Chapter 6
Heather—Present Day
T he fog thickened the closer they drew to Culloden, swallowing the truck in pale veils.
Signs for the visitor center began to appear, directing them into a neat car park lined with tour coaches and cars.
Even through the glass, Heather could see clusters of tourists with cameras around their necks and rain jackets zipped up against the Highland drizzle.
Flynn pulled into a space and killed the engine.
“Haven’t been here since I was a wee lad,” he said, almost to himself.
“School trip. They herded us through the film inside, then out onto the moor. Thought it’d be just another day off the books, but standing out there…
” He shrugged one shoulder. “It stays with ye.”
Heather watched his profile. “In a good way or a bad way?”
He considered that for a moment, then gave a small, wry smile. “In a way that makes ye quieter on the bus ride home.”
Inside, the centre buzzed with activity: families drifting between interactive screens, relics laid out behind glass, a low soundscape of footsteps, voices, distant drums. A 360-degree battle-immersion theatre sat at the back, the closed door humming faintly with the film running inside.
Flynn paused by a display case holding muskets and a fragment of blade. His reflection hovered over the glass.
“It’s great, all this,” he said quietly. “But it’s the field that does the real talking.”
Heather’s gaze lingered on the battered metal, the worn wood, the careful labels. “Then we should go listen.”
Once they stepped outside, the noise of the centre fell away. Gravel underfoot gave way to heather-dotted turf, flagged paths stretching over the moor. The wind moved in slow currents, carrying a kind of hush that made even the tourists speak softer.
Heather pulled her coat tighter. “It feels… different,” she murmured. “Like everyone decided to whisper at the same time.”
Flynn’s hand found hers lightly. “Folk say the place makes its own rules.”
They slowed beside a weathered marker etched with MACKENZIE , the letters cut deep into stone. Heather’s breath stuttered at the back of her throat.
“They were here,” she said.
Flynn’s voice softened. “Aye. Your lot stood on this ground.”
She brushed her fingers over the cool stone, Eleanor’s voice echoing in her mind:
Culloden birthed secrets—and those who chase them haven’t always come back.
She let her hand fall. “Then this is still part of the story,” she said. “Even if the gold’s somewhere else.”
Flynn nodded once. “Feels right to start where it all broke.”
They followed the path deeper into the moor, their steps quiet against the damp earth. Low stones marked the clans; the wind threaded through the heather with a constant, soft shush. A tour group gathered not far ahead, and Heather and Flynn drifted to the edges, close enough to listen.
“The battle itself lasted less than an hour,” the guide called, his accent clipped but clear as he gestured to the open ground.
“Less than an hour to shatter an army—and with it, the Jacobite cause. Cumberland’s troops cut down near half the Highland force.
Many men never even reached the government lines. ”
He pointed toward the field, umbrella tucked under his arm. “Here, the Jacobites charged—into musket fire, grapeshot, bayonets. Culloden wasn’t just defeat. It was slaughter,” the guide said.
A faint breeze brushed Heather’s face, cool and damp. She didn’t need to imagine screams or blood; the facts were enough. Men had stood where she stood now and not gone home again. That alone made her shoulders square a little.
Flynn’s fingers brushed hers in a small, grounding touch. She glanced up; he tipped his chin toward the guide, jaw tight but respectful.
As the group shuffled closer to the memorial cairn, the guide went on, voice dipping slightly. “In the months that followed, the Highlands changed forever. Disarmament, punishments, executions. For many here, this ground isn’t just historical, it’s personal.”
Heather let the words wash over her, her gaze roaming the moor. The family taking a photo beside a clan stone, the older couple walking hand in hand, the scattered markers across the field—it all felt layered. Grief, memory, and everyday life trying to make room between them.
When the guide paused to invite questions, Flynn waited a beat, then lifted his voice just enough to carry.
“Mind if I ask something a wee bit off the beaten path?” he said, tone polite. “You hear folk talk about the Jacobite gold. Any truth to it touching this place?”
Heather cut him a quick look—half scandalized, half impressed.
Really?
The guide’s brows rose, but he didn’t seem offended; if anything, he appeared faintly amused.
“Ah, the gold. A popular question,” he said.
“Aye, there are tales—Spanish and French coin meant for the Prince, shifted across the Highlands after the defeat. Some say it passed near here on its way west. Others claim it vanished near Loch Arkaig. But as for Culloden itself…” He gave a small, rueful smile.
“No proof of treasure under our feet. Just stories that stick to the name.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moved through the group. Heather’s heart gave a small, traitorous lift.
Stories that stick.
Flynn’s hand brushed hers again, the touch casual to anyone watching, his thumb giving one quick, reassuring stroke. When she met his eyes, he only tilted his head, as if to say: You were wondering too.
“Relax, lass,” he murmured. “If the question bothered them, they’d have banned it from the script by now.”
Heather huffed, fighting a smile. “A little warning would be nice next time.”
“And miss that look on your face?” His lips twitched. “Never.”
As the group began to drift back toward the visitor centre, an older man in a weathered cap and with a walking stick lingered near them. His gaze slid from Flynn to Heather, sharp despite the age in his face.
“Ye asked about the gold,” he said, voice roughened by years and weather.
Flynn dipped his head respectfully. “Aye. Old stories travel far.”
The man’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile. “They do that. I’ll tell ye this much: Culloden didnae keep it. If there’s truth to the tales, it’s Loch Arkaig ye want. Chests went West, so they say.”
Heather’s fingers curled at her sides. “You believe that?” she asked, keeping her tone light.
The man’s eyes crinkled, but his gaze was steady.
“When I was a lad, I believed it enough to try.” He leaned on his stick, voice dropping.
“Took a wee boat out with a mate. Thought we’d map out the shallows, find somethin’ clever men had missed.
Loch turned on us quick—wind, current, all at once.
Boat near went over. My friend swore somethin’ had hold of his leg, pullin’ him under. ”
Heather felt a prickle race down her arms.
He tapped his stick lightly against the path. “We made it back. I never set foot on that loch again.”
Heather tried for a skeptical smile. “Currents can be nasty in the Highlands, I’ve heard.”
“Aye,” the man agreed easily. “Or maybe the old ones are right, and there’s a kelpie guardin’ what’s not meant for mortal hands. Either way…” His gaze lingered on Heather a heartbeat longer. “Loch Arkaig’s taken more than one fool’s boat. The gold doesnae seem fond of bein’ found.”
He straightened with a soft grunt. “Stories keep folk alive, lass. Best not forget that.” Then he tipped his cap and shuffled back toward the group.
Heather exhaled slowly, watching him go.
Flynn slid his hand into hers, fingers warm against her chilled skin. “Och, Campbell. Gold, ghosts, and now a water horse,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “Quite the day out.”
Heather let out a short laugh. “He nearly lost his friend,” she said quietly. “That’s not exactly a tourist anecdote.”
Flynn’s smile faded to something more thoughtful. “No. But he’s here to tell it, and the friend is too, by the sound of it. Some folk wrap close calls in legend. Makes it easier to point at the monster than the map.”
She glanced up at him. “So you think there’s truth in it?”
He nodded once. “There’s always a reason stories hang on. Maybe it’s not a kelpie, just a current that doesnae care how clever we are. Maybe it’s superstition layered over something very real. Either way, sounds like Loch Arkaig’s no place to swagger in blind.”
Heather’s stomach did a little flippy, anxious-excited twist. Eleanor’s warning nudged at her again, but so did the pull of the hunt. “Then that’s where we have to go,” she said, voice softer but sure. “Carefully. But still… go.”
Flynn studied her, storm-grey moor reflected in his eyes. “Aye,” he said finally. “We’ll go. But we do it steady. No heroics. I’ve no mind to let a cursed loch—or a very cranky current—take you from me, mo chridhe.”
Heat bloomed low in her chest at the endearment, at the simple, unshowy way he said it.
She squeezed his hand. “Then steady steps,” she agreed.
Flynn leaned in, his lips brushing her temple, words meant only for her. “And if the loch has teeth,” he murmured, “let it try biting me first.”