The closest thing to a scowl brushed Kerr’s mouth and was gone just as quick. “If you’ll excuse me,” he gritted out. “I have a meeting this morning. A pleasure to meet you both.”
He crossed back to the lift. His rapping footsteps faded down the corridor before the doors hissed shut.
Silence settled, broken only by the hum of the air system and distant cart wheels.
Heather let out a deep breath. “That’s him,” she said quietly.
Flynn’s attention snapped to her. “Aye,” he said at once. “From the loch.”
She blinked. “You recognized him too?”
“Soon as I saw his face.” His jaw flexed, eyes gone flint-hard. “Took me a moment to place it, but… aye. Sluice box, dead stare. Same man.”
Her throat tightened. “He was at Glenoran last night.”
Flynn went very still.
“What?!”
“He parked down by the gate. Killed the engine. Walked the garden with a flashlight—slow, like he was… studying the place.” The memory crawled back, cold and precise. “He didn’t try any doors. Didn’t test the windows. He just… watched. The study. My window. When I turned the lights on, he bolted.”
Flynn’s gaze turned weary. “And you were alone,” he surmised.
She swallowed. “Byrdie was there,” she said weakly—then shook her head at her own deflection. “Yes. I was alone,” she croaked.
“Why didn’t you call me?” His voice stayed low, but the disbelief in it felt heavier than shouting would have.
“I almost did. But then I thought maybe I was overreacting. I didn’t want you driving all night for someone who might’ve just been lost. And it wasn’t until I saw him in Henderson’s office that everything… clicked. He’s hers, Flynn. Her man in the field.”
Flynn raked a hand through his hair, then braced both palms on the metal shelving, breathing once, slow and controlled.
“All right,” he said finally. “So Henderson’s pet archaeologist is the same bastard watchin’ you at Arkaig and prowlin’ round Glenoran.” He looked back at her. “What did you tell her?”
“That I’m researching Harris Mackenzie. Focused on genealogy. I never mentioned the loch. Or Eleanor. Or Mom’s missive.” Heather crossed her arms, holding in her own tremor. “She offered access to the restricted records. Said, ‘Out of loyalty to your mother.’”
Flynn’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. “Aye. How generous.”
“She told me to keep her updated if I find anything tying Harris to the Prince or the gold.” Heather met his gaze. “I smiled. I nodded.” She emphasized. “Iwon’t.”
His shoulders eased a fraction. Approval, quiet and fierce. “Good lass.”
Heather inhaled. “I don’t want to run, Flynn. I’m not handing this over. Not to them.”
“I know you’re not.” He stepped closer, his presence filling the cold archive space with something warm and solid. “And I’m not askin’ you to. But from now on, you don’t do any of this alone. Not the museum. Not the loch. Not Glenoran after dark. If they’re sniffin’ around, they either think you’ve already found somethin’, or they mean to make sure you don’t.”
Her chin tipped up. “I’ve spent my whole life being told to sit down and let other people decide what’s good for me.”
He held her gaze, unflinching. “I’m not tellin’ you to sit,” he said quietly. “I’m tellin’ you I’m walkin’ beside you.”
The fight in her loosened, just enough. “Okay,” she said. “Beside, not in front.”
His mouth curved. “Beside,” he promised. His thumb brushed her wrist—one firm, grounding stroke. “Now, let’s see what your Mackenzies have left us, aye? Make all this sneakin’ worth their while.”
He tugged one of the rolling shelves outward, the mechanism groaning softly. Box spines slid past: Prestonpans. Prince Charles Edward Stuart. Culloden Moor. Highland Clearances.
“Pick your poison,” he murmured.
Heather managed a thin smile. “Let’s start with the ones that nearly tore Scotland in two.”
