Page 12 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
Chapter
Nine
T he final map unfurled like a living thing between them, its crisp parchment crackling in the salt-laden breeze.
Waves crashed against the rocky shore of Eriskay’s eastern coastline, sending plumes of white spray skyward as Harper traced her finger along the intricate coastline they’d spent a fortnight mapping.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, admiring the detailed renderings of submerged reefs, hidden coves, and treacherous currents.
Callum’s artistic skill had transformed their measurements and observations into something that transcended mere cartography.
It was a portrait of the island itself, revealing secrets invisible to the casual observer.
William stood beside her, casting a long shadow across the parchment.
The July sun burnished his dark hair, which now brushed his shoulders with copper highlights, and a fortnight of being outdoors had deepened the tan on his face, making his blue eyes seem even more vivid by contrast. Those eyes followed her finger as it moved across the map, and a now-familiar flutter filled her chest when his shoulder brushed against hers.
“Aye, ’tis more than I hoped for,” he agreed, pride evident in his voice. “The prince will have no trouble finding safe harbor with this to guide him.”
The mention of the prince and what would follow sent a familiar flutter of anxiety through Harper’s stomach.
I’m watching history unfold in real time , she thought, the realization still dizzying after over a month in the past. Each day, her old life back in 2025 seemed more like a distant dream, and this... being here... was reality.
Every map line they drew, every cove they measured, was leading them relentlessly toward Culloden.
The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach, heavy and cold.
How could she look at William each day, working alongside him, growing closer to him, while carrying the secret of what awaited the Jacobites?
While knowing that many of these proud, fierce Highlanders would lie dead on a battlefield less than a year from now?
A gust of wind threatened to snatch the map from their grasp. William’s hand shot out to secure it, his fingers settling over hers. The warmth of his calloused palm against her knuckles lingered even after he withdrew, leaving her skin tingling with awareness.
“We should roll it before the wind takes it,” she suggested, trying to ignore how his proximity affected her breathing.
He nodded, helping her carefully roll the precious document. “Durand will be pleased. These charts show passages even local fishermen dinna ken exist.”
The name of the French agent brought Harper back to the present moment.
Today marked their first meeting with William’s contact, the man who would deliver their maps to the Jacobite leadership and, eventually, to Bonnie Prince Charlie himself.
The thought of meeting someone so directly connected to the rebellion made her palms sweat and her stomach flip over, threatening to bring up breakfast.
“Will he ask many questions?” She inquired, trying to keep her tone casual as William secured the rolled map with a length of twine.
A wry smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Frenchmen always ask questions, lass. ’Tis their nature. But dinna fash yourself, I’ll handle Durand.”
The protective note in his voice wasn’t lost on her. Over the past weeks, their relationship had shifted from reluctant allies to something approaching friendship or perhaps something more, though neither had acknowledged the current between them.
William had begun to position himself between her and potential threats, whether from the suspicious glares of Angus or the probing questions of locals they encountered during their mapping expeditions.
Just three days ago, when a drunken fisherman had made lewd comments about the “strange widow,” William’s hand had moved to his dirk with such deadly intent that the man had stumbled away in terror.
“I’m not afraid of questions,” Harper replied, more confident than she felt. “I just don’t want to jeopardize your mission.”
William studied her face for a moment, his expression softening. “Ye’ve proven yourself useful beyond measure. Without your knowledge of the underwater formations, half of these passages would remain unmarked.”
The compliment warmed her, but before she could respond, Callum approached from their campsite, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
The quiet apprentice mapmaker had become an unexpected ally, teaching Harper Gaelic phrases in the evenings and defending her observations when others grew dismissive.
“Boat approaching from the west,” he reported, slightly breathless. “Small vessel, single sail. Likely our French friend.”
William nodded immediately alert. “Gather our things. Harper, stay close.”
The three made their way down the rocky path to a sheltered cove where they’d arranged to meet Durand.
The tide was coming in, transforming the narrow strip of pebbled beach into an ever-shrinking crescent.
The distinctive sound of stones rolling against each other with each wave created a soothing backdrop to their descent.
Angus awaited them at the shore, his red hair ablaze in the sunlight.
His perpetual scowl had softened marginally toward her in recent days, particularly after she’d correctly predicted a dangerous riptide that would have capsized their small boat had they launched as originally planned.
He’d watched her with new respect when her warning proved accurate, grudgingly nodding his thanks as they found a safer passage.
“He’s early,” Angus muttered as they joined him, nodding toward the approaching vessel. “Frenchmen are usually late.”
“Perhaps he’s eager for good news,” William replied, shading his eyes against the sun’s glare to better observe the approaching boat.
As the boat drew closer, Harper studied the Frenchman with growing curiosity.
Monsieur Durand cut a striking figure against the rugged Scottish backdrop, elegant in a way that seemed almost theatrical on Eriskay’s windswept shore.
His blue coat with silver buttons appeared tailored to his slender frame, the fabric finer than anything Harper had seen since arriving in this century.
Beneath it, a waistcoat of embroidered silk in muted gold caught the sunlight.
His dark hair was neatly tied back with a black ribbon, and a tricorn hat perched at a precise angle atop his head.
Despite his refined appearance, his hands were those of a sailor, tanned and capable, and his dark eyes moved with constant vigilance, scanning the horizon even as he guided his vessel toward shore.
The two sailors guided the boat onto the beach, jumping out into the shallow water to pull it further ashore. Despite his elegant attire, the man moved with the confidence of someone accustomed to physical labor when necessary.
“MacGregor!” the man called out, his accent distinctly French despite the Scottish name. “I see you’re still alive. The English haven’t caught you yet, then?”
William strode forward, extending his hand. “Nor are they likely to, Durand. You look well-fed for a spy.”
The Frenchman laughed, a rich sound that seemed at odds with his dangerous profession. “The benefits of French cuisine, my friend. Even in exile, one must maintain standards.”
Harper observed the exchange with interest. Monsieur Durand was younger than she’d expected, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with intelligent dark eyes that missed nothing. Those eyes swept over their small group, lingering momentarily on her before returning to William.
“I see you’ve acquired new companions since we last met,” he remarked, his tone casual but his gaze sharp.
William performed brief introductions, identifying Harper simply as “Mistress Harper, a widow with knowledge of mapmaking who has been assisting us.” The deliberate vagueness wasn’t lost on Durand, whose eyebrows rose slightly before he offered a courtly bow in her direction.
“Enchanted, madame,” he said, taking her hand and brushing his lips against her knuckles in a continental gesture that felt oddly out of place on Eriskay’s wild shore. “It is unusual to find a woman with such specialized knowledge.”
His eyes held hers a moment too long, and Harper felt a chill that had nothing to do with the sea breeze. There was calculation behind the charm, an assessment that reminded her uncomfortably of academic colleagues who had questioned her credibility.
“My husband taught me,” she replied with the practiced explanation. “He believed knowledge should be shared, not hoarded.”
“A progressive man, your husband,” Durand commented, releasing her hand. “American, was he not? William mentioned it in his message.”
“From Boston,” she confirmed, grateful for the hours she’d spent refining her cover story. “Though his family came from Holland originally.”
The conversation shifted as William produced the map case, and they all moved further up the beach to a flat rock that served as a makeshift table. The tide continued its relentless advance, eating away at the narrow strip of shore, a subtle reminder of time’s constant flow.
Durand opened the case with reverent hands, unfurling the map with a practiced motion. His expression remained neutral, but Harper noticed how his fingers stilled momentarily as he took in the level of detail before him.
“This is... remarkable,” he said after a long pause, tracing the coastline with his index finger. “I’ve seen naval charts made by the finest cartographers in France that contain less detail than this.”