Chapter 33
S ix months had passed since the wedding.
Fiona measured time differently now. Not by dates, but by seasons of quiet. By how long the island let them pretend they were ordinary.
Autumn had come to Skye soft and watchful. The heather had dulled from purple to rust. The air smelled of the sea, and the wind carried news long before mouths did. Soldiers on the roads. New questions in the villages. Names written down instead of forgotten.
The rebellion was over.
The punishment was not.
Fiona stood at the croft’s narrow table, slicing oatcake with a careful hand. Harris sat by the hearth, mending a torn strap with a needle he still handled like a blade. He was slower than he used to be; he was not one used to idleness.
A man who had spent his life running didn’t know what to do when the ground stopped shifting beneath his feet.
“You’re starin’ again,” she said lightly.
He glanced up, caught, then huffed. “Hard no’ to. You’re reorganizin’ the whole place like it’s a campaign.”
She arched a brow. “It is a campaign. Against chaos.”
“That chaos has kept me alive.”
“And now it has a wife,” she shot back. “Adapt.”
He smiled—small, crooked, real.
That smile still startled her.
They had learned each other in pieces this year. In shared meals and shared silences. In the way Harris woke before dawn no matter how late they slept, hand already searching for a weapon forbidden by law. In the way Fiona memorized every path off the hill without meaning to.
They were safer married.
And also, more vulnerable.
Harris no longer wore his plaid openly. The Dress Act had made a criminal of cloth. Weapons were outlawed. Names were watched. A man who lingered too long in one place invited questions.
A man with a wife, however, invited leverage.
Harris rose and crossed the room, stopping behind her. He did not touch her at first, just stood close, a comfortable warmth at her back. The ordinary intimacy of it made something in her chest ache.
“I still don’t trust it,” he murmured.
“The quiet?” she asked.
“Aye. It’s unnatural.”
She snorted. “You’re exhausting.”
“And yet, ye married me anyway.”
She paused, knife hovering over the bread.
“Aye. I did, though I had no choice in the matter, remember?” She said as she stuck her tongue out jokingly.
He slid his hands to her waist then, slow, careful, like he was asking permission even after all this time. She leaned back into him without thinking.
The truth rose up between them, heavy and undeniable.
“Harris,” she said quietly. “This year—”
“I ken,” he said, too quickly.
She turned in his arms, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Do you?”
He searched her face like he was bracing for a blow.
“I was never meant to live like this,” he admitted. “Not long-term. Not safe. Men like me don’t get years.”
Her throat tightened. “But you did.”
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “Because of you.”
Her heart swelled as she reached for his hand.
His jaw flexed. He looked like a man facing a firing line.
“I love you,” he said, low and steady. Not loud enough for the walls. Just enough for her. “And it terrifies me.”
The dam broke.
She pressed her forehead to his chest, breath shaking. “I’ve been afraid to say it,” she admitted. “Like naming it would summon the Crown itself.”
His laugh was soft and broken. “They’d come whether we named it or not.”
She tipped her head back, eyes bright. “I love you too, you maddening bastard.”
His hands tightened. His mouth found hers—not frantic, not desperate, but deep and claiming in a way that felt earned. When he lifted her, it was unhurried.
They did not rush.
The fire burned low. The world narrowed. The door stayed closed.
Later, with their naked bodies entwined under blankets, Fiona traced idle circles over his ribs.
“Promise me something,” she murmured.
He kissed her hair. “Anything.”
“If the Crown comes,” she said. “If they force you to choose between running and staying—”
“I’ll choose you,” he said without hesitation.
Silence held them.
Fiona woke to the sound of boots.
Not marching.
Searching.
Harris was already dressed, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the crack beneath the door.
“Three sets,” he murmured. “Fresh. Heading straight for Flora’s croft.”
Her blood iced. “Redcoats?”
“Aye.” His voice was flat. “Or paid hunters. Either way, they’re too close.”
He grabbed her cloak and settled it around her shoulders with hands that were steady, but only barely.
“We leave. Now.”
They slipped out the back, climbing uphill into the heather, wind slashing their faces. Shouts echoed across the valley—much, much too close.
“Harris,” Fiona panted, “we’ll never reach the ferry. They’ll have the ports locked.”
“We’re not going near the ports.”
“Then where?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just reached out, instinctively covering the slight swell beneath her bodice with his palm.
“Home,” he said. “To Glenoran.”
Her throat tightened.
“Then… we run.”
Mist curled around them like specters by the time they reached the base of the great basalt spire. Fiona’s legs burned. Her lungs clawed for air. It was hard enough climbing the mountain not pregnant, and it was near impossible doing it when six months heavy with child.
Harris knelt beside the stone where they had carved a thistle months ago; softened now by wind and rain, but unmistakably theirs.
He took out their leather bound journal.
And the brass buckle marked H.M. 1747.
Fiona placed the journal into the hollow. Harris set the buckle on top.
“For Flora,” she whispered. “Or whoever comes after.”
Together, they replaced the stone.
A promise buried.
A breadcrumb for a future they’d never see.
A horn echoed across the moor—closer now.
“We go,” Harris urged. “Now.”
Flora found them before the soldiers did.
She burst through the mist like the wind had hurled her there—skirts soaked, cloak flung back, breath ragged, the journal clutched to her chest with the buckle missing.
Fiona’s heart jolted.
Flora never misplaced anything.
“Ye fools,” Flora panted. “Half the King’s dogs are on this hill.”
Harris grabbed her arm. “We need off the island.”
“Aye. I ken.” She jerked her chin sharply. “Follow me, quickly.”
They descended a narrow deer path between cliffs, the mist tightening around them like a noose. The ocean roared below, restless and black.
The path opened to a rocky cove no patrol would think to search. A lone fishing skiff bobbed in the surf, lantern dimmed.
A gruff old fisherman stood beside it, glaring like he regretted being born.
“Ye owe me for this, Flora.”
“Aye,” she muttered. “I’ll bake ye a tattie scone.”
He snorted. “Make it two.”
Fiona tightened her grip on Harris’s hand. “Where does this go?”
“Mainland,” Flora said. “First tae Raasay. Then tae Applecross. No watchposts. No soldiers. Just wind and sheep.”
“And once we’re across?”
“Ye head East,” Flora said, eyes burning. “And dinnae come back tae Skye—not for a long while.”
Something in Fiona cracked open.
She hugged Flora hard.
Flora froze, then crushed her in a fierce embrace, as if she’d been holding herself together for months.
“For Scotland,” Fiona whispered.
“For yer bairn,” Flora murmured back.
Fiona’s breath hitched.
Flora nudged them toward the boat. “Go.”
As the fisherman shoved the skiff toward the waves, he cast a wary glance at Dubh.
“Yer horse’ll balk,” he muttered. “Creature looks carved from thunder.”
“He won’t,” Harris said.
Dubh immediately bared his teeth.
Fiona raised her brows. “Aye. Picture of obedience.”
“It’s a short crossing,” Harris murmured, tightening his grip on the rope. “Sheltered. He can manage it.”
Fiona eyed the churning channel. “That’s what folk say before funerals.”
The fisherman crossed himself.
Harris led Dubh into the shallows. “Easy, laddie. Just a wee swim.”
Dubh snorted, stamping a massive hoof, as if deeply offended at the suggestion he couldn’t do something.
Then, with theatrical resignation, he waded in.
The cold hit first. Dubh jerked, then surged forward, swimming powerfully behind the skiff as the fisherman rowed hard.
Fiona leaned over the stern, heart hammering. “He’s… he’s doing it!”
Dubh glared at her mid-stroke, an expression so murderous she briefly wondered if drowning them was his end goal.
“He hates every second,” she whispered.
Harris’s voice gentled. “Aye. Hate means fight. Fight means breath.”
Halfway across, the current shoved them sideways. Fiona grabbed the rope in instinct.
“Don’t haul him,” Harris warned sharply, his hand closing over hers—warm, steady. “Let him find the line.”
Dubh angled his body, kicking harder, grunting with equine fury. Water parted.
“Sweet Christ,” the fisherman muttered. “The beast’ll drag us all tae hell!”
“Only if ye keep whining,” Harris shot back.
Minutes later, Dubh lunged onto Raasay’s pebbled shore. He reared—
—and shook.
A tidal wave of freezing water drenched Fiona head-to-toe.
She sputtered. “YOU MENACE—”
Harris doubled over laughing.
Not the guarded huff she’d heard before.
A real laugh.
Loud. Beautiful. Wrecked.
Fiona blinked water from her lashes. “He did that on purpose.”
“Aye,” Harris wheezed. “He likes ye now.”
“That was affection?!”
“Mhmm. He only drenches the people he claims.”
Dubh nudged her shoulder: firm, almost approving.
“If you ever do that again,” Fiona warned, “I’ll cut your legs off beneath ye.”
Dubh blinked innocently.
Then stole the oatcake from her pocket.
“OH FOR—”
Harris caught her wrist as she lunged. His hand lingered.
Their eyes met.
The laughter softened into something quieter.
Deeper.
“Come on,” he murmured. “There’s another crossing.”
The next boat was larger, broad-bottomed and solid. Two men stood ready, white-faced at the sight of Dubh.
“You expect us tae take that?” one stammered.
“Aye,” Harris said with a nod.
“Alive?”
Fiona rubbed her temples. “He’ll stand quiet.”
Dubh immediately shoved Harris, nearly sending him overboard.
“Eventually,” she amended.
It took three grown men and enough profanity to scorch the sea air, but Dubh was finally convinced aboard—legs braced wide, murder in his eyes.
When the boat pushed off, he pressed his face into Fiona’s shoulder, anxious as a child—though significantly heavier and smellier.
“Aww,” she murmured, stroking him. “Ye big bairn.”
Harris stared. “He’s never done that with a soul.”
Dubh pressed harder, nearly knocking Fiona sideways.
“It’ll be alright, mo leannan, ” she said softly, trying to convince herself just as much as the horse.
The boat rocked. Fiona steadied Dubh, and her hand brushed Harris’s chest.
He inhaled sharply.
Like he felt it in his bones.
By the time they reached mainland earth, Fiona’s cloak was soaked, Dubh’s mane was a disaster, and Harris looked like a man fighting a smile he didn’t want to explain.
Dubh stomped ashore with righteous fury—
shook again—
and soaked everyone a second time.
“OH, HELP MA BOAB !” the fisherman wailed. “The beast must hate us!”
“No,” Fiona said, wiping salt from her lashes. “That’s affection.”
Harris looked at her with affection.
“Aye,” he said softly. “It is.”