“Town’s full of eyes, Campbell. Dinnae borrow trouble yet.”
She nodded, though her stomach knotted all the same.
They crossed the bridge together, the bagpipe’s tune thinning behind them.
On the far side, a small bookshop caught her eye, tucked between a wine bar and a butcher shop, its display crowded with Jacobite histories and leather-bound volumes. One cover showed a sketch of Bonnie Prince Charlie, bold beneath the title:
The Lost Gold of the Highlands.
Heather froze, her chest snagging at the sight.
Flynn followed her gaze and gave a low whistle.
“Well now… how serendipitous.”
Her fingers itched to reach for the book, to press it open and devour every page, but she forced herself to step back, fingers curling against her palm. Tomorrow. Eleanor had promised tomorrow.
Flynn nudged her shoulder gently.
“Go on, Campbell. Look at ye… already drawn like a moth to a tartan flame.”
Heather huffed a laugh, tension easing. “I’m not drawn. I’m cautiously interested!”
“Aye,” he teased, “and I’m the king of Scotland.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as she tore her attention from the shop window.
A bell chimed overhead as Heather pushed open the door of the little shop. The scent of old paper, leather bindings, and dust-warmed wood rose up to greet her. Shelves leaned with age, stacked floor to ceiling with books whose spines bore the faded gold of long-forgotten titles.
Flynn trailed in behind her, ducking under the low lintel with a bemused look.
“This seems dangerous.”
Heather shot him a sidelong smile.
“For your wallet?” she retorted.
“For my arms. You’re going to make me carry half the shop back to Glenoran, aren’t you?”
She hushed him with a wave, already drawn toward a display table at the center of the room. Jacobite histories lay spread across it—pamphlets, maps, brittle-edged journals. Her fingers hovered above the nearest one, the paper browned and crinkled with age.
The shopkeeper, a stooped man with spectacles perched on his nose, glanced up from behind the counter. His eyes flicked from Heather to the Jacobite display, curiosity sparking, but nothing more dramatic than a man watching someone hover over his favorite section.
Heather’s cheeks warmed anyway. She tucked a curl behind her ear, pretending she definitely wasn’t about to spend too much money on old books.
Flynn stepped a little closer, his voice low and amused.
“Relax, Campbell. You’re allowed to nerd out in public. It’s encouraged, actually,” he teased.
She shot him a look, but her smile betrayed her.
“I’m not nerding out.”
“Aye,” he murmured, “and I’m not about to carry a whole library home.”
Heather huffed, but her laughter softened the knot in her chest. With careful hands, she lifted a thick volume. An illustration inside depicted a tattered battle standard, its emblem half-lost to time.
It tugged something in her—familiar, like the flag she’d uncovered at Glenoran—but she didn’t let herself sink into the feeling. Not here. Not yet.
