Fiona stiffened. “I brought nothing but myself.” she retorted hotly.
“That’s often the worst thing ye can bring.”
Harris shifted, about to interject, but Flora cut him off with a flick of her hand—sharp, commanding.
“Ye vouch for her?” Flora asked him without breaking eye contact with Fiona.
Harris hesitated.
Hesitated!
That alone burned Fiona colder than the wind.
Flora’s lips twitched—not a smile. More like confirmation of a private suspicion.
“Come,” Flora said at last, lifting the latch. “Inside. While the tide’s still on our side.”
But as Fiona stepped past her, Flora’s fingers brushed her arm—light as a thread, cold as a blade.
“Mind yourself, lass,” Flora murmured. “I’ve no patience for the untested.”
She released her.
Fiona’s spine locked straight. Not out of fear, but something very close to it.
No one had ever looked at her the way Flora MacDonald just had:
Not like a nuisance.
Not like alassie.
Not like a threat to be dismissed, but like a threat to be eliminated if she proved dangerous.
And Fiona Cameron, fire-haired and furious, had no idea yet whether that made her want to run…
…or burn brighter.
A deep, settling warmth settled over Fiona. A kettle hissing over the hearth while the faint sweetness of heather drying in bunches along the beams permeated the air. The cottage felt carved out of the island itself: low stone walls, a roof that hummed quietly with wind, shelves crowded with jars of herbs and salves.
Outside, the sea still roared like a creature pacing its cage.
Here, the world held still.
Dubh was led around the back by an older man with a limp and weather-creased skin. His movements were practiced, spare. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions because he’d already survived the answers.
Flora moved differently than any woman Fiona had ever seen.
The stories had never captured her properly, instead too focused on the rebellion she carried and not enough on the woman who’d dared it. Up close, Flora MacDonald was striking in that quiet, Highland way that had nothing to do with fragility.
Her features were clean and symmetrical, softened by round cheeks and a generous mouth, but sharpened at the edges by resolve. Her eyes—dark hazel, flecked with amber—were bright and assessing, the gaze of someone who had weighed many men and found most wanting. A faint spray of freckles smattered the bridge of her nose. Wind had kissed her skin pink; salt had curled the edges of her braid.
She wasn’t beautiful like a court painting. She was beautiful like Skye: wild, wind-carved, lasting.
Flora poured three cups of strong black tea and set them down with the care of someone who knew tea could anchor a person after too many storms.
“Ye’ve been followed?” Flora asked without preamble.
Harris stiffened. His fingers stilled on the cup. “Not to Skye.”
