A place hidden, not merely remote.
A woman stepped out before they reached the door.
Tall. Sharp-eyed. Dark hair in a storm-tossed braid.
Her cloak was fastened with a silver stag brooch.
Fiona knew the stories.
Everyone did.
This woman had risked her life for a prince. Had outwitted redcoats. Had carried rebellion like a secret flame beneath her ribs.
“Flora MacDonald,” Fiona breathed in awe.
Flora’s gaze flicked to her.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Deciding whether Fiona Cameron was a liability, an intruder… or a danger.
Harris gave a nod that bordered on reverence. “Flora.”
“Harris Mackenzie.” Her voice was Skye-soft, but forged of iron. “Ye took yer time.”
“Had to shake a few redcoats,” he said. “And this one.” He jerked his chin toward Fiona.
Fiona bristled. “I’m right here.”
Flora did not look amused.
Her eyes swept Fiona head to toe—muddy boots, wind-tangled curls, bruises, stubborn chin. Then her gaze settled on Fiona’s eyes.
It sharpened.
“Cameron?” Flora asked.
Fiona swallowed. “Aye.”
“That explains the fire,” Flora murmured.
Not the hair, not the temper.
Thefire.
As if she were identifying something volatile.
Fiona couldn’t tell if she’d been insulted or warned.
Flora stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to let Fiona feel the weight of her presence.
“Ye’ve a dangerous look,” Flora said quietly. “Folk who come to Skye with that look usually bring trouble.”
