Chapter 25
T he sea mist hit Fiona first.
Cold, briny, sharp with kelp and storm.
It clung to her lashes, salted her tongue, threaded itself into her hair like a warning—or a welcome. Even before Harris gripped her waist and lifted her down from the fishing boat, she felt it:
Skye was different.
Older than the mainland. Wilder than Lochaber.
A place that didn’t bow to kings or redcoats or men with guns and grudges.
A place that breathed in deep, tidal lungs.
Wind barreled down the narrow inlet, tearing through her cloak and yanking her curls clean off her face.
Great basalt cliffs towered above them, spines of black rock rising like the ribs of a long-dead giant whose bones still shaped the island.
Gulls wheeled overhead, crying sharp warnings to no one in particular.
The tide foamed white at her boots, hungry as a living thing.
The boatman shoved off so fast she barely had both feet on land before he was rowing for his life. He didn’t look back. Sensible men rarely did.
Harris stood beside her with Dubh’s reins in hand, scanning the ridge the way hunted men count exits.
“You’ve been here before,” Fiona snorted, seeing the way his shoulders tightened. Not in nostalgia, but in old dread.
“Aye.” His voice nearly vanished into the wind. “But not when the price on my head could buy a kingdom.”
She huffed. “A steep price for a man who nearly drowned himself for dramatics.”
He ignored her.
Typical.
“Flora will be waitin’,” he said.
“Flora who?”
He did not elaborate.
Also typical.
So she followed.
Up the slope.
Into a wind that smelled of peat-smoke, ancient stone, and secrets older than clan feuds.
Dubh snorted behind them, ears flicking at every gust as though decoding messages carried across the island. Fiona reached out to comfort him.
He leaned away by exactly an inch, politely offended.
“Rude,” she muttered.
“He approves of ye,” Harris said.
“He won’t even let me touch him.”
“Aye, he’s not tryin’ tae end ye though.” As if that were the height of praise. “Approval.”
She glared at the horse. Dubh glared right back.
They crested the hill.
And there, tucked between two jutting rocks as if sheltered by the land itself, stood a cottage. Low-roofed. Weather-beaten. Smoke curling from the chimney in a thin, skewed ribbons.
A place hidden, not merely remote.
A woman stepped out before they reached the door.
Tall. Sharp-eyed. Dark hair in a storm-tossed braid.
Her cloak was fastened with a silver stag brooch.
Fiona knew the stories.
Everyone did.
This woman had risked her life for a prince. Had outwitted redcoats. Had carried rebellion like a secret flame beneath her ribs.
“Flora MacDonald,” Fiona breathed in awe.
Flora’s gaze flicked to her.
Not warmly.
Not kindly.
Assessing.
Measuring.
Deciding whether Fiona Cameron was a liability, an intruder… or a danger.
Harris gave a nod that bordered on reverence. “Flora.”
“Harris Mackenzie.” Her voice was Skye-soft, but forged of iron. “Ye took yer time.”
“Had to shake a few redcoats,” he said. “And this one.” He jerked his chin toward Fiona.
Fiona bristled. “I’m right here.”
Flora did not look amused.
Her eyes swept Fiona head to toe—muddy boots, wind-tangled curls, bruises, stubborn chin. Then her gaze settled on Fiona’s eyes.
It sharpened.
“Cameron?” Flora asked.
Fiona swallowed. “Aye.”
“That explains the fire,” Flora murmured.
Not the hair, not the temper.
The fire.
As if she were identifying something volatile.
Fiona couldn’t tell if she’d been insulted or warned.
Flora stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to let Fiona feel the weight of her presence.
“Ye’ve a dangerous look,” Flora said quietly. “Folk who come to Skye with that look usually bring trouble.”
Fiona stiffened. “I brought nothing but myself.” she retorted hotly.
“That’s often the worst thing ye can bring.”
Harris shifted, about to interject, but Flora cut him off with a flick of her hand—sharp, commanding.
“Ye vouch for her?” Flora asked him without breaking eye contact with Fiona.
Harris hesitated.
Hesitated!
That alone burned Fiona colder than the wind.
Flora’s lips twitched—not a smile. More like confirmation of a private suspicion.
“Come,” Flora said at last, lifting the latch. “Inside. While the tide’s still on our side.”
But as Fiona stepped past her, Flora’s fingers brushed her arm—light as a thread, cold as a blade.
“Mind yourself, lass,” Flora murmured. “I’ve no patience for the untested.”
She released her.
Fiona’s spine locked straight. Not out of fear, but something very close to it.
No one had ever looked at her the way Flora MacDonald just had:
Not like a nuisance.
Not like a lassie .
Not like a threat to be dismissed, but like a threat to be eliminated if she proved dangerous.
And Fiona Cameron, fire-haired and furious, had no idea yet whether that made her want to run…
…or burn brighter.
A deep, settling warmth settled over Fiona.
A kettle hissing over the hearth while the faint sweetness of heather drying in bunches along the beams permeated the air.
The cottage felt carved out of the island itself: low stone walls, a roof that hummed quietly with wind, shelves crowded with jars of herbs and salves.
Outside, the sea still roared like a creature pacing its cage.
Here, the world held still.
Dubh was led around the back by an older man with a limp and weather-creased skin. His movements were practiced, spare. The kind of man who didn’t ask questions because he’d already survived the answers.
Flora moved differently than any woman Fiona had ever seen.
The stories had never captured her properly, instead too focused on the rebellion she carried and not enough on the woman who’d dared it. Up close, Flora MacDonald was striking in that quiet, Highland way that had nothing to do with fragility.
Her features were clean and symmetrical, softened by round cheeks and a generous mouth, but sharpened at the edges by resolve.
Her eyes—dark hazel, flecked with amber—were bright and assessing, the gaze of someone who had weighed many men and found most wanting.
A faint spray of freckles smattered the bridge of her nose.
Wind had kissed her skin pink; salt had curled the edges of her braid.
She wasn’t beautiful like a court painting. She was beautiful like Skye: wild, wind-carved, lasting.
Flora poured three cups of strong black tea and set them down with the care of someone who knew tea could anchor a person after too many storms.
“Ye’ve been followed?” Flora asked without preamble.
Harris stiffened. His fingers stilled on the cup. “Not to Skye.”
“No,” Flora agreed, easing into her seat, “but they’ll come. Word travels faster than hooves these days. And faster still when gold’s involved.”
Gold?
Fiona wrapped her hands around the cup, letting the heat unknot the cold ache in her fingers. Her bruises stung faintly, and the salty breeze had left her skin tight.
She needed warmth. Answers. Maybe a miracle.
“What’s on Skye that they want?” she asked.
Flora and Harris exchanged a look.
Her temper snapped like kindling.
Fiona jabbed a finger at Harris without taking her eyes off Flora.
“I’ve crossed half of Scotland for ye. Nearly drowned for ye. Been bruised, chased, frozen, and insulted by a horse—repeatedly. Someone speak plain.”
Harris opened his mouth.
Fiona snapped her hand up.
“Not you.”
He shut it again with a scowl.
Flora watched the exchange with amusement. Sharp, assessing, and wholly unimpressed. She set her cup down with deliberate care.
“I want the truth,” Fiona insisted, turning her full fire on her.
Flora lifted one brow, the corner of her mouth tilting. “Aye. Definitely Cameron fire.”
Harris muttered under his breath, “Cameron trouble.”
“Same thing,” Flora said easily, and Fiona felt absurdly exposed, as if the woman could read her very soul with a glance.
But the warmth vanished as Flora leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice dropping into something older than any of them.
“What Mackenzie carries,” she continued, “what the Prince entrusted tae us —it cannot be buried the way folk bury coin. Not in earth, where greedy men can dig. Not in water, where tides shift loyalty. Not where kings send soldiers sniffin’ like hounds.”
She let that settle.
Let Fiona hear the weight of it.
Harris crossed his arms, the movement defensive in a way Fiona had never seen before. “We melted what we could. Hammered it thin.”
“Plate,” Flora clarified. “Flexible. Light. Pure gold. Enough to buy a rebellion twice over. Enough to damn every soul who touches it.”
Fiona blinked, pulse thudding. “Where is it?”
Harris finally met her eyes.
“In Dubh’s saddle.”
Silence.
Then—
“You’re telling me,” Fiona enunciated, “that the Jacobite gold, the treasure men would kill for, has literally been under your arse this whole time?”
Flora snorted into her tea, a sound shockingly human from a woman who looked to be carved from Skye basalt.
Harris scowled, clearly offended in principle.
But Flora’s amusement faded as she straightened again, her posture shifting to something colder, a commander evaluating a liability.
“Understand me, lassie ,” Flora said, voice low and precise. “What ye’ve stumbled into is no’ a story for bards. If the wrong ears hear even a whisper o’ this, if ye breathe the Prince’s name in the wrong glen, or mention gold where a single redcoat walks—men will come for ye.”
Fiona stiffened, chin lifting.
Flora didn’t soften.
“Women, too,” she added. “Some worse than men.”
Harris shifted, ready to intervene, but Flora lifted a commanding and he stilled.
“Ye asked for truth,” she said. “Here it is: if ye jeopardize what Harris carries… I’ll put a knife between yer ribs myself. You wouldnae be the first sacrifice made for the cause.”
The words landed hard.
Fiona’s breath hitched before she could stop it: a small, instinctive reaction she despised herself for.