Chapter 7
Heather—Present Day
T he road curved along the edge of Loch Lochy, the water steel-gray under the fading light. Heather leaned her head back against the seat, the day at Culloden sitting heavy in her muscles more than her mind.
Flynn’s hands were steady on the wheel, his gaze flicking to the darkening hills. “We’ll not push on to Arkaig tonight,” he said at last. “Best we start fresh in the mornin’. I’ve no mind to come face to face with a kelpie in the dark.”
Heather huffed a quiet laugh. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”
His mouth curved, quick and sly. “Och, Campbell. Doesnae matter what I believe, only that the loch’s no place to test stories at night.”
She wanted to tease him more, but the logic was hard to argue with. “So… Fort William, then?”
“Aye.” He cut her a sidelong glance, grin tugging wry. “And you’ll thank me when you’ve had supper and a bed instead of a boat and a water horse.”
Heather shook her head, fighting a smile as she looked back out at the dark water. “Fine. Fort William it is.”
By the time they rolled into town, lamps burned golden on the damp streets, music drifting from a pub at the edge of the square. Flynn parked in the gravel lot and tipped his chin toward the door.
“Pub’s got rooms upstairs,” he said. “We’ll get a meal, a wee dram, and maybe a song before the night’s out.”
Her lips curved, the edge of her tiredness loosening. “A song, huh?”
His grin went wicked, his brogue thickening. “Och, aye. Consider it… culture.”
The inn sat snug against the cobbled street, its windows glowing through the Highland mist. Inside, the air was warm with peat smoke and roasting meat, the hum of voices rolling through from the pub.
Flynn booked them a room upstairs—a plain but tidy space with a broad oak bed and a narrow window over the square.
Then he led her back down the creaking stairs toward the noise.
The pub was everything she’d hoped for: dark wood beams, brass lanterns, small tables crowded with locals and travelers. At the far end, a makeshift stage sat beneath a string of fairy lights, where a man tuned a guitar and a woman with a tumble of dark curls adjusted her stool.
She didn’t look like she belonged to a snug little bar so much as she belonged outside of time. Bare feet, simple dress belted at the waist, hair catching the firelight—earthy, unpolished, the kind of presence people turned toward without quite knowing why.
Even before she sang, the room seemed to lean her way.
Flynn guided Heather to a table near the back—far enough for space, close enough to see. “Two drams,” he told the barmaid when she came by, “and cock-a-leekie soup, if the pot’s still on.”
“It’s always on,” the woman laughed, jotting their order down before disappearing.
Heather shrugged off her coat, feeling the fire seep into her shoulders. “Cock-a-leekie?” she teased. “That’s really the name?”
Flynn leaned back in his chair, grin sly. “Of course. Chicken, leeks, barley. Fortifies a man against aquatic beasties and women who doubt his culinary wisdom.”
She rolled her eyes, though her mouth twitched. “You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Aye.” His eyes glinted. “Especially when you’re wrong.”
Their banter paused as the barmaid returned, setting down two generous pours of whisky and steaming bowls of soup that smelled like comfort. Heather wrapped her hands around the bowl, soaking in the heat, and took a careful spoonful. The rich broth was simple, but exceptionally good.
Flynn raised his glass. “To startin’ fresh in the morning. And not bein’ eaten by a kelpie tonight.”
Heather clinked hers against his, laughter warming her chest.
On stage, the woman leaned toward the crowd, her voice carrying clear. “This next one’s old,” she said. “Norse, passed down in the islands before it found its way here. The sort of thing a mother might sing over work or storm.”
Her companion set aside the guitar and lifted a small hand drum, his palm resting lightly on the skin. A low, steady beat thrummed into the air.
The woman’s voice rose unaccompanied—clear, steady, threaded with something ancient. The words rolled in a language Heather didn’t know, then slid unexpectedly into English, the melody turning familiar in a way that made her skin prickle.
“My mother told me…”
Heather stilled.
The line unfurled, a promise of ships and oars and distant shores, the rhythm like waves under the drum. The tune hooked into her, sharp and sudden. Her spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered against the bowl.
Flynn’s brow knit. “Campbell?”
She barely heard him.
Because beneath the singer’s voice, another layered in her memory—soft and absentminded over the clink of a wooden spoon, sunlight on a worn kitchen table.
Her mother, humming the same rise and fall. No words then, just melody. The one Heather had never been able to place.
The drumbeat moved on, the refrain circling back. Heather swallowed hard. “That’s it,” she whispered. “That’s the song. Mom used to hum that.”
Flynn’s hand closed over hers, warm and steady. No joke. No comment. Just his thumb tracing once across her knuckles while the song moved through the room.
The last note faded into a quiet that held for a heartbeat before the pub broke into polite applause.
Around them, conversation began to swell again, but the sound felt distant.
The tune was still loud in Heather’s chest, like it had been waiting there all along and was only now making itself known.
She stared down at her whisky, fingers tightening around the glass.
I wish Byrdie were here.
The thought came out of nowhere, oddly sharp. That ridiculous, bossy cat would have climbed into her lap without hesitation, simply existing there until the tightness in her chest eased. No questions. Just presence.
Heather blinked, willing the sting in her eyes to back off. The lamplight blurred a little at the edges.
“Mo chridhe.”
Flynn’s voice cut gently through the fog in her head. She turned to find him watching her, his expression open and steady in a way that made something inside her unclench.
“Stay with me,” he said quietly.
Heather drew a breath and nodded. “I’m here.”
He held her gaze for a beat, making sure, then reached for his whisky with a small, crooked smile. “Good. Hate to think the lass beside me’s driftin’ off to Valhalla when I’ve only just ordered her supper.”
A laugh broke from her, thin but real. The knot in her throat loosened a notch.
As the warmth of the room eased back in—the fire, the clink of cutlery, the low murmur of talk—Heather’s fingers traced the rim of her glass.
“It feels like she’s… nudging me,” she admitted, the words slipping out softer than she meant. “Like my mom left bits of herself scattered around, and I’m just now seeing them.”
Flynn didn’t dismiss it. He just studied her for a moment, then lifted his glass in a small salute. “Then maybe you’re exactly where you’re meant to be,” he said. “And she ken it long before you did.”
The lump in her throat rose again.
Flynn’s hand slid back over hers on the table, rough palm warm. “Heather,” he said quietly, “I love you.”
There was no grand swell of music, no dramatic pause from the rest of the pub. Just his voice, low and sure.
Her heart jolted, like someone had changed the rhythm for a second. She’d felt it building between them for months, but hearing it out loud still knocked the air from her lungs.
She opened her mouth and found… nothing ready to come out.
He must have seen the panic flicker across her face, because his thumb stroked over her hand once, easy. “Dinnae say it back till you’re ready, lass,” he said, with that small, familiar half-smile. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
She eased with those words and swallowed, the edges of her vision sharpening again.
“You really don’t make things simple, do you?” she managed, a shaky huff of a laugh.
Flynn’s smile went a touch boyish. “Where’s the fun in simple?”
She shook her head, though the corners of her mouth curved despite her. “You’re the worst.”
“Aye, but you like me that way,” he murmured, tapping his glass lightly against hers before taking a slow sip.
She focused on her soup for a while, letting the warmth occupy her hands while her thoughts caught up. Still, she could feel him there beside her—a steady presence rather than pressure, which somehow made it harder and easier all at once.
“You ever think,” she said eventually, voice lower, “that maybe we’re not the ones doing the chasing? That the stories, the history… maybe they’re the ones that keep circling back to us?”
Flynn tilted his head, considering. The pub hummed on, but he stayed locked on her.
“Maybe so,” he said finally. “But if it keeps finding us, I’d say we’re holdin’ our own.”
Heather snorted, unexpected amusement bubbling through. “You’re insufferable.”
“Insufferably charming,” he corrected, flashing the grin that always managed to trip her pulse.
She hid a smile in her glass.
By the time their plates were cleared and another song drifted through the room, Flynn leaned close, his voice brushing her ear in that low rumble that never failed to unsettle her in entirely inconvenient ways.
“Come on, lass. Best get some rest. We’ve a temperamental loch waitin’ on us tomorrow.”
Heather’s heartbeat hopped. “Rest,” she echoed, trying for dry but not quite getting there.
Flynn’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin as he pushed back his chair. He held out his hand. “Aye, Campbell. Rest. That’s exactly what I meant.”
She slipped her hand into his, his fingers closing warm around hers as he helped her up. The pub carried on with music, laughter, and clinking glasses, as if nothing had shifted.
But something had.
As they threaded toward the narrow stairs at the back, his thumb brushed over her knuckles once more. His hand settled at the small of her back as they started up, easy, familiar.
“Up you go, Campbell,” he murmured. “Long day ahead.”