Chapter 17
T he wynd behind the tavern still reeked of whisky, piss, and fear.
Fiona pressed her back to the cold stone wall, breath coming fast as redcoat boots thundered through the tavern’s front room. Harris had shoved her through the kitchen door with one sharp, unarguable command—
“Stay put. Dinna move.”
Then he vanished like smoke, swallowed by the night.
She peeked around the corner, noticing Dubh’s reins were gone. No black horse. No tall, impossible man with a jaw like a blade and the survival instincts of a startled crow.
“He bolted,” she muttered. “The reckless bastard actually bolted.”
Inside, the tavern erupted—chairs cracking, men shouting, the heavy slam of musket butts against timber. A tankard rolled out the door and clattered against the stones near her feet.
“Aye,” she whispered dryly. “No wonder the Prince trusted him; he’s either brilliant or suicidal.”
A crash made her flinch.
Time to leave.
Fiona slipped down the alley, cloak pulled tight, boots silent against the slick stones. Inverness crawled with redcoats tonight; far too many for her liking, and far too sober. Patrol torches cut through the fog in jagged lines, and every shadow felt like a lurking musket barrel.
She kept low, sliding through the wynd behind the cooper’s shop until she reached the livery. A thin, stooped man fed hay to a pony by lantern light.
Tam Sanderson blinked at her. “Fiona Cameron? Lass, what in God’s broken—”
“You owe me a favor,” she said briskly, striding up. “Two winters ago? Yer sister’s bairn choking on a neep? Who got it out?”
Tam paled. “Aye. Aye, right. What d’ye need?”
“A horse. One that’ll keep pace. Dried meat if you have it.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Where’re ye goin’?”
“After a man too stupid tae stay alive without supervision.”
Tam blinked. “Which one?”
She mounted the horse. “Take yer pick.”
Fiona Cameron had many virtues. Patience was not one of them.
Three days of mist, mud, and pine-bitten cold.
Three days of tracking the broad hoofprints of a ghost-ridden black stallion across the Highlands.
Three days of sleeping beneath trees, waking at every snapping twig, and muttering curses into her cloak.
And not once, not once , did Harris Mackenzie look over his shoulder.
“It’s no’ possible,” she muttered, crouching behind a fallen log at dusk on the third day. “Either he’s blind, or—”
“A bit further left, lass,” a deep voice called. “If ye mean to sneak, ye might as well do it properly.”
Fiona froze.
Then flushed. Hard.
Slowly—slowly—she rose.
Harris stood beside a small fire in a hollow between pines, sleeves rolled, jacket slung over a branch. Dubh grazed nearby, smugly flicking his tail.
Fiona scowled. “How long have you known I was there?”
“Since the river crossing outside Inverness,” he said casually, turning the rabbit he was cooking. “Ye ride heavy in the saddle. And your mount breathes loud.”
Her mouth fell open. “I do not—!”
“And,” he added cutting her off, “ye hum when you’re concentratin’.”
Fiona’s entire body went hot. “I do NOT hum—”
“Aye, ye do.” He glanced up at her, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “Bonnie wee tune, right enough.”
“And you didn’t SAY anything?”
He shrugged. “Wanted to see how long ye’d last.”
Her jaw clenched. “And how long did I last?”
“Longer than I’d’ve wagered,” he admitted.
Mortification burned up her spine. “Why didn’t you stop me sooner?!”
“Because,” he said, “I dinnae want your help.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You need it.”
He finally looked up, really looked, and the air between them thickened.
“You’ve no idea what I’m doin’,” he said quietly.
“Then tell me.”
“I won’t.”
“Why not?”
His jaw flexed, haunted.
Fiona recognized that look.
She’d seen it in mirrors since Culloden.
“Because if you ken the truth,” he murmured, “you’ll end on a gallows rope beside me.”
Her chest pinched. “My brothers died for this cause. My father bleeds for it still. If the Prince trusted you, then whatever you’re carrying matters to every Cameron living.”
He didn’t answer. His knuckles whitened around the spit handle.
“You’re young,” he muttered finally.
“And you,” she snapped, “are bleeding through your bandage.”
That startled him. His gaze flickered to his side.
“Still no,” he said.
She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Why?”
“Because I’m hunted every day,” he growled. “And another body beside mine only makes it easier for them to track me.”
Fiona stepped closer, firelight catching her fierce eyes. “Let me choose the risk.”
He looked at her long—long enough she wondered if he was counting her heartbeats.
Then he turned away. “No.”
The word landed like a slap.
Fiona inhaled sharply, pride trying to swallow the ache beneath it. “Fine. If ye willna have my help, I’ll leave.”
He didn’t respond.
Not one word.
That… hurt more than it should have.
She mounted her horse with stiff shoulders. “Good night to you, Mackenzie.”
“Aye,” he said without turning. “Safe travels, lass.”
Something in her wilted as she rode into the dark.
Alone.
The forest encompassed her.
Moonlight slit through the branches, silvering the narrow path. Fiona tightened her cloak against the night chill.
“Stubborn, impossible man,” she muttered under her breath. “Let him rot in a bog. I hope he chokes on his—”
A twig snapped.
She stilled.
Her horse’s ears pricked.
Another snap.
Boot on stone.
“I know you’re there,” she called, straightening her spine. “If ye mean to rob me, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Three shadows stepped onto the path.
Red.
Coats.
One smirked. “Look what wandered into our woods, boys.”
Fiona’s pulse spiked. “I’m on my way home.”
“Home?” The lead soldier prowled closer, the smile on his lips thin as a blade. His gaze swept over her with slow, practiced cruelty. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out alone.”
“I like the quiet,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, she likes the quiet,” he repeated with a chuckle, glancing over his shoulder. “Hear that, boys? She’s lookin’ for a peaceful night.”
A low ripple of laughter—dark, hungry—rolled through the trees.
Before she could wheel her horse around, he seized the bridle and wrenched.
The world snapped sideways.
Fiona was ripped from the saddle, slamming into the mud hard enough that her ears rang. Pain shot up her hip.
Boots thundered in.
Hands closed around her arms.
She was dragged backward until her spine cracked against a tree, bark cutting through cloak and skin.
“Feisty,” one soldier murmured, gripping both her wrists in one fist so tight her fingers numbed. “Look at her squirm.”
Another pressed close—too close—the stench of sour ale hot on his breath as he grabbed her hip. “Warm little thing, isn’t she? Bet she runs hot.”
“Let me go,” she spat, twisting.
“Do that again,” he taunted, “and I’ll make you regret—”
She kneed him in the balls.
Hard.
He snarled and backhanded her so viciously that her head smacked the tree, vision exploding into white sparks.
Her horse reared behind them in terror as the third soldier stepped in, musket slung but ready. “A Cameron redhead, no less,” he muttered. “Out here with no escort? Nobody’ll mourn her.”
The ground tilted.
Her breath stuttered.
Where was Harris?
Had he really left her?
Had she followed him into the wilds only to die under three cowards’ boots?
The soldier pinning her arms twisted her wrists until she gasped. “You scream, sweetheart,” he whispered, “and we’ll make sure you’re quiet forever.”
The first man grabbed her chin, forcing her face up. His thumb brushing her bottom lip.
“Beg us nice,” he crooned, “and maybe we’ll be gentle.”
Her blood surged, hot and wild.
“Touch me again,” she hissed, “and I’ll carve out your—”
He reached for her cloak tie.
And then—
“LET. HER. GO.”
The voice cracked like thunder.
Every soldier froze.
A heartbeat later, Harris hit the first man so hard his skull bounced off a tree.
The second soldier swung his musket up, Harris wrenched it from his hands and used the butt of it like a hammer, slamming it down across the man’s forearm.
Bone snapped.
The soldier screamed.
The third lunged with a bayonet.
Dubh barrelled forward, massive and furious, knocking him flat as Harris caught the glint of steel and kicked the bayonet aside, sending it skidding into the dark.
Fiona’s captor finally released her—only because he was too busy trying not to die.
He scrambled backward.
Harris didn’t let him escape.
He stalked across the clearing, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed him into a tree so hard bark rained down like snow.
“If ye ever put your filthy hands on her again,” Harris snarled, voice low and lethal, “I willna wait for God’s judgment. I’ll dig yer grave so deep, the worms will freeze.”
The soldier spat blood. “Who the hell is she to you?”
Harris didn’t hesitate.
Not even once.
“My wife.”
The word snapped like a vow.
Silence dropped heavy as frost.
Fiona felt it like a blow—brutal, shocking, inexplicably warm.
“My wife,” Harris repeated, as if daring the world to contradict him. “Now run before I decide to leave ye here for the wolves.”
The man didn’t argue.
None of them did.
They fled, scrambling, limping, crashing through the underbrush in a blind panic.
Only when the last soldier vanished into the pines did Harris release his fist. His knuckles were bloodied, some his, most not.
Chest heaving.
Eyes wild.
Jaw tight with a fury so sharp it shook her.
He turned to her—and Fiona’s knees nearly buckled.
His coat was torn.
A fresh wound bled through his shirt.
Mud caked his boots.
His chest rose and fell like a war drum.
But his voice…
His voice softened the moment it landed on her.
“Did they hurt ye?” he asked, stepping close, scanning her face, her arms, her cheek where the soldier’s slap had bloomed into a bruise. “Tell me true, lass.”
Fiona swallowed. “I’m all right.”
Harris’s jaw flexed. “Yer not.”
They stood in silence for a beat.