Page 11 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
Chapter
Eight
T he journey back to the cove was peaceful, the rhythmic splash of oars in the water accompanying their discussion of the day’s progress and plans for tomorrow’s mapping.
The camp itself was a simple affair. A circle of tents surrounding a central fire pit, situated in a natural hollow that provided shelter from the worst of the coastal winds.
As they approached, they saw Moira had returned, bringing fresh bread and a pot of hearty stew that filled the air with a savory aroma.
“Ye look half-starved,” she clucked, ladling generous portions into wooden bowls. “Working too hard and eating too little, the lot of ye.” Her gray hair was pulled back in a severe bun, but her eyes were kind as they lingered on Harper. “Especially you, lass. Too thin by half.”
Harper accepted the bowl gratefully, inhaling the rich scent of lamb, root vegetables, and unfamiliar herbs. After several days of field rations, the hot meal was a luxury that made her almost light-headed.
The first spoonful exploded with flavor.
The gamey richness of mutton, the earthy sweetness of neeps, and herbs she couldn’t identify that must have been gathered from Moira’s kitchen garden.
The wooden bowl warmed her hands, and the rough-carved spoon felt strange in her mouth compared to the smooth stainless steel she was accustomed to.
Even the texture of the bread Moira passed around was different.
Denser and chewier than modern bread, with a sourdough tang that spoke of traditional fermentation methods.
It was so quiet, the landscape uninterrupted by engines, electronics, or any modern noises.
The night air carried scents she was starting to recognize.
Peat smoke, wet wool, the distinctive tang of the sea at low tide, and the faint muskiness of bodies that bathed infrequently by modern standards.
Even the firelight felt different somehow, more vital, more essential, not merely decorative but their lifeline for warmth, cooking, and protection.
“Thank you, Moira,” she said sincerely. “This is delicious.”
The older woman sniffed, but looked pleased. “Eat up, lass.”
As they ate, Ian engaged William in conversation about the island’s history, speaking in a mixture of English and Gaelic that Harper could only partially follow despite her daily lessons.
She caught references to clan battles, ancient stone circles on other islands, and something about a sacred well that the locals believed had healing properties.
“The fourth of July will bring the new moon,” Ian remarked, glancing at her. “A good time for beginning journeys, the old folks say.”
“July fourth?” She repeated, a sudden pang of homesickness washing over her. “That’s Ind—” She caught herself just in time, but not before William’s sharp eyes had registered her reaction.
“That’s what?” he prompted.
“That’s... an important day where I come from,” she amended hastily, frantically trying to come up with a plausible explanation.
The group’s attention snapped to her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. William’s eyes narrowed, and even Callum’s typical politeness gave way to sharp curiosity.
“Important?” Angus repeated, setting down his bowl. “What significance could that specific day hold for colonists loyal to the crown?”
Harper felt trapped, her modern knowledge a dangerous liability.
Every eye at the fire watched her, waiting.
She’d made a critical error by reacting to the date, a date that wouldn’t hold any significance for another thirty years.
The silence hung heavy as she cast about for an explanation that wouldn’t sound treasonous or mad.
“What sort of importance?” Callum chimed in, genuine curiosity in his voice. Unlike Angus, the quiet man had shown no hostility toward her, only a reserved politeness that occasionally warmed into friendliness.
She hesitated, searching for something that wouldn’t sound suspicious. “A summer festival,” she said finally. “With special... pyrotechnics, I mean, with bonfires and celebrations.”
“Boston has such customs?” Ian inquired, his tone casual but his gaze intent.
“Not all of Boston,” Harper improvised, feeling sweat beading at her temples despite the cool evening air. “Just... my husband’s family. They were quite... patriotic.”
“Patriotic to what cause?” Angus asked sharply. “The colonies are under British rule.”
“To their heritage,” Harper countered, grateful for her history classes.
“Many colonists maintain traditions from their homelands. James’s family was from.
.. Holland originally.” She chose the Netherlands because she vaguely remembered that its celebration of independence from Spain had begun in the 16th century.
An awkward silence fell over the group. Harper busied herself with her stew, feeling William’s thoughtful gaze upon her. The conversation gradually shifted to other topics, but she could feel Ian’s attention returning to her throughout the evening, calculating and curious.
As darkness fell, Moira told stories of selkies and kelpies, her weathered face animated in the firelight. Harper found herself drawn into the tales despite knowing they were folktales, enchanted by the old woman’s skill as a storyteller.
“My grandmother swore she saw a selkie shed its skin,” Callum contributed unexpectedly, his voice soft but carrying in the quiet night. “Said it had eyes like the deepest part of the ocean.”
“Did she now?” Moira cackled. “And did she steal the skin, like in the old tales?”
Callum shook his head, a small smile playing about his lips. “Nay. She said no good comes from forcing someone to be what they’re not. She left the skin where it lay and went on her way.”
Harper caught the subtle glance Callum sent her way and wondered if the story was meant as some kind of message. Did he suspect she wasn’t what she claimed to be?
One by one, the group retired for the night. Callum went first, followed by Angus, then Moira, who would leave in the morning to return home. Soon only Harper, William, and Ian remained by the fire.
“I should check the maps once more,” William said, rising to his feet. “Make sure the ink has dried properly before we roll them for storage.”
Harper nodded, suddenly aware of being left alone with Ian. The fisherman’s eyes glinted in the firelight as he stoked the embers with a stick.
“Ye’re a strange one, Mistress Harper,” he said conversationally. “Not like any widow I’ve ever met.”
“I’ve led an unusual life,” she replied, keeping her tone neutral while mentally reviewing her cover story for any inconsistencies.
“Aye, so it would seem.” Ian smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me, does Boston truly have celebrations on the fourth day of July?”
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept up Harper’s spine. “As I said, it was a family tradition.”
“And yet ye nearly called it something else,” Ian pressed.
Harper’s mind raced. “Independence,” she said finally. “That’s what James’s family called their festival. A celebration of their independence from... Spanish rule. Their ancestors were from a Dutch province that won freedom from Spain.”
Ian hummed noncommittally. “Curious, that. Very curious indeed.”
He stood abruptly, brushing off his hands on his worn trousers. “I’ll bid ye goodnight, then. Dawn comes early, and we’ve much ground to cover tomorrow.”
Harper watched him walk away, unease settling in her stomach like a stone. There was something calculating in the way Ian had questioned her, something that suggested he was fitting her answers into a larger puzzle, and not necessarily for William’s benefit.
She remained by the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker. The bandage on her hand had loosened slightly, and she adjusted it, remembering the gentle press of William’s fingers against her skin. Whatever suspicions Ian might harbor, she’d found an unexpected ally in William.
The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up. William returned, carrying a small bundle wrapped in oilcloth.
“The maps are secure,” he said, settling beside her. “Ye should rest. Tomorrow we tackle the eastern cliffs.”
“In a moment,” she replied, reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire and the unexpected comfort of his company. “I’m not sure Ian is trustworthy.”
His expression sharpened. “Why do ye say that?”
“Just a feeling,” she shrugged, not wanting to voice her suspicions without proof. “He asks a lot of questions.”
“As do ye,” William pointed out, though his tone remained mild. “But I’ve noticed it too. He shows too much interest in our maps for a simple fisherman who claims not to know his letters.”
The confirmation of her suspicions was both reassuring and alarming. “Should we find another guide?”
William shook his head. “Better to keep him close where we can watch him. If he is gathering information, I’d rather know who he’s gathering it for. His laird or mayhap the English.”
Harper nodded, then gazed back into the flames, thinking of all the layers of deception surrounding them. Ian’s, her own, perhaps others she hadn’t yet detected.
“Ye’ve a natural gift for reading the land,” William said after a comfortable silence. “It’s rare, even among men who’ve spent their lives in these hills.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, accepting the compliment without deflection for once.
“It makes me wonder what else ye see that others miss,” he added, his voice thoughtful.
Harper turned to meet his gaze, finding no accusation there, only genuine curiosity. “I’ve always noticed patterns,” she admitted. “In rocks, in water currents, in people. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”
“A blessing and a curse,” William repeated softly. “Like many gifts.”
The small boat rocked gently against the pebbled shore of a hidden cove far from the Jacobite camp. Ian MacPhail glanced over his shoulder, ensuring he hadn’t been followed, before approaching the waiting figure.
“Well?” The English accent was cultured, the voice low and cautious.
“She’s no ordinary widow,” Ian reported, handing over a folded piece of paper. “Speaks of things no woman should know. Has knowledge of the coastline that even I, born here, do not possess.”
The Englishman unfolded the paper, studying the crude map Ian had drawn indicating the locations the Jacobites had surveyed. “And MacGregor? Does he trust her?”
Ian’s weathered face creased in thought. “More with each passing day. She has a way about her... strange, but compelling. I’ve seen how he watches her when he thinks no one notices.”
The Englishman tucked the paper into his coat. “Continue to observe them. Learn what you can about her origins. If she’s valuable to the rebels, she may be valuable to us as well.”
A small pouch clinked as it changed hands, the weight of coins substantial against Ian’s palm.
“There will be more if your information proves useful,” the Englishman promised. “King George rewards his loyal subjects generously.”
The two men parted ways, Ian returning to his boat while the Englishman melted into the shadows. The only witness to their exchange was the moon, casting silver light on dark waters, indifferent to the machinations of men or the inexorable flow of time itself.
Meanwhile, back at the camp, Harper stood outside her small tent, gazing at the same moon. The bandage William had wrapped around her palm was getting dirty. She traced her finger over the cloth, remembering the gentle pressure of his hands, so strong yet so careful.
“Can’t sleep?”
She turned to find him approaching, his tall figure silhouetted against the dying embers of the fire. Something in his presence made her heart beat faster, a reaction she couldn’t entirely attribute to surprise.
“Just thinking,” she admitted. “About home... and not-home.”
He stood beside her, close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from him in the cool night air, yet not so close as to be improper.
“And what is this place to ye now?” he asked softly. “Home or not-home?”
Harper looked up at the stars, then at the man beside her. A man from a time not her own, a man she was beginning to trust despite every rational argument against it.
“I don’t know yet,” she whispered honestly. “But I’m beginning to wonder.”
Their eyes met in the moonlight, and for a moment, time itself seemed suspended between them. Past and future, history and possibility, all compressed into a single heartbeat of connection. Then he nodded, as if she’d answered a question he hadn’t asked aloud, and wished her goodnight.
As he walked away, Harper realized that for the first time since arriving in this century, she wasn’t counting the days until she could return to her own time. She was simply living in this moment, with these people.
With him. And that realization was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.