Chapter 9
Heather—Present Day
H eather woke to the patter of rain against the window and the steady rise and fall of Flynn’s chest beneath her cheek. For a moment she stayed still, listening to his breathing, half afraid it might vanish if she moved.
It didn’t. He was there—warm, solid, steady.
When she shifted, his arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. “Mornin’, Campbell,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. One blue eye cracked open, glinting with mischief. “Were ye plannin’ to slip off and leave me snorin’?”
She huffed, propping herself on her elbow. “You were snoring. Loudly.”
His mouth curved. “Snorin’? Och, lass, that was the noble rumble of a Highland warrior at rest.”
Heather bit back a smile. “Noble, huh?”
Flynn stretched lazily, grin turning wicked as he leaned in.
“Aye. And every noble warrior needs his strength before facin’ a cursed loch.
Which means…” He dropped into that exaggerated fireside brogue, rolling the words like a storyteller.
“A grand bowl o’ parritch. Thick as mud, hot as the devil’s own breath, wi’ cream and honey enough to scare the kelpies right off. ”
Heather laughed, covering her face with her hand. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously hungry,” he corrected, tugging her hand down to kiss her knuckles. “C’mon, Campbell. Ye cannae face mythic beasts on an empty stomach.”
Downstairs, the pub was almost unrecognizable from the night before. Gone were the low lights and haunting songs. Morning bustle had taken over as coffee steamed in mugs, dishes clattered, and damp jackets draped over chair backs.
The air smelled like bacon, toast, and something thick and oaty. Heather followed Flynn to a small table by the window. A serving woman set down two bowls without asking.
“Parritch,” Flynn announced like he’d conjured it. He passed Heather a spoon with a flourish. “Fuel for cursed-loch chasin’.”
She eyed the bowl. Thick and steaming, with a drizzle of honey pooling in the middle. “This looks like cement.”
“Cement that’ll stick to yer ribs and keep ye warm when the kelpies come sniffin’,” Flynn said. “Eat up. Ye’ll thank me when we’re knee-deep in mud.”
She poked at it, then tried a bite—and paused. “Okay, rude. That’s actually really good.”
His brows shot up in triumph. “Och, careful. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”
“Don’t push it,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.
They ate quietly for a few moments, the hum of voices folding around them.
“So…” Heather set her spoon down. “Strategy. We know the stories point to Loch Arkaig. Eleanor saw Culloden as the doorway. But the loch itself… it’s not just folklore scary. Undertow, caves—real danger.”
Flynn leaned his elbows on the table, serious now. “Caves, aye? Then that’s the kelpie’s den.” His grin was quick but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll start simple. Shoreline first. No boats till we ken what we’re dealing with.”
“And if we find something?” Heather asked, raising a brow.
“Then we take it slow. No heroics, no daft risks.” His hand brushed hers, thumb tracing her knuckles. “I meant what I said last night. I’m no’ lettin’ some loch take ye.”
Her chest tightened, warmth creeping up her neck. She ducked her head, staring into her bowl. “Guess I’ll have to trust my rugged bodyguard, then.”
Flynn’s lips twitched. He slipped back into the brogue again. “Aye, yer braw manservant’ll see ye right. Even if he has to wrestle a water horse bare-handed.”
“I would pay to see that,” she said with a laugh.
“Stick wi’ me long enough, lass,”—he winked—“and ye might.”
By the time they pulled out of Fort William, the rain had eased to a fine mist. The wipers ticked lazily across the glass.
“So,” Heather said, nudging the canvas satchel with her boot, “what exactly did you cram in there? Please tell me it’s more than oatcakes and optimism.”
Flynn’s grin went smug. “Rope. Torches… or as you Americans call them, flashlights. Extra batteries. First aid kit. Compass and a proper map in case your precious GPS has a wee hissy. Work gloves. Knife. Binoculars. Oatcakes…” He lifted a brow. “And a flask.”
Heather opened the satchel and rifled through, pulling out a battered notebook. “And this? Treasure-hunting diary?”
“Notes, sketches, clues,” Flynn said easily. “And maybe the occasional doodle of a certain redheaded menace if the trail goes cold.”
She snorted and dropped it back in. “You’re insufferable.”
“Insufferably prepared,” he retorted, eyes back on the road.
The banter ebbed as the road narrowed, trees crowding close. Heather rested her forehead against the window, watching pine and rock blur by. Without thinking, she began to hum—low and aimless, the tune from the night before slipping out under her breath.
Flynn glanced over, jaw softening, but said nothing.
Heather caught herself and clamped her mouth shut. “Sorry. Habit.”
“Dinnae apologize,” he said quietly. “Suits ye.”
She twisted her fingers together in her lap. “It’s just… the closer we get, the less it feels like a fun legend. Kelpies, cursed gold, Eleanor’s ‘secrets with teeth’.” She let out a brittle laugh. “And all I’ve got are a lullaby and half a warning. Nothing from my mom herself.”
Flynn slid his hand over hers, eyes still on the slick curve of the road. “We’ve more than most. Proof the gold existed. Proof your blood was trusted with it. That’s not nothin’, mo chridhe.”
“But it’s not a map,” she pointed out with a sigh. “It’s not enough.”
“You’ll make it enough,” he said simply. “You’ve got this.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t agree. But she didn’t pull her hand away, either.
The forest thinned, and then the first glimmer of water appeared through the mist—broad, dark, still.
Flynn tipped his chin. “Loch Arkaig.”
Heather’s pulse picked up. “Yeah,” she said. “Guess so.”
He eased the truck into a gravel pull-off where a few cars and caravans were scattered along the shore. A pair of tourists in bright jackets were already picking their way toward the water, their voices thin in the damp air.
Heather climbed out, breath catching. The loch stretched wide and black under a flat gray sky, mountains crouched close around it. It was beautiful in a stark way, but the stillness prickled against her skin.
Flynn slung the satchel over his shoulder. “We’ll start easy. Walk the shore, get the lay of the land,” he proclaimed.
Heather nodded, but her gaze dragged back to the water’s surface. Flat. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Just nerves , she told herself.
They followed the gravel path, the fog thinning enough to reveal clusters of people along the bank. At first, Heather thought they were just more hikers.
Then she saw the gear.
Half a dozen men worked near the shoreline, rucksacks at their feet.
A generator hummed beside stacked metal cases.
One crouched over a sluice box in the shallows, adjusting it with practiced hands.
Another had a map spread over a rock, jabbing at it while the others leaned close.
Their voices were low and clipped, not tourist chatter.
Heather slowed.
One of the men straightened, broad-shouldered, weathered, eyes sharp as flint. He looked angry, and judging by the sheepish look on the workmen’s faces, he had just finished tearing someone a new asshole.
His gaze skimmed past Flynn—then caught on Heather and stayed there.
A jolt of recognition snapped through her. Dark coat, collar turned up. That same assessing stare cutting across a square in Inverness as people flowed around him.
The man from the bookshop. The one who’d turned away when she’d noticed him.
Her steps faltered.
Flynn’s arm brushed her back, steadying her. “Y’alright, pal?” he called out to the stranger.
The man kept looking. He pushed his hood back, studying her like she was a puzzle he almost had.
“Och aye,” he said. “Just… don’t I know you from somewhere, lass?”
Heat climbed Heather’s neck. She heard her own voice come out too fast, too bright. “Uh—no. Don’t think so.”
Her American vowels rang through the mist like a bell.
The man blinked, thrown for half a second, then gave a short, apologetic smile. “Och. My mistake, then.”
But he didn’t really look away. And behind him, the others had gone quiet, watching in that too-still way that made Heather’s stomach knot.
Flynn slid an arm around her shoulders, easy as anything, but the weight of it was deliberate. “Well,” he said pleasantly, “we’ll leave ye to it then.”
They walked on. Flynn didn’t rush, didn’t look over his shoulder, but he stayed half a step closer than usual, his body angled just enough to block her from the men’s line of sight.
“What the hell was that?” Heather muttered once they were out of earshot. Her voice came out thinner than she meant.
“Dinnae ken yet,” Flynn said under his breath. “But I don’t like it.”
They’d only gone a little farther when the crunch of tires on gravel made them both look up. Two trucks rumbled into view, mud spattering the wheel wells. One bore the logo of a local excavation company. The other, a dark Land Rover, had a magnetic decal for the Scottish History Museum on its door.
Men in high-vis jackets climbed down, unloading tripods, measuring rods, crates of tools. Someone hauled out a portable generator; its sputter grew into a low, constant thrum.
Heather slowed. “They’re digging here?”
“Looks that way,” Flynn said quietly. His eyes flicked from the contractors to the men at the shore. “That’s a lot of equipment for a wee look ’round.”
The passenger door of the Land Rover opened, and a woman stepped down, raincoat cinched tight. Sharp features, dark hair swept back in a low knot, posture crisp even in the mud.
Heather knew her instantly. “Dr. Henderson?”
The historian’s face brightened. “Miss Campbell.” She crossed the distance with quick, efficient strides and offered her hand. “Twice in a year! You’re becoming quite the figure in our little corner of history.”
Heather flushed, shaking her hand. “I didn’t know there was a dig happening out here.”