room in days.
The curtains stayed drawn, Glenoran’s dim morning light cut down to a gray hush. Byrdie curled tight against her ribs, warm and loyal as if she knew Heather was barely holding herself together.
When Heather’s phone buzzed against the mattress, she almost let it ring out.
But then she saw the name.
Mark.
Her fingers shook as she answered.
“Well if it isn’t Anne Shirley herself!?” Mark’s voice barreled through the line, bright and sharp as ever. “You alive, or did the Highlands chew you up and spit you into a peat bog?”
A laugh burst from her throat.
“Marky.” Her voice wobbled. “God, I’ve missed you.”
“I’ll say. You vanish off to Scotland and all I get are cryptic texts about castles and rain—the occasional romantic details… snippets of life on Instagram, I’m starting to think you’re ditching me.”
Heather snorted. “Close. But no.”
A pause.
“You sound… off,” Mark said quietly. “What’s going on?”
Heather’s chest tightened. She latched onto the safer wound first. “Have you heard from Ivy?”
Mark exhaled in thatthereitisway. “Yeah. She moved back to Chicago with Sam in tow. It’s messy, Heth. Really messy. I cut ties after what she did to you—I couldn’t keep rescuing her from her own matches while she played with kerosene.”
Heather swallowed hard. “Yeah. That sounds… right.”
Silence stretched. Not heavy, just waiting.
