Respect.
History.
Trust.
Flora touched his arm in a way that spoke of battles survived and secrets shared.
Harris didn’t flinch.
Didn’t step away.
Just inclined his head, steady as a man acknowledging another equal.
Heat flared in Fiona’s chest.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Of course he trusts her. Of course he tells her what he won’t tell me.”
Flora laughed at something Harris said. A soft, knowing laugh.
And Harris laughed back.
The bastardactuallylaughed.
Fiona’s jaw locked hard enough to ache.
She wasn’t supposed to care.
Shedidn’tcare.
She absolutely, decidedly, did not—
Harris turned.
His gaze lifted toward the cottage.
Toward the window.
Straight toward her.
Fiona jerked back as though burned, pulse tripping over itself.
A moment later, footsteps sounded in the hall.
She forced herself onto the bed, hands folded neatly in her lap by the time Flora entered carrying a basin and folded cloth.
If Flora noticed the tension, she didn’t comment.
“Sleep while ye can,” Flora said, setting the basin down. “Tomorrow’ll come sharp.”
When Flora left, Fiona finally let her breath spill out.
Sleep.
Right.
As if she could close her eyes with that scene still burning behind her eyelids—the trust in Harris’s shoulders, the familiarity in Flora’s smile, the quiet understanding she hadn’t been invited into.
Fiona curled her fingers into the quilt, pulse hammering.
