Something flickered in his gaze. Respect, irritation, surrender? She couldn’t tell.
He sighed, long and low. “Fine. But if you botch it, I swear I’ll—”
“Oh hush,” she muttered, moving toward him. “You’ll live.”
His answering glare held no heat.
She knelt beside him. His breath feathered her hair. The fire warmed her cheek while moonlight silvered his.
Harris went utterly still, watching her like a man who’d rather take on another platoon of redcoats than admit what the air between them was doing.
“Get on with it,” he said gruffly.
She stitched him carefully. Quietly.
And he didn’t look away once. His skin jumped beneath her touch, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. She pretended not to notice; he pretended he hadn’t made a sound.
When she was done, he muttered, “Not bad, lass.”
“Fiona,” she corrected softly.
Slowly—slowly—he repeated it.
“Fiona.”
Something curled low in her belly at the sound of it: her proper name, shaped by his voice.
Neither spoke after that.
The fire burned low. The wind eased. Dubh settled.
And for the briefest moment, surrounded by dark woods and danger pressing at their backs, Fiona Cameron felt something unfamiliar since the Prince raised his standard at Glenfinnan—
Safe.
Chapter 18
Heather—Present Day
Dawn came pale and thin, too gentle for how sharp her nerves still felt. Glenoran glittered with dew as if the night had rinsed it clean. Except for the faint fan of tire tracks at the gate.
Proof.
She’d stood there in her robe and boots at first light, breath ghosting in the cold, staring at the marks softening under the morning damp. Seeing them steadied her. She hadn’t imagined the flashlight. Or the way it froze. Or the hasty retreat.
Inside, she packed quickly and deliberately:
Eilidh’s working notebook she found buried among the stacks in Glenoran’s library.
The leather folio of dates and place-names.
Eleanor’s letter, folded to show the Dingwall address.
Laptop. Clothes.
Byrdie supervised from the bed, then naturally climbed straight into the overnight bag.
“Not this time, girlypop,” Heather murmured, lifting her out. Byrdie purred, unbothered. “You’re going to the Thistle Haven. Vacation time for you.”
