Another sip. “Also aye.”
She set her spoon down with a clack. “Are you a man or a very large, very irritating parrot?”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Depends who’s askin’.”
“I am,” she said, leaning in. “Tell me why you went into that water, Mackenzie.”
He studied the fire for a long moment, shadows moving across his face. The tavern noise faded to a dull blur around them.
“It matters for what comes next,” he said finally. “That’s all ye need to ken.”
“That’s no’ an answer,” she shot back. “If I’m to ride beside ye—or behind ye, as ye prefer—I deserve truth, not riddles.”
His gaze cut back to her. There was something raw in it this time, reluctant and unguarded.
“Fiona…” he began, voice rough.
“What?” she pressed. “What are you really runnin’ with? Why would the Prince trust you with it?”
His jaw worked as he set his cup down.
“Because what I’m carryin’ can topple men as easy as muskets can,” he said quietly. “And because if ye ken too much, you’ll swing for it same as me.”
She met that head-on. “I sat back while my brothers and kinsmen died on that cursed moor,” she said. “You think I’m afraid of the consequences?”
“No. Bit I think you’re naïve enough not tae understand the difference between a lost battle and a hunted life.”
Silence settled—a taut, humming thing.
Before she could frame a reply, the tavern door opened. Cold air spilled in, carrying a faint breath of rain.
A young man stepped inside—sixteen at most, clothes travel-stained, cheeks windburned. His eyes swept the crowded room, sharp and searching.
“Mackenzie?” he murmured as he reached their corner, barely moving his lips. “Harris Mackenzie?”
Harris went motionless. Not rigid, just still, in a way that made every hair on Fiona’s arms rise.
“Aye,” he said warily.
“Message, sir.” The boy fumbled in his coat and produced a folded packet sealed in wax.
The wax bore a longship stamped deep into the red: an old sigil whispered about in Jacobite circles. Used for secret correspondence. Messages not meant for generals or clans… but for ghosts in the field.
Fiona had never seen the mark.
Harris, on the other hand, had.
He took the letter, passed the boy a coin without glancing at it. “You saw no one,” he said.
The lad nodded and vanished back into the press of bodies.
Harris turned the packet in his fingers once, thumb tracing the longship before breaking the seal.
His eyes flicked over the page. Then his whole expression changed—not dramatically, just a tightening around the mouth, the faintest hitch of breath.
Fiona didn’t wait to be invited. She plucked the letter from his fingers.
He let her.
