Chapter 21
Fiona Cameron—Fort William, 1746
The innkeeper barely glanced at them when they stepped into the dim common room—just two more road-worn travelers among many. The fire roared, mugs clinked, a fiddle scratched in the corner.
“Room for the night,” Harris said, dropping a few coins onto the counter. “For me and my wife.”
Fiona nearly inhaled her own tongue.
But he didn’t look at her. Didn’t falter.
Just slid the coins like he’d done it a hundred times.
The innkeeper eyed the money, then them, then shrugged. “Only one wee bed left,” he said. “We’re full wi’ merchants an’ the like.”
Harris didn’t miss a beat. “One’ll do.”
A key slid across the wood.
Upstairs, the room was small but clean—one narrow bed, a washstand, a chair with a threadbare cushion, and a single mullioned window overlooking the dark line of trees.
Fiona stared at the bed, then at him. “You expect me to share that with you?”
Harris gave her a pensive look. “Don’t flatter yerself.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He tossed his pack down by the door, shrugged out of his damp cloak, and rolled it into a makeshift pillow. “I’ll sleep here,” he said, nodding toward the floorboards. “If anyone tries to come in, they trip ‘ower me first.”
She blinked. “…How veryconsiderateof you.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Married men guard their wives.”
Her stomach did an undignified flip. “We’re not—”
“Aye,” he said—quiet, not sharp. “We’re not.”
Something flickered between them. Warmth, maybe, before he looked away.
“We’ll eat,” he said. “Then sleep. Dawn start.”
She didn’t trust her voice enough to argue.
They tucked themselves into a shadowed corner of the tavern, backs to the wall, sightlines on the door. Fiona ordered stew; Harris added whisky with the weary certainty of a man who’d earned it.
For once, he didn’t sit like a blade ready to be drawn. He sagged a fraction, elbows braced on the table, the lines of exhaustion etched more visibly in the firelight.
Steam curled between them.
“Ye nearly drowned today,” she said, more statement than accusation.
“Aye.” He took a sip of whisky.
“Ye walked into the loch like it was bathwater.”
“Aye.”
“And ye still won’t tell me why you had to check something that could pull you under.”
