Page 16 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
The question had stung more than Harper expected, reminding her of childhood dinners spent alone while her mother attended academic functions and her father worked late at the university. Convenience food and takeout had been her culinary education.
“She wasn’t much of a cook either.” Now, her fingers moved with growing confidence as she shaped oatcakes and laid them on the hot stone by the fire.
Small victories in this world felt significant in ways her academic achievements never had, perhaps because survival here depended on practical skills rather than theoretical knowledge.
“Not bad,” Moira allowed, inspecting Harper’s efforts. “Ye might make a proper Highland wife yet.”
The casual comment sent an unexpected flush of heat to Harper’s cheeks, her mind traitorously conjuring images of a life here in the past. A stone cottage, perhaps, with William returning from hunting, children with his blue eyes and stubborn chin...
She pushed the fantasy aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Such thoughts were dangerous, leading down paths that couldn’t exist. Her place was in the future, not here in 1745, where women had few options beyond marriage and servitude. And war was coming...
The day progressed with the usual activities, though an undercurrent of tension remained whenever Ian appeared. The fisherman returned mid-morning, bringing several fresh mackerel and news from a passing boat that storms were brewing to the west.
“Might delay any ships coming from France,” he mentioned casually, his gaze sliding briefly to Harper as she worked nearby. “Bad luck for those awaiting important arrivals, aye?”
William, sharpening his dirk against a whetstone, merely grunted in response. “The prince will come when God wills it, storms or no.”
“Of course,” Ian agreed too quickly. “Just repeating what I heard, mind.”
Harper kept her head down, pretending absorption in her task while watching Ian from beneath her lashes.
The fisherman moved with calculated casualness, positioning himself where he could observe their activities while appearing to busy himself with gutting his catch.
His questions were too pointed about their plans for the coming weeks.
Later, as she gathered water from the stream with Callum for company, Harper voiced her observations.
“Ian’s not very subtle, is he?” she murmured, filling her wooden bucket from the clear running water. “He practically announces his interest in our plans.”
Callum’s mouth quirked in a rare smile. “Subtlety isna prized among Highland men. Even our spies tend to be more direct than English agents would prefer.”
“I noticed something else,” Harper added, keeping her voice low though no one was nearby. “Ian was writing something yesterday, I saw him tucking away a small piece of paper when he thought no one was looking.”
Callum’s hands stilled on his water bucket. “Are ye certain?”
“Absolutely. Why?”
“Because Ian MacPhail claimed he couldna read nor write when we first met him,” Callum replied, his expression grim. “Said he never had schooling, being a poor fisherman’s son.”
The implication hung between them, another piece of evidence against the increasingly suspicious fisherman. Harper frowned, remembering something from her historical studies.
She frowned, her mind automatically categorizing the evidence against Ian the way she would classify rock formations, looking for patterns, anomalies, connections. It was this geological mindset that had made her a skilled researcher, her ability to see relationships others missed.
“The limestone formations along the eastern shore,” she said suddenly, “they’re ideal for signaling.”
“Signaling?” Callum looked confused.
“White stone reflects moonlight. If Ian has been communicating with ships offshore, those outcroppings would provide perfect visibility without the risk of fires being spotted.” She mentally mapped the island’s geological features, recalling the distinctive karst formations she’d documented during their surveying.
“And then there’s the cave system beneath the northern headland where we’ve seen him disappear.
The tidal patterns would make it accessible by small boat for about three hours each night. ”
Callum’s eyes widened with understanding. “A perfect place to meet contacts without being seen.”
Harper nodded, feeling a small surge of satisfaction at applying her scientific training to their current predicament.
In her century, geology had been her refuge.
A world of logical patterns and predictable behaviors unlike the messy complexity of human relationships.
Here, that same knowledge might help protect people she was growing to care about deeply.
“Isn’t literacy quite rare among common Highlanders?” She asked carefully, not wanting to reveal too much about her modern education.
“Aye, especially in remote places like Eriskay,” Callum confirmed. “Most common folk speak only Gaelic, with no need for writing. Those who can write usually learned from the Kirk or have connections to the nobility.”
“So Ian either lied about his background, or...”
“Or someone taught him specifically for this purpose,” Callum finished, his voice hardening. “We should tell William.”
They found him near the shore, conferring with Angus while studying the horizon through a small spyglass. Both men turned at their approach, William’s expression softening almost imperceptibly when he saw Harper.
Callum quickly related Harper’s observation about Ian’s writing, watching the understanding dawn in William’s eyes.
“Ye’re certain?” William asked Harper directly.
She nodded firmly. “I saw him writing clearly, not just making marks or drawings. It looked like a message.”
William exchanged a significant look with Angus before turning back to Harper. “Ye’ve sharp eyes, lass. This confirms our suspicions about our fisherman friend.”
“What will you do?” she asked, anxiety bubbling in her chest. In her time, spies faced legal proceedings. Here, the penalty for treachery was often swift and final.
Something in her expression must have revealed her thoughts, for William’s face gentled. “We’ll keep watching him, but we willna act hastily. The man may yet lead us to his English contacts, which would be more valuable than merely silencing one informant.”
Relief washed through her, though she tried not to examine too closely why Ian’s fate mattered to her.
Perhaps it was simply her modern sensibilities recoiling at the harsh justice of this century, or perhaps it was the growing fear that her presence here was altering events in ways she couldn’t predict.
The afternoon brought a welcome distraction in the form of drill practice. William insisted that Harper learn basic defensive techniques. He explained that this meant simple moves to break away from an attacker and create distance to escape.
“An English soldier willna hesitate to use a woman for information or worse,” William had explained bluntly during their first lesson. “I’ll not have ye defenseless if the worst happens.”
Busy scrubbing a pot, Moira looked up, then hefted the cast iron. “Ye could just whack him over the head with this, lass,” she chortled.
Today’s practice focused on escaping from different grips. Harper paired with William, then Callum, while Angus supervised from the sidelines, calling out corrections and occasionally demonstrating more advanced techniques.
“If a man grabs ye from behind,” William instructed, positioning himself behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist, “ye must remember your advantages. Ye’re smaller, but that gives ye leverage.”
She tried to ignore the warmth of his chest against her back, the strength in the arms that encircled her without actually restraining. “Leverage how?”
“Like this.” His voice came low near her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. “Drop your weight suddenly while stepping back onto the top of his foot. Then drive your elbow here—” He guided her arm to position her elbow near his solar plexus.
The lesson continued with various scenarios, each requiring her to use her smaller size and lower center of gravity against a larger opponent.
William proved a patient teacher, his hands gentle but firm as he positioned her arms and corrected her stance.
Each touch, though professional and necessary, heightened her awareness of him in ways that made concentration difficult.
“Ye’re thinking too much,” he observed after her third failed attempt to break his grip on her wrist. “Trust your body’s instincts.”
“My body’s instincts are to freeze and analyze,” Harper admitted ruefully. “It’s how I survived in academia. Observe, calculate, then act.”
A flash of understanding crossed William’s face. “Like when ye’re examining rocks and such? Ye watch first, then touch?”
The comparison surprised her. “Yes, exactly. I observe patterns before engaging.”
“Then we’ll use that.” William adjusted his approach, slowing the movements and explaining the mechanics behind each defensive technique.
“See how the leverage works? When I pull here, your natural reaction is to resist by pulling back, which only strengthens my grip. Instead, push suddenly toward me while twisting—” He demonstrated again as Callum and Angus squared off against each other.
Harper followed his instructions, finding the movement flowed more naturally when she understood the physics behind it. Her wrist slipped free from his grasp with surprising ease.
“I did it!” she exclaimed, momentarily forgetting herself in the small victory.
William’s smile transformed his face, softening the habitually stern lines around his mouth. “Aye, ye did. Now try again, faster this time.”
They continued practicing until sweat dampened her hairline and her muscles burned pleasantly from the unaccustomed exertion. By the lesson’s end, she could reliably break from several common holds and had mastered a simple throw that used an attacker’s momentum against them.
“Ye’re a quick study when properly taught,” William commented as they walked back to camp together, the others having gone ahead to prepare the evening meal. “Most women would balk at such training.”
“I’m not most women,” she replied without thinking.
William’s gaze lingered on her face. “No,” he agreed softly. “You are unlike any woman I’ve known.”
The simple statement hung between them, weighted with unspoken meaning. Harper felt heat rise to her cheeks, unsure how to respond to the undercurrent of admiration in his voice.
As they walked in silence, her thoughts drifted to her life before.
A life that was technically centuries in the future.
She’d held a job since she was sixteen, working through college and then throwing herself into her career with barely a pause.
Vacations had been rare luxuries, never more than a few days here and there.
When she’d first arrived here in the past, she’d immediately helped with mapping the coastline.
But after.... after completing the map with William and delivering it to Durand, she found herself adrift without any clear purpose.
Initially, helping the Jacobite cause had given her focus, but now, with supplies gathered and nothing to do but await the prince’s arrival, she was restless and uncertain.
She hadn’t known how to occupy herself in a world without deadlines and research objectives.
She still missed so many things from her time.
Pizza, hot showers, cars, the internet. Sometimes she’d wake up reaching for a phone that wasn’t there, a phantom sensation like an amputated limb.
Yet, there was something about this life that resonated with her in unexpected ways.
Being here was like an extended field expedition.
Challenging, raw, and deeply connected to the land in ways modern life had forgotten.
Harper glanced sideways at William, then back toward camp where she could see Moira laughing at something Angus said while Callum tended the fire.
Her heart clenched painfully. History was already written for these people.
Moira would likely be safe here on Eriskay, but the men?
They were heading toward Culloden and the brutal aftermath that would forever change the Highlands.
Was it time to come clean? To tell William the truth about herself, about what she knew was coming? The thought made her stomach knot with anxiety. Would he even believe her? And if he did, what then? Could the future—the past—be changed? Should it be?
They were saved from awkwardness by a commotion at camp, a rider approaching. William immediately tensed, his hand moving to the dirk at his belt as they quickened their pace.
The messenger had dismounted by the time they arrived, accepting water from Moira while catching his breath. He was young, barely out of boyhood.
“The Du Teillay has been sighted approaching our shores! The prince’s companion ship, L’Elisabeth, was forced to turn back after engaging with the Lion, but Bonnie Prince Charlie continues onward aboard the French privateer.
They say he will make landfall on Eriskay within days and will be taken to meet with Angus MacDonald. ”
The camp erupted in excitement, men clasping each other’s shoulders and exclaiming in rapid Gaelic.
Even Moira permitted herself a rare smile, her weathered face alight with hope.
Only Harper remained still, the historian in her recognizing the moment when speculation became reality, when the abstract threat of rebellion transformed into flesh and blood action.