Page 19 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Thirteen

T he horizon blazed with dawn’s first light as the small boat appeared, cutting through the sapphire waters toward Eriskay’s white-sand shore.

Harper’s breath caught in her throat as the scent of salt spray mingled with peat smoke from the camp’s banked fires.

After weeks of waiting, of mapping and planning and worrying, the moment had arrived.

Prince Charles Edward Stuart was coming ashore.

And she, a geologist from Boston, was now part of history.

He nodded, his blue eyes narrowed against the rising sun. “Aye. The Du Teillay anchored beyond the reef during the night. That’s the prince’s launch approaching now.”

The small wooden boat sliced through gentle waves, its occupants now visible. In the bow stood a tall figure in a fine coat, his posture regal despite the modest vessel. Even at this distance, an aura of authority marked him as different from the seven French sailors rowing him to shore.

“Look there, Angus,” William said, voice tight with excitement as he pointed toward the approaching boat. “Do you see him? The prince himself, come at last.”

Angus squinted against the salt spray, his red hair whipping in the wind. “Aye, I see him. Though MacDonald doesn’t look nearly as pleased as we are.” He nodded toward the brother of the chieftain, who stood with arms crossed and a face like thunder.

“He’s always been cautious,” William replied, though his own enthusiasm remained undimmed. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, preparing for. The rightful king’s son, here on Scottish soil.”

“The islanders seem less certain,” Angus observed, watching the restrained crowd. “They’re not exactly throwing their bonnets in the air, are they?”

William’s jaw tightened. “They’ll come around once they see what he’s capable of. They have to.”

The boat scraped against the shore below.

The men disembarked, but all eyes were drawn to the tall figure who jumped into the shallow water rather than waiting to be carried ashore.

His boots splashed in the surf as he waded the few steps to dry land, becoming the first Stuart prince to set foot on Scottish soil since his father’s failed attempt in 1715.

“Come,” William said, his hand brushing briefly against her back. “We should greet the prince properly.”

They descended from their vantage point, joining the small crowd on the beach.

Prince Charles Edward Stuart stood on the sand, surveying the small gathering with bright, intelligent eyes.

The long Stuart nose dominated his face, but rather than making him unattractive, it gave him a distinguished profile.

His complexion was fair but weather-beaten from the sea voyage, and his light brown hair was tied back neatly.

An unmistakable elegance marked his bearing, the result of a lifetime in Europe’s most sophisticated courts.

As Harper watched him interact with the villagers, she noticed the subtle signs of his continental upbringing that she’d read about and listened to her college roommate go on and on about, usually late at night after they’d each had a couple glasses of wine.

The way he gestured with his hands when speaking, the slight pause before responding in English as if translating from French, the formal bow that was more Versailles than Scotland.

“Your Royal Highness,” said the MacDonald, his tone respectful but firm. “I must speak plainly. You would do better to return home.”

The prince’s smile never wavered, though Harper caught the slight tightening around his eyes. “I am home,” he replied with remarkable composure. “This is my father’s kingdom, and I have come to claim it.”

A murmur ran through the small crowd. Harper noticed the islanders exchanged glances, not the enthusiastic support Charles had clearly expected, but cautious concern.

His English carried a distinct French accent, though of course it would. He’d spent his entire life in exile, raised in Rome and France, never before setting foot in the kingdom he claimed as his birthright.

William stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Your Highness, I am William MacGregor of Glengyle. My men secured the area and prepared the maps of the coastline as requested by your agent.”

The prince’s eyes lit with recognition, though Harper caught a flicker of something else, perhaps calculation. “MacGregor? Related to Rob Roy MacGregor, are you not?”

“He was my kinsman, Your Highness.”

“A man of courage and principle,” the prince declared, though his tone suggested he was equally aware of Rob Roy’s more controversial qualities. “If his relations share those qualities, I shall be well served indeed.”

The formalities continued as each man was introduced. Harper hung back, content to watch this historical moment unfold. The smell of bannocks baking over peat fires drifted from the camp, mixing with the ever-present scents of salt air and damp wool.

To her surprise, William turned and extended his hand toward her. “Your Highness, may I present Mistress Harper Ross, a widow whose knowledge has been invaluable to our efforts. Her late husband taught her much about the land.”

The prince’s curious gaze fell upon her.

“Highness.” Heat bloomed across her cheeks as she attempted an awkward curtsy, painfully aware of her plain dress and hair that refused to stay in its braid.

“Mistress Ross,” the Prince acknowledged with a slight bow. “Your accent suggests you are not from these shores.”

“No, Your Highness,” she replied, struggling to find an explanation that wouldn’t sound utterly mad. “I traveled here from very far away.”

His eyes sparkled with interest, and she caught a glimpse of the restless curiosity that would later drive him to reckless decisions. “And yet you aid our cause? What brings a foreign lady to cast her lot with Scottish rebels?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively simple yet impossible to answer truthfully. I’m from the future and know you’ll fail catastrophically would hardly be appropriate.

“I believe in standing against tyranny, Your Highness,” she answered instead. “And I’ve found the Highland people worthy of loyalty.”

The prince studied her face a moment longer before smiling. “Well spoken, Mistress Ross. My cause has always welcomed friends from distant shores.” He turned back to the gathered men. “Now, I understand arrangements have been made for my lodging?”

The underlying tension at the reception wasn’t lost on Harper.

She’d read about this moment, how the prince had arrived without the promised French support, how he’d been warned he could count on perhaps 4,000 Highlanders at most. The planned French invasion the previous year had been thwarted by storms, leaving Charles to attempt this venture with minimal resources.

Yet here he stood, radiating confidence despite the lukewarm welcome.

William’s excitement was palpable as they walked, contrasting sharply with the islanders’ reserve.

“At last,” he murmured to her, his voice thick with emotion.

“After so many years of waiting, planning... He’s finally here.

” His faith in the cause shone in his eyes, unmarred by the doubts Harper could see etched on the faces of the local men.

As evening approached and the men moved to discuss military matters privately, Harper slipped outside, needing air and solitude. The late afternoon sun bathed the rolling hills in golden light, and she walked without direction until she reached a small stream cutting through the heather.

The reality of her situation crashed over her anew. No matter how she’d adapted, no matter her growing feelings for William, she didn’t belong here. This wasn’t her world, her century, her story. Meeting the prince, who would gain the nickname Bonnie Prince Charlie, had made everything clear.

She sank onto a mossy rock beside the stream, pulling her knees to her chest. What would the Institute think when she never returned from Eriskay? Would anyone search for her, or would they assume she had simply left without formally resigning her position?

So many things she’d taken for granted. Pizza, a nice mattress and flannel sheets in the winter, hot showers, modern transportation and communication.

Her laptop held years of research, photographs from her years of fieldwork, and emails from colleagues worldwide.

All of it meaningless now, existing in a future she’d never see again.

Yet when she tried to summon grief for that lost life, other images intruded.

William’s hands guiding her through map-making.

Moira’s patient lessons in Gaelic. The satisfaction of useful work, of belonging somewhere.

In her modern life, she’d become invisible, a failed academic relegated to obscurity.

Here, her knowledge mattered. People listened when she spoke.

“Please,” she whispered to the empty moor, remembering the strange old woman from the cemetery. “I know you brought me here for a reason. Help me understand.”

The stream bubbled indifferently. Harper looked around and then purposely skinned the side of her hand against the rock, watching the blood well up.

She shook her hand, watching as three drops fell onto the stone, but nothing happened.

Maybe it had to be storming like it was when she arrived?

No, she shook her head. She’d tried that already, and nothing had happened then either.

Exhausted, she sank back onto the bank. Her hand throbbed, the blood soaking into the stone. The symbolism was clear to her. She was bound to this time now, her blood literally part of its earth.

“I’m here,” she said finally to the darkening sky. “I’m here, and maybe that’s where I’m supposed to be.”

The admission brought unexpected relief. If there was no way back, then there was no choice to agonize over. No guilt about abandoning her modern responsibilities or fear of making the wrong decision. The choice had been made for her.

But with acceptance came a deeper fear. What if she changed something crucial? What if her presence altered events in ways that caused more suffering? She felt the crushing weight of foreknowledge. The rebellion’s failure, the death of thousands, and the destruction of the Highland way of life.

Fresh tears came then, not for her lost future but for the doomed men celebrating tonight. For William, who would risk everything for a cause history had already judged. For the prince, whose charisma would lead so many to their graves.

“I can’t save them all,” she whispered. “But maybe I can save a few.”

“Harper?” William’s voice carried across the moor as his tall figure appeared at the hill’s crest. “What are ye doing out here?”

“Sorry,” she replied, wiping her eyes before standing and brushing the dirt from her skirts. “I needed time to think, guess I lost track of the time.”

Concern furrowed his brow as he approached. “Ye shouldna wander alone.”

“I know. It’s just... meeting the prince, being part of this moment. It’s overwhelming.”

His expression softened as he reached her side. “Aye, it’s a day to remember.” He studied her face. “But there’s more troubling ye than meeting royalty.”

The perceptiveness shouldn’t have surprised her, yet it still did. “I’ve been trying to figure out where I belong. Whether I’m meant to stay here or...” She trailed off.

“And did ye find your answer?” He went still as he watched her for a moment.

“I don’t think I can go back,” she whispered. “I don’t think I want to.”

Something shifted in his expression. Relief perhaps, or hope.

“Ye lost your husband. Thinking of the place ye lived together can bring the grief back.” He gathered her close, murmuring Gaelic words in her hair.

When she stepped back, he looked at her, then nodded as if satisfied by what he saw on her face.

“Come, let’s go back, there’s a chill in the air tonight. ”