Chapter 17 #2
“God help me… it was the only thing that’d make those bastards back off,” Harris said, breath unsteady, voice still shaking with leftover fury.
“A woman alone is sport to men like that. But a wife wi’ her husband at her back…
” He shook his head once. “Different rules. Even redcoats mind a husband’s claim. ”
My wife.
The words still thrummed in the air between them: too bold, too reckless, too intimate for two people who barely knew each other.
Fiona stepped closer before she meant to.
Harris didn’t move.
Not an inch.
He only watched her, chest rising hard, knuckles scraped raw, jaw tight with the adrenaline of killing or being killed. A stranger who had thrown himself into a fight he couldn’t win… for her.
“You came back,” she said quietly.
His gaze flicked away, as if the truth embarrassed him. “Aye.”
“Why?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He looked anywhere but her face.
“The hills aren’t safe for anyone alone.”
Then, softer—almost grudging:
“Least of all a lass who thinks she’s made of iron.”
She bristled. “I am plenty capable.”
“I saw that,” he said, glancing at the bruise on her cheek. “But three English bastards outweigh yer courage every time.”
Heat flared in her chest a maelstrom of anger, pride, something wilder. “So you came crashing in like some knight out of a bard’s tale?” she retorted.
His mouth actually twitched, just barely. “I dinnae do rescuin’. I do what needs doin’. And you were outnumbered.”
She should have snapped back. Should have told him she didn’t need him.
But the truth sat between them, heavy and undeniable—
She might’ve been dead without him.
And he’d known that.
And he’d come anyway.
Even though she was a stranger.
Even though it should’ve been none of his concern.
Harris dragged a hand through his hair, breath still ragged.
“What I said was for their benefit, not yours.”
“I know,” Fiona said, though something traitorous inside her hadn’t quite believed it.
His gaze met hers then, and the world narrowed to the space between them.
Two people who barely knew each other.
But who had just run headlong into life and death together.
No familiarity.
No trust.
Just instinct.
And the dangerous spark of something neither of them had the sense, or the desire, to put out.
He didn’t tell her to leave.
He didn’t warn her off.
He didn’t rebuild the wall.
He just stood there, breathing hard, watching her like he hadn’t planned for this twist in his story and didn’t know how to walk around it.
And for the first time, Fiona realized—
Harris Mackenzie hadn’t just saved her.
He’d chosen her.
If only for a moment.
If only because something in him refused to let her break in front of him.
He turned slightly, nodding toward the fire. “Your horse’ll settle in a bit. Sit, if ye like.”
It wasn’t an invitation.
Not really. But it wasn’t a dismissal, either.
And for a man like Harris Mackenzie, running, hunted, and alone,
That meant everything.
Fiona stepped toward the fire.
He didn’t stop her.
And somewhere deep inside, something irrevocable shifted.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the first thread of a bond neither of them realized they’d already started tying.
By the time the moon climbed past the trees, the woods had quieted again. No soldiers, no snapping twigs, nothing but the sigh of wind and the restless snort of Dubh stamping at the underbrush.
Fiona sat by the fire Harris had built as her cheek throbbed where the redcoat’s slap had bloomed purple. Harris worked in silence across from her, sharpening his dirk with long, deliberate strokes, each scrape cutting through the night.
He hadn’t told her to leave.
But he hadn’t exactly invited her to stay.
Typical.
Fiona watched him from the corner of her eye. The firelight carved him in pieces—jaw tense, knuckles split, shirt torn just enough to show the dark smear of blood where his bandage had soaked through.
“You’re bleeding again,” she said finally.
“Aye.”
“You should sit still.”
“I am sittin’ still.”
She glared at him. “You should let me see to it.”
“I dinnae need tendin’.”
“You do,” she insisted, rising despite her sore hip. “You’ll trail blood like breadcrumbs for the next patrol.”
His eyes snapped up, sharp as flint. “Sit down, lass.”
“Stop calling me lass.”
“Then stop orderin’ me about.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again, and sat anyway, lowering herself stiffly beside the fire. Harris resumed sharpening his blade, though his jaw still clenched like a man who wanted to argue but didn’t have the breath for it.
Silence stretched between them.
Not hostile.
Not comfortable.
Just… aware.
Fiona shifted, pulling her cloak tighter. The night was colder than she’d expected, the adrenaline flush long gone now, leaving her shivering.
Without a word, Harris tossed a spare blanket across the fire.
Fiona startled. “What’s this?”
“Ye’re cold.”
She blinked. “You noticed.”
“I notice everythin’ that’ll keep us alive another day.”
It was not kindness.
She wrapped herself anyway.
Harris finally set the dirk down and stood, grimacing as his wound pulled. Fiona’s worry flickered outward before she could swallow it back.
“You’ll tear it open worse if you keep messin’ about.” she huffed.
His eyes darted to her. “You’re observant.”
“I’ve had to be.”
Something in his expression softened—a fraction, barely there—before he tore his gaze away and limped toward Dubh. The stallion nudged him hard, snorting and pawing at his coat.
“Aye, laddie,” Harris muttered, stroking the horse’s muzzle. “I’m here.”
The tenderness shocked her.
He hadn’t touched Fiona like that, not even when he’d checked her for injuries. But Dubh leaned into him like the two shared one breath between them.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
When Harris returned to the fire, he lowered himself slowly, careful of his side. They sat in a loose triangle—man, woman, fire—bound together by a night none of them had planned.
Finally, Fiona asked the question prickling her spine.
“Why are you still here?”
He didn’t answer at first. His jaw worked once, twice, like he was chewing down whatever truth wanted out. Harris stared into the fire, flames casting his profile in harsh gold, revealing every scrape, every line of exhaustion etched deep since Culloden.
“Two reasons,” he said at last.
She waited.
“One,” Harris murmured, “a redheaded Cameron ridin’ alone calls trouble like blood calls wolves.”
She scoffed. “And the second?”
His gaze flicked to hers—brief, searing.
“Because I didnae like how it felt,” he said quietly, “watching you ride away.”
Heat flickered in her cheeks, one borne of anger, surprise, and something far more treacherous. She hated the way those words landed; and hated even more that some part of her warmed to them.
He quickly looked away again, almost as if ge regretted the admission. “But dinnae think it means more than it does. We travel no farther together than necessary.”
“Necessary for what?” she challenged.
“To see ye safely to the next village.”
“And after that?”
His jaw clenched. “After that, lass, you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine.”
She swallowed.
The fire popped. Dubh huffed, and Fiona tucked the blanket tighter around herself.
Harris shifted, subtle pain tightening his mouth. She reached for her satchel before she could stop herself.
“I can stitch that,” she said.
“I said I dinnae need—”
“You do.” She met his gaze, unyielding. “Let me choose that,” she said, quieter this time. “Scotland’s lost enough men to this war. I’ll no’ let her lose another because he’s too stubborn to let someone help.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Respect, irritation, surrender? She couldn’t tell.
He sighed, long and low. “Fine. But if you botch it, I swear I’ll—”
“Oh hush,” she muttered, moving toward him. “You’ll live.”
His answering glare held no heat.
She knelt beside him. His breath feathered her hair. The fire warmed her cheek while moonlight silvered his.
Harris went utterly still, watching her like a man who’d rather take on another platoon of redcoats than admit what the air between them was doing.
“Get on with it,” he said gruffly.
She stitched him carefully. Quietly.
And he didn’t look away once. His skin jumped beneath her touch, a sharp inhale cutting through the quiet. She pretended not to notice; he pretended he hadn’t made a sound.
When she was done, he muttered, “Not bad, lass.”
“Fiona,” she corrected softly.
Slowly— slowly —he repeated it.
“Fiona.”
Something curled low in her belly at the sound of it: her proper name, shaped by his voice.
Neither spoke after that.
The fire burned low. The wind eased. Dubh settled.
And for the briefest moment, surrounded by dark woods and danger pressing at their backs, Fiona Cameron felt something unfamiliar since the Prince raised his standard at Glenfinnan—
Safe.