Page 7 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Five

T he man’s grip remained firm on Harper’s arms as he studied her with piercing blue eyes that missed nothing. His dark brows drew together, creating a crease between them as he examined her.

“I’ll ask ye once more,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Who are ye, and how did ye come by my map?”

Harper tried to pull away, but his hold was unbreakable. “Look, I don’t know who you are or what kind of historical re-enactment thing you’ve got going on, but I’m really not in the mood. Did Dr. McNeill put you up to this? Because it’s not funny.”

The man’s expression darkened. “I dinna ken any Dr. McNeill, and this is no game, lass.”

Harper looked more closely at the three men surrounding her. Their costumes were impeccable. Authentic wool plaids, hand-stitched leather vests, worn boots that showed genuine use rather than artificial aging. No zippers. No synthetic fibers. No modern watches peeking out from beneath cuffs.

“Okay, you guys are good,” she admitted, still trying to make sense of the situation. “Very dedicated to your craft. But I’ve had a really terrible day, make that a rotten month, so if you could just point me toward the village, I’ll be on my way.”

The tall man barked something in Gaelic to his companions. The stocky redhead stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of what looked like a very real dirk.

“She’s English, William,” he said, his accent thicker than the taller man’s. “A spy, like as not.”

William . She filed the name away, grateful for this small piece of information.

“I’m not English,” she protested, feeling genuinely uneasy. These men weren’t acting. The suspicion in their eyes was real. “I’m American. From Boston.”

The three men exchanged glances. The redhead scoffed, but the third man — leaner, with dark curly hair — looked thoughtful.

“A colonist or English, she’s dressed like no woman I’ve ever seen,” the redhead continued. “And that case—” he nodded toward the map case Harper clutched protectively, “—’tis identical to yours. Down to the markings.”

Harper looked down at the case in her hands, then at the case slung over William’s shoulder. She sorted quickly through the possibilities, each more ludicrous than the last.

No cars on the road. No power lines. No cell towers. Men dressed in authentic Highland garb speaking Gaelic. The old woman, who had appeared and disappeared. The storm. The key. The map.

Oh, my God.

A cold wave of realization washed over her. This wasn’t a re-enactment. This was real. Somehow, impossibly, she had traveled through time.

William released her, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”

Her grip tightened instinctively on the case. “What year is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she swayed and would have collapsed if he hadn’t been holding onto her.

William blinked at her. “The year of our Lord 1745,” he replied, studying her with renewed interest. “June, if ye must know. Have ye lost your wits as well as your way, lass?”

1745.

The Jacobite Rising. The year Prince Charles Edward Stuart landed on Eriskay to rally the clans.

The year that would lead inevitably to Culloden and the destruction of the Highland way of life.

She sent up a thank you to her college roommate, who’d studied the Jacobites, was obsessed really, and went on and on about it whenever she’d had a few too many drinks.

She needed time to think, to process, and to formulate a plan. And she needed these men not to see her as a threat.

“I’m not a spy,” she said, thoughts tumbling one over the other. “And I’m not crazy. I’m... I’m a widow.” The lie came suddenly, instinctively.

“A widow?” William repeated, the skepticism evident in his tone.

“Yes,” she nodded, seizing on the idea, building her story as she went. “My husband was James Ross, a cartographer. We were mapping the coastline for the East India Company. He died of fever on board the ship. Most likely from our time in India. A few days later, there was a storm.”

“And ye expect us to believe this tale?” the redhead demanded.

“Angus,” William said quietly, and the redhead fell silent.

William and Angus . Two names now.

“I am William MacGregor,” he said formally. “This is Angus MacGregor, my kinsman,” he nodded toward the redhead. “And Callum,” he said, smiling at the quieter man.

She swallowed. “Harper Ross,” she replied, matching his formality. “Widow of James Ross of Boston.”

“A widow who wears men’s clothing and carries maps of our coastline during times of unrest, in a case that looks exactly like mine,” William observed. “You understand why we might find that... a wee bit concerning.”

“I was thrown overboard during the storm,” she continued, grateful for her geology field trips that had taken her to remote locations around the world. “When I woke, I was here with nothing but my husband’s map case, my compass, and the clothes on my back.”

“And these clothes — these are what widows wear in Boston?” William asked, his eyes traveling over her jeans and weatherproof jacket with obvious disbelief.

“My husband believed in practicality,” she improvised. “We traveled extensively for his work. I assisted him. He believed women could be educated, could contribute to scientific endeavors, and he hired tutors for me and later took me with him on his voyages.”

“A progressive man indeed,” William commented dryly.

“He was,” Harper agreed, warming to her fictional husband. “We traveled the world mapping coastlines. I learned about rocks and about coastal formations. About reading the land.” At least that part was true, her geological expertise was genuine.

William’s eyes narrowed. “Show me this map.”

Harper hesitated, then slowly opened the case. William took it from her with surprising gentleness, unrolling it carefully.

His expression changed as he studied it, brows drawing together. He opened his own map case and withdrew a map that he held beside hers.

“They are verra similar,” Callum said softly, peering over William’s shoulder. “But hers has markings ours does not.”

William looked up at Harper, suspicion warring with curiosity in his eyes. “Where did your husband get this map?”

“From a sailor in a Boston tavern,” Harper said, the lie coming easier now. “We were planning to complete it after our business in India was concluded. After he died on the ship, I thought I would disembark in Edinburgh and come here. Finish it for him.”

“Why?” William demanded.

“Because it was important to him,” Harper answered, injecting genuine emotion into her voice. “Because it was all I had left.”

For a long moment, William studied her face, searching for deception. Something in her expression must have convinced him, because he nodded slightly.

“You’ll come with us,” he decided. “Until we determine the truth of your story.”

“William—” Angus began to protest.

“She stays with us,” William cut him off. “Her knowledge of these maps may prove valuable. Or dangerous. Either way, I want her where I can watch her.”

“I could run,” Harper pointed out, “but I’ve never been particularly fast, nor that strong of a swimmer. And I have nowhere to go. No money. No kin.”

A hint of amusement flickered in William’s blue eyes. “A pragmatic widow.”

“Grief hasn’t dulled my wits,” Harper retorted.

He rolled the maps carefully, returning them to their respective cases. To Harper’s surprise, he handed hers back to her.

“Keep it safe,” he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “If your story proves true, I would not separate a widow from her husband’s legacy.”

“Thank you,” Harper said quietly, genuinely touched by this unexpected courtesy.

William nodded once, then turned to his men. “Let us go. Callum, take the lead. Angus, watch our backs.”

He turned back to Harper, his expression stern. “You’ll walk beside me, Mrs. Ross. And know that while I honor your grief, I do not yet trust your tale. One false move, one sign of treachery, and my mercy will end. Do you understand?”

Harper met his gaze steadily. “Perfectly, Mr. MacGregor.”

“William,” he corrected, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “If we’re to be traveling companions, even unwilling ones, we might as well use our Christian names.”

“William,” Harper repeated, surprised by the warmth that spread through her at this small concession. “And you may call me Harper.”

He raised an eyebrow at the unusual name but nodded. With a gentle but firm grip on her elbow, he guided her forward, following Callum along a narrow path that wound through the heather.

As they walked, a million questions filled her head. How had she traveled through time? Why was she here? Could she go back? And most pressingly, how would she survive in 1745 Scotland? Live through a doomed rebellion?

William’s steady presence beside her was both comforting and unsettling. He was clearly intelligent, observant, and, despite his suspicion, fair-minded. He was also, she couldn’t help noticing, powerfully built and strikingly handsome, with a quiet authority that commanded respect.

Stop it, she scolded herself. He’s not a potential date, he’s a Highland warrior who thinks you might be a spy.

Still, as they made their way across the windswept landscape, Harper found herself stealing glances at his profile, wondering what role this proud, determined man might play in the coming conflict.

William caught her staring and raised an eyebrow. “Something troubles you, mistress?”

“Everything troubles me,” she admitted. “I’m alone in a strange land with three men who think I might be a spy.”

“And are ye?” he asked directly.

“No,” she answered, holding his gaze. “But I understand why you’d think so. In your position, I’d suspect me too.”

His lips quirked slightly. “Most women would be weeping with fear by now.”

“I’m not most women.”

“That,” William said dryly, “is becoming increasingly apparent.”

They crested a hill, and William stopped, turning to face her. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, and he impatiently tucked it behind his ear, revealing a thin scar that traced his jawline.

“Your husband,” he said suddenly. “You loved him?”

The question caught her off guard. “My family arranged the match. It wasn’t a love match, but we were partners,” she said softly, thinking of the imaginary James she’d created. “He was... he understood me. Not many people do.”

William nodded, as if her answer confirmed something important. “And now you’re alone.”

“Now I’m alone,” she agreed, surprised by how true those words felt.

“Come,” he said, his voice gentler than before. “Our camp is beyond that rise. You’ll be warm there, at least.”

As the small encampment came into view, a strange mixture of dread and relief ran through her. She was a prisoner, yes, but also under the protection of these men in a time when a lone woman would be desperately vulnerable. It could have been so much worse.