Then he vanished like smoke, swallowed by the night.
She peeked around the corner, noticing Dubh’s reins were gone. No black horse. No tall, impossible man with a jaw like a blade and the survival instincts of a startled crow.
“He bolted,” she muttered. “The reckless bastard actually bolted.”
Inside, the tavern erupted—chairs cracking, men shouting, the heavy slam of musket butts against timber. A tankard rolled out the door and clattered against the stones near her feet.
“Aye,” she whispered dryly. “No wonder the Prince trusted him; he’s either brilliant or suicidal.”
A crash made her flinch.
Time to leave.
Fiona slipped down the alley, cloak pulled tight, boots silent against the slick stones. Inverness crawled with redcoats tonight; far too many for her liking, and far too sober. Patrol torches cut through the fog in jagged lines, and every shadow felt like a lurking musket barrel.
She kept low, sliding through the wynd behind the cooper’s shop until she reached the livery. A thin, stooped man fed hay to a pony by lantern light.
Tam Sanderson blinked at her. “Fiona Cameron? Lass, what in God’s broken—”
“You owe me a favor,” she said briskly, striding up. “Two winters ago? Yer sister’s bairn choking on a neep? Who got it out?”
Tam paled. “Aye. Aye, right. What d’ye need?”
“A horse. One that’ll keep pace. Dried meat if you have it.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Where’re ye goin’?”
“After a man too stupid tae stay alive without supervision.”
Tam blinked. “Which one?”
She mounted the horse. “Take yer pick.”
Fiona Cameron had many virtues. Patience was not one of them.
Three days of mist, mud, and pine-bitten cold.
Three days of tracking the broad hoofprints of a ghost-ridden black stallion across the Highlands.
Three days of sleeping beneath trees, waking at every snapping twig, and muttering curses into her cloak.
And not once, notonce, did Harris Mackenzie look over his shoulder.
“It’s no’ possible,” she muttered, crouching behind a fallen log at dusk on the third day. “Either he’s blind, or—”
“A bit further left, lass,” a deep voice called. “If ye mean to sneak, ye might as well do it properly.”
Fiona froze.
Then flushed. Hard.
Slowly—slowly—she rose.
Harris stood beside a small fire in a hollow between pines, sleeves rolled, jacket slung over a branch. Dubh grazed nearby, smugly flicking his tail.
Fiona scowled. “How long have you known I was there?”
“Since the river crossing outside Inverness,” he said casually, turning the rabbit he was cooking. “Ye ride heavy in the saddle. And your mount breathes loud.”
