A low, familiar whistle threading through the noise.
Flynn.
He moved through the crowd in work boots and rolled sleeves, all warm muscle and sawdust and easy confidence amidst glass and linen. He saw her first. Then his gaze slid to Kerr.
The change was small but unmistakable. The smile that started didn’t finish. Something in his eyes went very still.
“There you are, lass,” he said, all surface ease as he reached them. His arm slid around her waist, his mouth brushed her temple—but his gaze stayed on Kerr. “Sorry I’m late. Auld beam at the site gave us more attitude than sense.”
His tone was friendly. The message underneath was not: she wasn’t alone.
Kerr’s expression didn’t flicker. “No trouble at all,” he said politely.
Flynn held out a hand. “Flynn Duncan. Duncan Restorations.”
“David Kerr. Archaeology.” The grip was firm, brief. Measuring.
Heather watched the exchange like flint striking steel: no spark yet, but the threat of it. Flynn’s hand on her hip felt relaxed to anyone watching. But she could feel the coil of muscle beneath it.
“Mr. Kerr was just taking me down to the archives,” she said, her voice steady.
Flynn’s brow ticked up, a playful curve that didn’t reach his eyes. “Ah, the fun part. Thought I’d have to suffer through gift shop duty first.”
“The archives aren’t open to the public,” Kerr said evenly. “Dr. Henderson has authorized access.”
“That she did,” Heather added. “For my… family research.”
“In that case,” Flynn said mildly, “I’ll tag along—if that’s all right. I promise not to lay a finger on your priceless trinkets.”
Kerr hesitated a half-second too long. “Of course.”
They fell into step, with Kerr leading, Heather and Flynn side by side. As the hum of the atrium dimmed behind them, Flynn’s fingers brushed hers; not for show now, but to ground her. She squeezed back, a silent,I’m okay.
Kerr swiped his badge at a coded door. The lock clicked.
“After you,” he said, gesturing forward.
Flynn motioned Heather through first, though his gaze never quite left Kerr’s face. “Much obliged.”
The air changed on the other side—cooler, drier, scented with metal and dust and the faint tang of old paper. Rows of steel shelving stretched into the distance. Somewhere deeper in, a lift beeped and doors sighed shut.
The lift carried them further down, away from marble and skylight into a level that hummed and thrummed with machines. The filtered air felt thinner here, calibrated for ink and fiber instead of comfort.
Kerr led them through a corridor lined with reinforced glass and motion sensors, his badge kissing a reader every few doors. Fluorescents cast the space in flat, pale light. Heather’s skin prickled.
“The eighteenth-century collections are this way,” Kerr said, voice echoing. “Our Jacobite holdings are among the most extensive in Scotland.”
He keyed open another door.
Inside was a cavernous room of rolling shelves and labeled drawers. Artifacts slept in acid-free boxes. Framed textiles lay half-wrapped in linen. A tartan hung beneath glass like a pinned butterfly.
Heather’s breath hitched. “It’s enormous,” she said in awe.
Kerr turned, offering her a pair of white cotton gloves. “One of a kind, most of it. You’ll wear these.”
She slipped them on, the fabric whispering against her skin.
Flynn took his with a faint grin. “I handle eighteenth-century beams for a living. I’ll do my best not to maul yer wee heirlooms.”
