Page 15 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Eleven

T he night breeze carried the scent of salt, peat, and possibility as it whispered through the small Jacobite camp.

Harper stood at the edge of the promontory, watching moonlight dance across the restless waters surrounding Eriskay.

Three weeks had passed since their meeting with Durand, each day stretching longer as July waned and anticipation grew thick in the air.

Behind her, the camp had settled into uneasy slumber, only the occasional snap of dying embers breaking the silence.

She wrapped her shawl tighter against the breeze off the water, catching movement in the shadows near the shore where a small figure moved.

Ian MacPhail, his off-kilter silhouette unmistakable even in darkness, glanced furtively over his shoulder before disappearing behind an outcropping of rocks where they knew there was an entrance to the caves.

“Second time this week,” came a low voice behind her.

Harper startled, turning to find Callum standing a few paces away, his lean frame nearly invisible against the night sky. The quiet man moved with uncanny silence, a skill that had proven useful during their weeks of surveying the treacherous coastline.

“I thought everyone was asleep,” she whispered, her heart gradually slowing its startled rhythm.

Callum shook his head, joining her at the cliff’s edge.

“William asked me to keep watch. The man doesna trust our fisherman friend, and no do I.” His gaze followed the direction where Ian had vanished.

“He claims to check his nets, but the tides aren’t right for fishing tonight, and ye saw him enter the caves where Angus lost him. ”

“He has to be reporting to someone,” Harper murmured, the realization congealing like ice in her stomach. She’d suspected Ian’s treachery for weeks, but seeing it unfold before her eyes made it real in a way speculation never could.

“Aye,” Callum agreed grimly. “The bloody English, if I had to guess.”

The camp appeared unchanged when they returned, the small circle of tents surrounding the central fire pit where embers still glowed faintly red.

Moira snored softly from her tent, the sound oddly comforting in its normalcy.

Angus sat propped against a log, ostensibly on watch, but his head had dropped forward onto his chest, soft snores joining Moira’s in unlikely harmony.

“Some guard,” Callum murmured with fond exasperation, nudging the redheaded Highlander with his boot.

Angus jerked awake, hand automatically reaching for his dirk before recognizing them. “Away with ye,” he grumbled, straightening his position. “A man closes his eyes for one wee moment...”

“And misses a traitor slipping away,” Callum finished, his voice pitched low enough that it wouldn’t carry beyond their small circle.

Angus’s drowsiness vanished instantly. “Ian?”

“Aye. Making another midnight journey with information that’ll likely reach English officers by morning.”

A string of Gaelic curses flowed from Angus, colorful enough to make Harper’s limited vocabulary strain to keep up. “I told William that sleekit weasel couldna be trusted. We should’ve slit his throat the first time he was caught snooping around the maps.”

“And alert his English contacts that we’re onto them?

” William’s voice cut through the darkness as he emerged from his tent, fully dressed despite the late hour.

From the alertness in his eyes, Harper suspected he hadn’t been sleeping at all.

“Better to feed him crumbs of truth mixed with falsehoods and see where they lead.”

The moonlight caught the angles of his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the stubborn set of his jaw.

These past weeks had changed something in him.

A subtle shift from the wary, suspicious man who’d first discovered her on the beach to someone who carried his burden of leadership with greater confidence.

His hair had grown longer, now frequently tied back with a leather thong that emphasized the strong column of his neck and the breadth of his shoulders.

She found herself noticing these details more often lately, cataloging them like precious geological specimens.

“What did ye see?” William asked, his gaze finding hers with unsettling precision, as if he could read the direction of her thoughts.

She described Ian’s furtive departure, watching William’s expression harden with each detail. The muscle in his jaw ticked, a tell she’d come to recognize when he was restraining anger.

“We’ll need to be more careful with what information reaches Ian’s ears,” William said finally. “Angus, from tomorrow, you’ll mention that we’ve received word the prince’s ship was spotted near Barra Head.”

“But that’s south of here,” Harper interjected, confused. “If the Prince is coming from France, wouldn’t he approach from the east?”

A ghost of a smile touched William’s lips. “Precisely why we want the English looking in the wrong direction, lass.”

“Clever,” she acknowledged, admiration warming her voice.

A cool breeze blew in off the sea as they talked. Callum would continue monitoring Ian’s movements while Angus would feed him carefully crafted misinformation. William would alert their French contact about the potential security breach at their next meeting.

“We should rest,” William eventually decided. “Dawn comes early, and there’s much to prepare.”

The others nodded, returning to their respective sleeping places. Harper lingered, reluctant to face another night of restless sleep filled with dreams where past and future collided in increasingly disturbing ways.

William noticed her hesitation. “Something troubles ye beyond Ian’s treachery.”

It wasn’t a question. In the weeks working side by side, he’d developed an uncanny ability to read her moods, noticing subtle shifts in her expression that others missed.

Sometimes she wondered if he could somehow sense the weight of foreknowledge she carried, the terrible burden of knowing what awaited these proud, brave men in the months ahead.

“Just thinking about what happens next,” she answered carefully. “Once the prince arrives, everything changes.”

“Aye, it does.” His voice softened, blue eyes reflecting the dying embers. “Are ye afraid?”

The question caught her off guard with its perceptiveness. “Yes,” she admitted. “But not of what you might think.”

He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the unique scent of heather and smoke that clung to his clothing. “Tell me, then. What fears keep Harper Ross from her sleep?”

His use of her full name, spoken like something precious, made her heart stutter. The intimacy of it reminded her of the Gaelic endearment he’d whispered nights ago— a leannan —words she’d tucked away like a secret treasure, too afraid to examine what they might mean.

“I’m afraid of seeing history unfold and being unable to change it,” she whispered, the closest she’d come to revealing her true circumstances.

For a long moment, he studied her face in the moonlight, his expression unreadable. “Some believe fate is written in the stars,” he said finally. “Others believe men forge their own destinies. Which do ye believe, Harper?”

The question hung between them, laden with meaning beyond its simple words. Before she could formulate a response that wouldn’t reveal too much, Angus called William’s name from across the camp, breaking the moment.

“Get some rest,” William said, his hand briefly touching her shoulder. “Tomorrow brings its own battles.”

Sleep proved elusive despite her exhaustion.

She lay awake in her small tent, listening to the night sounds of the island.

The distant crash of waves, the occasional cry of a bird, the soft murmur of voices as the men took turns at watch.

Her mind raced with possibilities and dangers, calculating odds and outcomes like complex geological equations.

Dawn arrived in a wash of pale gold and pink, bathing the eastern horizon in a gentle light that belied the tensions simmering beneath the camp’s routine activities.

Harper emerged from her tent to find Moira already busy at the cooking fire, the older woman’s capable hands kneading oatcakes with practiced efficiency.

“Ye look like ye’ve been dragged backward through a briar patch,” Moira observed bluntly, eyeing Harper’s disheveled appearance. “Did ye sleep at all, lass?”

“A little,” she lied, accepting the steaming cup of herb tea Moira pushed into her hands. The bitter brew had become a morning ritual, one of many adaptations to 18th-century life that now felt strangely normal, though she still missed coffee every single day.

Moira snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Ye young folk think ye can survive on air and dreams. Sit and eat something before ye waste away entirely.”

The camp gradually stirred to life around them.

Angus emerged from his tent, red hair standing in wild directions until he ducked his head in a water barrel with a splash and a creative string of Gaelic curses about the temperature.

Callum sat quietly mending a tear in his plaid, his nimble fingers working the needle with surprising dexterity.

William had apparently risen before dawn, returning from somewhere with damp hair and the scent of the sea clinging to his skin.

Routine tasks filled the morning. Mending clothes, sharpening knives, preserving the last of their meat before it spoiled. Harper found herself assisting Moira with the cooking, her initially clumsy attempts at kneading dough improving under the older woman’s grudging tutelage.

“Ye’ve the hands of a lady but none of the skills,” Moira had observed during their first cooking lesson weeks ago. “Did your mother teach ye nothing useful?”