Page 10 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Seven

“ T ha mi tuigsinn ,” Harper said carefully, her tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables.

William’s mouth quirked upward at the corners. “Almost. Try again. Tha mi a’ tuigsinn .”

A light breeze carried the scent of salt and heather across the rocky outcrop where they sat, maps spread between them.

The morning sun glinted off the distant waters of the Sound of Barra, turning the surface into a dazzling mosaic of light.

She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and tried again, concentrating on the rise and fall of each sound.

“ Tha mi a’ tuigsinn .”

“Better,” William nodded, the approval in his eyes sending an unexpected flutter through her chest. “Though your accent would make my grandmother weep.”

“I understand,” she translated, ignoring his teasing. “That makes three phrases I know now.”

“Four, if ye count ‘càite a bheil an taigh-beag ,’” Callum called from where he sat nearby, meticulously transferring their morning’s observations to the master map. His long fingers moved with a surprising delicacy, the quill scratching softly against parchment.

The heat rose from her chest to spread across her cheeks. “That was a necessary question,” she retorted stiffly.

“Aye, and one ye asked with such urgency I thought ye might burst,” William chuckled, gathering up his compass and folding it carefully into its leather case.

The instrument was a thing of beauty. Brass and polished wood, lovingly maintained despite the harsh conditions of fieldwork. Not so different from the tools she’d used in her own time, though hers had been digital, waterproof, and considerably more accurate.

A week had passed since the storm had forced them into the abandoned croft.

Seven days of cautious coexistence, of Harper proving her worth with each tide chart and geological observation.

The suspicion hadn’t vanished entirely, Angus still watched her with narrowed eyes, and William still measured his words carefully, but a tentative routine had emerged to their days.

A week of physical discomfort too, though she tried not to dwell on it, especially when she’d given the interns a hard time when they complained about field conditions.

The dress and bodice chafed in new places each day, and the jeans she’d stubbornly kept underneath were becoming impractical as the days warmed.

Hot during the day when the sun shone and damp from sea spray.

Even her underwear was deteriorating with repeated washings in cold streams with the harsh soap, the cotton frayed in two places around the elastic waistband.

Her hair, which she still wore in a braid, felt perpetually gritty with salt.

If they met a sailor or merchant, she’d trade her gold ring for a bar of lovely French soap.

The ring had belonged to her grandmother, and Harper sent up a thank you that she’d been sentimental and had worn it that fateful day she’d fallen through time.

Had her boss and the Institute declared her dead? Lost at sea? A snort escaped. They were probably glad not to have her taint their precious name any longer. She’d developed calluses in new places on her feet, and her hands were rough from scrambling over rocks.

The nights were the worst. Sleeping on the hard ground with only a thin blanket, surrounded by unfamiliar sounds and smells.

Unwashed bodies, peat smoke, the sharp tang of whatever Angus rubbed on his weapons.

She’d never realized how much she’d taken modern comforts for granted until every basic necessity became a challenge.

Even out in the field they’d had a bit of luxury, not like the old days, as an old professor of hers used to say.

Yet she was adapting, finding minor victories in each day.

The dress was becoming less restrictive as the fabric softened, and she’d darned the hole in her socks, thanks to Callum showing her how.

They’d teased her mercilessly for days when they’d found out she couldn’t sew.

Her body was growing stronger, more accustomed to the constant physical demands of 18th-century life.

And she was always hungry, gobbling down whatever was put in front of her, grateful for Moira and her cooking.

Each morning, they would venture to a different part of Eriskay’s coastline, William taking measurements while Harper identified geological features that might affect navigation or provide natural harbors.

Callum would sketch, capturing details that mere measurements missed, occasionally humming Gaelic tunes under his breath.

He’d given her a sheet of parchment after he saw her sketching a shell in the sand with a stick, and now when she had a few extra minutes she created miniature sketches of shells, flowers, and whatever else caught her notice.

“The tide’s turning,” Angus announced, appearing at the crest of the hill. His red hair blazed like fire in the sunlight, his perpetual scowl deepening the lines around his mouth. “We should move if ye want to map the western coves before nightfall.”

William nodded, rising to his feet with fluid grace. He extended a hand to her, his palm warm and calloused against hers, the strength in his grip clear as he pulled her upright with ease.

“My thanks,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand perhaps too quickly.

The small group gathered their equipment and began the trek westward, following a narrow sheep track that wound between outcroppings of ancient gneiss.

Harper trailed behind William, observing how he moved with the confidence of a man who understood the land beneath his feet.

Ahead of them, the terrain dipped toward a sheltered bay where Ian MacPhail waited with their small boat.

Ian, who’d claimed to be a simple fisherman who knew every cove and inlet of Eriskay. Harper noted how his gaze lingered too long on their maps, how his questions probed beyond mere curiosity.

“The rocks here tell stories,” Harper said as they descended toward the bay, partly to break the silence, partly because the geological formations surrounding them were too fascinating to ignore. “If you know how to listen.”

William glanced back at her, curiosity evident in the tilt of his head. “And what tales do they share with ye, then?”

“This island was born in fire,” she explained, gesturing to the exposed stone beneath their feet.

“Then shaped by water over many generations.” She’d almost said “millions of years” but caught herself in time, remembering Angus’s reaction to similar comments days before.

“See those striations? They’re scars left by a great ice. ”

Her fingers traced the parallel lines etched into the rock face. In this moment, she wasn’t a displaced time traveler or a woman with no rights, she was simply a geologist, reading the language written in stone.

“Great ice?” Angus scoffed, not bothering to look back. “Ye speak of the Great Flood, then? At least that’s in Scripture.”

“Perhaps,” Harper replied diplomatically, noting how William’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the exchange.

“These marks,” William said, touching the striations she’d pointed out. “They help with navigation?”

Grateful for the change of subject, she nodded. “They indicate the direction water flows, which often follows the path of least resistance. If you know how to read them, you can predict where natural harbors might form.”

“Where did your husband learn such things?” William asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “Not common knowledge among mapmakers.”

Harper had spent her time here with these men refining her cover story, filling in gaps that might trip her up. “James studied with a naturalist in France before returning to the colonies. He believed that understanding the land made for more accurate maps.”

William seemed to accept this explanation, though something in his expression suggested he was filing the information away for future consideration.

By midday, they had reached the western coves, a series of small, sheltered inlets carved into the coastline.

Ian brought the boat alongside a narrow strip of pebbled beach, the hull scraping against stone as they disembarked.

The sun had reached its zenith, bathing the landscape in golden light that softened the rugged terrain.

“We’ll split up,” William decided, surveying the coastline. “Angus and Callum, take the northern section. Harper and I will map the southern coves.” His gaze shifted to their guide. “Ian, keep the boat ready, the tides here are treacherous.”

A flicker of something — disappointment? frustration? Crossed the man’s face before he nodded. “Aye, I’ll be here.”

Angus arched a brow, but his eyes flicked toward the higher cliffs with a practiced assessment. “There’s a lookout point above the northern cove,” he said, voice gruff. “Perfect vantage to sketch the entire coastline. I will keep watch while Callum works below.”

Harper watched with surprise as the redheaded Highlander pulled a length of rope from his pack, testing its strength with calloused hands. Despite his perpetual suspicion of her, she couldn’t help but admire his thinking and obvious skill. William caught her observation and offered a slight nod.

“Angus climbs like a goat,” he grinned. “No man is better on steep terrain. Saved our entire party during a storm in the Cuillin hills two winters past.”

The information reframed her understanding of the hostile Highlander. His wariness wasn’t just stubbornness, it was the vigilance of a man accustomed to keeping others alive in dangerous situations.

Harper followed William along the shore, her boots crunching on the small, round pebbles.

The sound of waves provided a constant backdrop to their work, a rhythmic susurration that was oddly soothing.

She found herself relaxing as they measured distances, noted landmarks, and discussed the best ways to represent the complex shoreline on their maps.

“Ye have a good eye,” he acknowledged as she identified a submerged reef that would have been invisible to most observers. “How did ye spot it?”

“The water’s movement changes when it passes over underwater obstacles,” she explained. “There’s a slight rippling effect that—” She broke off with a hiss of pain as her hand slipped on a sharp edge of rock, slicing open the side of her palm.

Blood welled immediately, bright crimson against her skin. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung fiercely, and she cradled her injured hand against her chest.

“Let me see,” William said, his voice suddenly gentle as he set aside his surveying tools.

“It’s nothing,” she protested, but he was already taking her hand in his, turning it to examine the wound.

“Dinna be daft,” he chided softly. “Even small cuts can fester if not tended properly.” Before she could object, he dunked her hand in the seawater.

“Damn, that stings!” She glared at him as he shrugged. From a small pouch at his belt, he produced a clean cloth and a small flask. “This will sting even more,” he warned, uncorking the flask.

The sharp scent of whisky filled the air between them. Before she could pull away, he poured the liquid over the cut. Harper bit back a cry as liquid fire engulfed her palm.

“Breathe through it,” he murmured, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of her hand. “The pain will pass quickly.”

True to his word, the burning sensation soon faded to a dull throb. William wrapped the cloth around her hand with surprising deftness, his fingers gentle against her skin.

“You’ve done this before,” Harper observed, watching him secure the makeshift bandage.

A shadow passed over his features, the scar along his jawline seeming to deepen. “Aye. My brother was forever getting himself into scrapes. I became quite skilled at patching him up.”

Something in his tone, a subtle shift into past tense, made Harper’s heart constrict. “Your brother...”

“Hamish,” William supplied, his gaze fixed on her hand though his eyes seemed focused on something far away. “He died three years past. English bayonet.”

The simple statement carried the weight of the mountains. Harper felt the loss in the careful way William tied off the bandage, in the almost imperceptible tightening around his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, knowing the inadequacy of the words even as she spoke them.

He looked up then, meeting her eyes. Something passed between them, an understanding that transcended time and circumstance. For a moment, they were two people who had experienced loss, recognizing the familiar shape of grief in one another.

“He would have liked ye,” William said finally, a half-smile softening his features. “He always had a fondness for those who spoke their mind.”

They resumed their work, but something had shifted between them. William shared stories as they worked. Tales of his childhood in the Highlands, of clan gatherings where the MacGregor pipes could be heard for miles, of his grandfather teaching him to read the stars for navigation.

After a while, he spoke again. “To the English, we’re savages to be tamed. They burn our homes, hang our men, and call it civilization. They dinna see that our ways have kept us alive in these mountains for centuries.”

“I understand more than you might think,” she said softly. “Where I’m from—in Boston—” she added hastily, “people are also judged for being different. For knowing things others don’t understand.”

William studied her face, the intensity of his blue gaze making her heart quicken. “Is that what happened to ye? Were ye judged for your knowledge?”

The question hit uncomfortably close to home as she thought of Sarah’s betrayal, of the academic community that had been so quick to dismiss her findings. “Yes,” she admitted. “Though not in the way you might think.”

Before he could press her further, Ian appeared on the shoreline below, gesturing impatiently toward their small boat as waves lapped against its wooden hull. “The tide’s turning,” he called up to them. “We should go now.”

They gathered their equipment and made their way down the rocky path. William reached the boat first, steadying it against the incoming tide before turning to offer her a hand.

“Watch your step,” he cautioned as she navigated the slippery rocks.

His fingers closed firmly around hers, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the cool sea air.

With surprising gentleness for such a large man, he lifted her into the boat, his hands lingering at her waist to ensure she was steady before releasing her.