His eyes darted to her. “You’re observant.”
“I’ve had to be.”
Something in his expression softened—a fraction, barely there—before he tore his gaze away and limped toward Dubh. The stallion nudged him hard, snorting and pawing at his coat.
“Aye, laddie,” Harris muttered, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “I’m here.”
The tenderness shocked her.
He hadn’t touched Fiona like that, not even when he’d checked her for injuries. But Dubh leaned into him like the two shared one breath between them.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
When Harris returned to the fire, he lowered himself slowly, careful of his side. They sat in a loose triangle—man, woman, fire—bound together by a night none of them had planned.
Finally, Fiona asked the question prickling her spine.
“Why are you still here?”
He didn’t answer at first. His jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing down whatever truth wanted out. Harris stared into the fire, flames casting his profile in harsh gold, revealing every scrape, every line of exhaustion etched deep since Culloden.
“Two reasons,” he said at last.
She waited.
“One,” Harris murmured, “a redheaded Cameron ridin’ alone calls trouble like blood calls wolves.”
She scoffed. “And the second?”
His gaze flicked to hers—brief, searing.
“Because I didnae like how it felt,” he said quietly, “watching you ride away.”
Heat flickered in her cheeks, one borne of anger, surprise, and something far more treacherous. She hated the way those words landed; and hated even more that some part of her warmed to them.
He quickly looked away again, almost as if ge regretted the admission. “But dinnae think it means more than it does. We travel no farther together than necessary.”
“Necessary for what?” she challenged.
“To see ye safely to the next village.”
“And after that?”
His jaw clenched. “After that, lass, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.”
She swallowed.
The fire popped. Dubh huffed, and Fiona tucked the blanket tighter around herself.
Harris shifted, subtle pain tightening his mouth. She reached for her satchel before she could stop herself.
“I can stitch that,” she said.
“I said I dinnae need—”
“You do.” She met his gaze, unyielding. “Let me choose that,” she said, quieter this time. “Scotland’s lost enough men to this war. I’ll no’ let her lose another because he’s too stubborn to let someone help.”
