Chapter 46
Heather—Present Day
F lynn pulled the truck back into Glenoran’s drive the next day in broad daylight, the sky washed clean after the morning drizzle. The house looked innocuous—sleepy, quiet, almost bashful in the winter light. Heather forced her shoulders down from around her ears.
“Right,” Flynn said, killing the engine. “Let’s make this place look like we’ve done nothin’ more dangerous than drink tea and argue about paint colors.”
Heather snorted. “Easy.”
They carried nothing in with them—not the duffle, not Fiona’s satchel. Those stayed hidden in the truck bed under a tarp. Today was about misdirection.
Inside, Heather forced herself to move with purposeful nonchalance. She draped one of her sweaters over the sofa arm, letting a sleeve spill onto the cushion. Flynn placed a half-used roll of duct tape on the coffee table, alongside an abandoned mug and a screwdriver he “accidentally” left askew.
Heather dropped a grocery bag beside the kitchen counter, letting a loaf of bread peek out. She placed her recent library book on the armchair, deliberately cracking the spine.
Flynn scattered his work jacket over a dining chair, boots left toe-inward like he’d kicked them off after a long day.
A casual, lived-in normalcy.
An illusion.
Heather stepped back, surveying it. “It looks… normal. Nothing suspicious.”
Flynn brushed dust off his hands. “Aye. Looks like we’re just pickin’ up our life again.”
Except for the hearth hiding a secret that could rewrite Scottish history.
She caught his gaze over the mosaic of staged domesticity. They didn’t smile.
They locked Glenoran behind them again.
They drove without talking—exhausted, wired, too full of the night before to put anything into clean sentences. When they reached Flynn’s cottage once more, Byrdie greeted them with indignant chirps, offended that they’d left her in charge for more than three hours.
“Sorry, yer Majesty,” Flynn muttered, rubbing her head.
They shut the curtains. Always the curtains now.
The secret duffle thumped onto the floor—too heavy for ordinary objects, too soft to be metal alone.
Flynn exhaled once, slow and deliberate. “Right. Coal cupboard.”
Heather led the way to the fireplace alcove, crouching as Flynn swung the old cast-iron door open. Inside was a shallow space smelling faintly of soot and old winters. An iron bar hung loose across the back where coal once piled high.
Flynn reached in, testing the shelf. It was solid.
Perfect.
He lifted the heavy duffle first, gently easing it onto the shelf. Heather slid Fiona’s diary and pages onto a cloth Flynn had set down.
Flynn stepped back, wiping his forearm across his brow. “Nobody checks a coal cupboard anymore,” he said. “And nobody but us lights this fire.”
“This is safer than Glenoran,” she reminded him. “Nobody but us and a few coos come out here unless they have to.”
He closed the door, snorting to himself, and the latch clicked softly.
It was done.
Later, they splayed Fiona’s map across the kitchen table, securing the edges with mugs, a salt shaker, and Byrdie’s suspicious paw. The painted lines looked even more deliberate now—Culloden, Arkaig, Skye.
Heather traced the arc toward the island. “Skye wasn’t an accident. Fiona didn’t leave anything to chance.”
“Aye.” Flynn tapped the little painted horse with a knuckle. “Dubh. The saddle.”
Heather chewed her lip. “We need to figure out who Flora MacDonald trusted. Who inherited the horse. Or the saddle. Or both.”
Flynn was already pulling up searches on his laptop—old estates, museums, tack restorers, family lines tied to Trotternish and Sleat.
Heather scribbled notes.
“Someone has it. They just… don’t know what they have,” she murmured to herself.
Flynn leaned back in his chair, stretching sore shoulders. “That’s our job, then. To know.”
Heather felt a slow, fierce heat spread in her chest. “We need to leave soon.”
His eyes softened. “If yer ready, lass.”
She nodded. She was terrified. And ready.
When the planning slowed and the fire settled into glowing coals, Heather rose to stretch, instinctively reaching for her jacket. The bruise along her side flared; she hissed softly, palm pressing there without thinking.
Flynn saw.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
She stepped between his knees where he sat, the space familiar… intimate. His hands came to her hips automatically, then stopped when his gaze dropped from her eyes to her waist.
He carefully lifted the hem of her shirt, just enough to see her purple and yellow fading bruises.
Proof of hands that weren’t his.
Proof of hands that hurt her.
Flynn didn’t touch at first; he hovered his fingertips above the aching spots.
“Does it still hurt?” he asked quietly.
“A little.”
Flynn’s jaw tightened.
“I hate that he touched you.”
The words weren’t loud; they didn’t need to be.
Heather cupped his face in her hands and brushed her thumb across the stubbled line of his jaw.
“I’m fine.” she insisted. “I’m still here.”
Flynn’s eyes lifted to hers.
“Aye… but I need to see you.” he mumbled.
Something in his tone made her heart squeeze as she brushed her fingers through his mussed hair.
“Flynn—”
He rose slowly, hands sliding to her waist.
“Come with me.” he whispered.
She didn’t hesitate as his hand settled at the small of her back and led her down the short stone hall to his bedroom. The door closed behind them with a light thud that sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.
Heather’s gaze flicked instinctively to the bed as a warm blush crept up her neck.
God. Don’t think about that.
But it was too late, because Flynn clocked it immediately.
The corner of his mouth quirked up knowingly.
Shit. He saw right through me.
He guided her toward the oak-framed mirror in the corner of the room, positioning her in front of it. His hands rested heavily on her hips as he watched her reflection.
“Look,” he said softly.
Heather met her own gaze as Flynn’s hands slid up her sides, lifting her shirt completely; cool air kissed her skin and goosebumps erupted along her bare flesh. In the mirror, she watched his eyes trace every inch of her, unapologetically.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured into her hair.
His fingertips grazed down her arms until they reached the delicate dove gray lace of her bra.
Heather gasped quietly as Flynn’s fingers slipped between lace and skin, skimming the curve of her breast, then pausing just long enough for her to ache for more of his touch.
She leaned back into him, reveling in the way his restraint frayed. His body was hard behind her, firmly pressed to her spine.
Holy shit.
His fingers traced the bruise again, but this time, not as carefully.
It was claiming .
“Don’t look away,” he instructed, voice thick with need.
Heather’s pulse roared in her ears, then—nothing.
Flynn’s hands dropped to his sides, and the loss of sensation was brutal.
“What—” she breathed.
“Take off your bra.”
Heather swallowed. “Flynn, please. Touch me—”
His voice dropped roughly. “Take it off, mo chridhe.”
In the mirror, she watched herself reach back as her fingers found the clasp. With a soft click, the lace loosened as she slipped the bra from her shoulders.
Flynn didn’t even flinch; his restraint was almost unbearable. It was written all over his face through his tight jaw and locked shoulders. His eyes were dark and intent, devouring every inch of her as the lace slid down her arms and fell to the floor at their feet.
“Good,” he praised.
The word landed low in her belly.
Heather lifted her chin, meeting his gaze in the glass. Her pale, freckled skin flushed under his stare, and her nipples tightened both in the cool air, and under the heat of his undivided attention.
Flynn’s hands flexed at his sides.
Once.
Twice.
“Touch them.” he said quietly.
Her breath caught. “Flynn—”
“Slow,” he warned. “for me.”
So she did.
Her palms cupped her own breasts, thumbs brushing over the peaked, sensitive skin, watching his reflection react: his sharp inhale, and the way his eyes shut for half a second—like it physically pained him to not touch her himself.
“That’s it,” he rasped. “aren’t they soft?”
She rolled her shoulders back deliberately, arching into her own touch; all the while, knowing exactly what she was doing to him. The power of it all sent a thrill straight through her.
Flynn stepped closer; close enough that she could feel his heat and the solid line of his body behind her. He released the claw clip holding her red curls back, and they watched as her hair tumbled down and settled on her breasts.
He leaned in, and with his mouth almost touching her ear, he breathed, “No one will ever hurt you again.”
Heather’s breath shook as she exhaled.
His hands stayed exactly where they were at his sides, which somehow made it worse.
Flynn’s gaze dropped to her hips in the mirror, then lifted deliberately back to her eyes. Not rushing or filling the silence, he let the quiet stretch until her heart was pounding so loudly, she was sure he could hear it too.
“Jeans,” he finally said.
Heather obeyed. Her fingers moved to the button, clumsy at first with nerves, heat, and the weight of his attention. She popped it open, then the zipper, and the sound pierced the silence in the quaint bedroom.
Flynn leaned in unhurriedly, and brushed his nose into the loose curtain of her hair. He inhaled deeply as if he were committing her scent to memory.
“God,” he breathed. “you smell like home.”
His words sliced right through her. She was positive that her knees were seconds away from giving out.
Steeling herself, she slid the denim down her hips, inch by inch, watching his face in the mirror; the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed, and the way his breath hitched slightly when her jeans fell past her thighs.
When they pooled at her feet, she stepped out of them, and all that was left were her matching dove gray lace panties.
“You have no idea,” he sighed, “how hard it is not to touch you right now.”