“Tomorrow,” he said. “Long road West. Mallaig. Ferry. Skye.”
“Under Duncan Restorations?”
“Aye.” He shrugged dramatically. “Client needs me. Wife demanded a scenic detour. What’s a man to do?”
Heather laughed. “Claire’s going to send Byrdie updates every hour.”
“She’ll make the cat a banner,” Flynn said. “Queen of the Radiator.”
“She already is.”
He stepped between her knees and tugged her closer by the scarf he’d bought her. That gentle pull—half joke, half anchor—hit her right in the chest.
“We do this fast,” she said. “Quietly. Let Henderson think I’ve gone home and lost interest.”
“And then we vanish into the Hebrides,” he murmured. “Like the wrong people readin’ the wrong code.”
A pause.
“Flynn?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Thank you for today.”
“For buyin’ you a scarf and callin’ it strategy?”
“For being obvious with me in public.”
His smile softened. “Mo chridhe… I’m about to be very obvious.”
“Promises,” she teased, tugging him down into a kiss that tasted like resolve wrapped in sweetness.
Later, with Flynn in the shower, she stood at the window and watched the street.
A figure flicked a cigarette into the gutter and walked off into the dark.
Not Kerr.
Good.
She pulled the curtains shut, switched off the lights, and helped Flynn pack the lie:
Two daypacks, the folder of coded copies, clean socks, the tartan scarf that would make the wind on Skye her enemy.
“Alarm for five,” Flynn said, setting his phone face down. “We’ll get ahead of any keen eyes.”
“Do you think they bought it?” she asked, sliding under the duvet.
He gathered her close, kissed her hair, and spoke with quiet certainty.
“They’ll sleep thinkin’ we’re done.”
Chapter 25
Fiona Cameron—The Isle of Skye, 1746
The sea mist hit Fiona first.
