Chapter 10
T he river carried too many ghosts.
Fiona Cameron stood at the edge of the River Ness, boots sinking into the sodden bank, and watched the slow curl of the current as if it might somehow return what the moor had taken.
The surface looked calm—polite, almost—with morning sunlight smoothing ripples into silver. But Fiona knew what lay beneath:
Currents that twisted, dragged, swallowed.
Cold that seared like iron.
Depths that did not give back what they claimed.
A breeze skimmed the shoreline, stirring the heather and carrying the faint clatter of carts from town, but none of it reached her fully. All she heard was the silence where her brothers’ voices should’ve been.
Six Cameron sons marched with the Prince.
One had crawled home long enough to grip her cheek, blood slicking his fingers as he whispered—
“Find the Mackenzie of Glenoran… he carries what might save us still.”
Find him.
Trust him.
Help him finish what the rest had died believing in.
Then he was gone, dragged away by redcoats with the others taken for questioning. She never saw any of them again.
Fiona closed her eyes. The wind lifted her ginger curls, tangling them across her cheek like a shroud.
“Enough,” she whispered to the water. “I’ve nae tears left.”
She straightened, steeling her spine, wiping her cheek with the heel of her palm.
Culloden had ended their cause.
But it had not ended her.
She turned toward Inverness, its lamps still guttering in the early light. Narrow wynds. Stone streets slick with rain. Taverns thick with whisky and regret. And rising among them—the gallows had gone up overnight, as if the English feared even the ghosts.
Find the Mackenzie of Glenoran.
Rumor said he’d been the Prince’s shadow.
A spy in the dark.
A blade in the fog.
The English thought him dead.
The clans whispered otherwise.
She followed the noise of a tavern spilling raucous music into the street: fiddles, shouting, the scrape of chairs on stone. Then she stopped short.
Tied to a post outside the door, reins knotted hastily, stood Dubh.
A coal-black stallion with a thick mane and a temperament that could frighten half a regiment. A horse that had carried kings, messengers, and, according to legend, one Harris Mackenzie.
Fiona gaped at him. “Well,” she muttered, “subtlety’s no’ yer master’s strong suit.”
Dubh turned his head and snorted, unimpressed.
“Ye look like a curse dressed in horseflesh,” she said fondly, stroking his warm flank. “They’ll see ye comin’ from a village away.”
Fiona stroked his warm flank, but Dubh flicked his head back, nearly nipping her.
She smirked. “If you’re tryin’ to stay hidden, laddie, you might consider bein’ less… magestic.”
The horse cocked an ear, as if agreeing.
Inside, the reek of whisky, sweat, rain-soaked wool, and woodsmoke hit her like a blow. Drunken laughter rolled across the room, loud enough to conceal sins.
She wove through the crowd, ignoring the stares her flame-bright hair always invited.
Then she saw him.
Corner table. Half in shadow.
Harris Mackenzie.
His reputation had not done him justice. Tall, with shoulders broad enough to block the firelight behind him. Hair falling unkempt over his brow. A dark stubble cut along a jaw clenched tight. A man carved from equal parts grief and grit.
His left sleeve was ripped, bandaged underneath. A bruise bloomed along his temple, and his fingers curled around a near-empty dram of whisky.
He looked tired enough to break, but stubborn enough to refuse.
Fiona stepped to his table.
“Ye’ll be needing a different horse,” she said.
He didn’t look up at first, just swirled the amber liquid in his glass.
“And who are you to tell me what I need?” he asked, voice rough from disuse.
“Someone observant,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Dubh is magnificent, but he’s a bloody beacon. The redcoats could spot that brute from half the Highlands away.”
That made him look up.
Dark eyes. Sharp. Intelligent.
“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said.
“And you’ve got half the Crown’s army huntin’ yer shadow.” Fiona snatched the whisky from his hand and downed what was left. “Ye know, I thought you’d be smarter than to tie up your mythic beastie right outside the tavern facin’ the gallows.”
He took the empty glass back, setting it down with a soft thud. “If you’re tryin’ to flirt with me, lass, you’re doin’ a mighty poor job of it.”
Fiona scoffed. “I’m tryin’ to keep you alive, Mackenzie.”
That got his full attention.
His gaze narrowed. “Who told you my name?”
“My brother,” she said quietly. “Before the redcoats dragged him from the stall he was hidin’ in after Culloden. He said you carry what’s left of our hope.”
Harris’s expression flickered—pain, buried quick.
“You’d do well to forget me.”
She leaned closer, hands braced on the table.
“Not a chance.”
He rose abruptly, chair scraping. The lantern light caught the tension in his jaw, the tremor in his injured arm he tried to hide.
“Ye’ve no idea what you’re walkin’ into,” he tossed, sharp as an insult. “Go home, lassie.”
“No,” she said simply.
His breath left him in something akin to disbelief. “Christ above. Stubborn fool of a woman.”
“Stubborn enough to help you,” she shot back.
“I dinnae need help.” He stepped past her.
She caught his sleeve.
“You do,” she whispered. “You’re wounded. Exhausted. Alone. And a bigger target than Dubh’s arse.”
A startled laugh escaped him—unwilling, begrudging.
But then his face shuttered again.
“Go,” he said, voice low. “While you still can.”
Fiona squared her shoulders. “I’m not afraid.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “You should be.”
He stepped closer. Close enough that she felt the heat of him. Close enough to smell smoke and rain and whisky on his skin.
“Turn around,” he said softly. “Walk out those doors, and forget you ever saw me.”
She lifted her chin in defiance. “No.”
Something wild sparked in his eyes.
And that was when the tavern door slammed open.
Redcoats burst in, muskets raised. “Search every table!”
Harris’s jaw snapped tight.
Fiona’s pulse thundered.
His hand closed hard around her wrist.
He leaned in, breath hot against her ear.
“Stay close to me.”
“I told you,” she whispered. “I’m not leavin’.”
His grip tightened—a warning, or a surrender, she couldn’t tell.
“Aye,” he muttered, dragging her toward the back door as soldiers fanned out. “And God help me…”
His eyes met hers, his voice thick with emotion.
“…maybe that’s the problem.”