Chapter 44
Heather—Present Day
T he flashlight trembled in Heather’s hand.
The mix of anxiety, exhilaration and adrenaline was threatening to tear her apart, yet she persisted. Something inside her was shifting, widening, becoming vast.
“Hold the light steady, lass,” Flynn whispered, though his own breath trembled.
Heather swept the beam back toward the hollow.
There—half drowned in centuries of dust, half revealed by the torch’s thin line—was gold .
Not gleaming.
Not polished.
Not treasure as storybooks painted it.
This gold was sleeping, wrapped in soot and time, waiting for a hand brave enough to wake it.
Flynn exhaled, a bewildered, disbelieving sound.
“Christ… Heather.”
Her knees felt hollow. “Help me.”
Together, they leaned in.
Flynn cleared the debris first—cupped handfuls of ash, old brick crumble, flakes of char that disintegrated on touch. Heather brushed the dust aside with a tea towel, careful, careful , as if one rough movement might break the fragile spell.
Underneath, the gold resolved into shape.
Not coins.
Not jewels.
An ingot.
Stamped with a faint crest.
Heather stared.
“That’s…” Her voice cracked. “That’s the Prince’s seal.”
Flynn’s hand tightened on her back. “Then it’s real. The bloody hoard—this part of it, at least—is real.”
She reached out, gloved fingers trembling, and touched the bar. The metal was colder than she expected. Heavier. Quiet in a way that felt almost sentient.
“Harris hid this,” she whispered. “Fiona sealed it. This has been here since 1748. Flynn… this is Scotland’s lost legacy.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Heather turned, and found him staring at her, not the gold. Something raw and bright lived in his expression.
“Mo chridhe,” he murmured. “You found it. You did it.”
Her eyes burned. “ We . We did.”
He swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.
But she didn’t get to linger in his gaze.
Because there was more.
“Oh God,” Heather breathed. “There’s something under the bar.”
Flynn angled the torch. “Another box?”
“No. Cloth… or parchment—something wrapped.”
Flynn lifted the ingot, the strain bending his shoulders, and set it gently on the hearthstone. Heather kept the light steady, her breath thin.
Beneath it lay a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, edges cracked.
Heather’s pulse leapt. “This might be the rest.”
“The rest?”
“There has to be more, right?” she whispered. “One gold bar can’t fund a whole rebellion…”
Flynn looked on, warily. “Go on, then.”
Heather lifted the bundle carefully. The cloth crackled like brittle leaves. She placed it on her lap, fingers shaking so hard she had to pause.
Flynn steadied her hand silently.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured.
She breathed once.
Twice.
Then unwrapped history.
Inside was a sheet of vellum, ink faded but legible, a strip of crimson ribbon, frayed and stained, a carved wooden pendant shaped like a thistle, and a letter, sealed with black wax.
Heather reached for the letter first.
The wax was unbroken.
Her breath tangled in her ribs. “No one’s opened this in over two hundred years.”
Flynn touched her shoulder. “Campbell… wait.”
She looked up, startled. “What?”
He held her gaze, fierce and steady. “This is big , lass. Once we open it, there’s no going back.”
Her throat tightened. “Flynn…”
“This treasure has been missing for centuries.” He shivered. “It’s been Scotland’s heartbeat for generations, and we are the first souls in God knows how long to touch it…” His thumb brushed her cheek, smudging soot.
Her voice cracked. “Holy shit, Flynn, you’re making me nervous.”
“I think a healthy amount of trepidation is warranted, lass.”
Her next breath steadied.
She broke the brittle, time-worn seal.
The letter inside was shorter than she expected, just a page.
The handwriting made her chest seize.
Not Fiona’s.
Harris’s.
Heather’s vision blurred.
“Read it,” Flynn whispered. “If ye can.”
She tried.
Her voice broke halfway through the first line.
To my daughter, Bess,
or to the daughters who follow—
for I pray the Good Lord allows my line to endure where I did not.
The gold is not all.
It was never all.
If you find this, know this truth:
I did what must be done to keep our history from the hands that would destroy it.
I leave the rest to you.
Not coin.
Not power.
But the heart of what we fought for.
Keep it hidden.
Keep it safe.
And remember mo ghràidh—
It was never for the gold.
It was always for the ones we leave behind.
— Harris Mackenzie
Heather covered her mouth.
Flynn pulled her against him, arms strong and sure, holding her while her body shook with the weight of centuries settling into her bones.
“He wrote to her,” Heather sobbed. “He wrote to Fiona. To the daughter. Flynn… he knew. He knew someone would come.”
Flynn kissed her hair, speechless for once.
Heather pulled back, wiping her face.
Then froze.
Because deep in the hollow…
The torchlight struck something else.
“Flynn,” she whispered. “There’s more.”