Read Chapter 11: The Search for Tam

The white door and blue shutters looked almost cheerful against the gray stone of the cottage, a splash of color in a village that seemed to have leached all brightness from the world. Iona reined in her mare at the edge of Bendarroch, heart hammering against her ribs. The ride had taken nearly two hours, skirting the moorland paths she knew from childhood, avoiding the main roads where Elspeth’s watchful eyes might have informants.

She had told no one but Bess. A stolen horse, a borrowed bonnet pulled low, and a lie about visiting a sick aunt in the next parish. If Elspeth discovered her absence, the consequences would be severe. But the weight of the copied ledger figures in her pocket reminded her that she was already past the point of turning back.

The cottage door opened before she could knock. A man stood in the frame, broad-shouldered and weathered, his beard streaked with gray. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he moved to shut the door.

“Jamie Ross,” Iona said quickly. “I’ve come a long way to speak with you.”

“I don’t know any Jamie Ross,” the man said, but his voice cracked on the lie.

“The innkeeper at Kilbrannan sends his regards. He said you’d remember the night of the ’45 raid better than most.”

The man’s hand froze on the door. For a long moment, he stared at her, searching her face. Then something in his posture softened, resignation settling over his features like a familiar coat.

“You’d best come in, then,” he said. “Before the whole village sees a MacTavish lady on my doorstep.”

The cottage interior was sparse but clean. A fire burned low in the hearth, and the smell of stew hung in the air. Tam—for she was certain it was him now—gestured to a wooden chair by the table. He didn’t sit himself, instead hovering near the window, watching the lane outside.

Iona removed her bonnet and set it on the table. “You fled the MacTavish lands after the raid. Everyone said you’d gone to France. But you’ve been here all along, haven’t you? Living under a false name, barely an hour’s ride from the place you ran from.”

Tam’s jaw tightened. “And you’ve risked a great deal to find me, Lady Iona. So I’ll not insult you with more lies. But I need to know why you’re here before I speak another word.”

“Because I’m married to a Campbell now,” Iona said bluntly. “And I’ve discovered that everything I was told about the feud—everything my own clan believed—may have been built on a lie.”

Tam’s expression flickered. Surprise, then something darker. “Your mother’s girl, through and through. Always asking questions no one wanted to answer.”

Iona’s breath caught. “You knew my mother?”

“Aye. She was kind to me when I was just a lad working the sheep. She’d bring me bread in the winters, ask after my family.” Tam’s voice softened. “She had a way of seeing past a person’s station. Not many of the gentry had that.”

“Then you know why I have to uncover the truth,” Iona said. “She died believing the Campbells destroyed our family. If that wasn’t true—if someone used that belief to drive us apart—I need to know.”

Tam was silent for a long moment. He moved to the fire and stirred the pot, though it didn’t need stirring. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough.

“I was there the night of the raid. Nineteen years old, watching the MacTavish herd on the north pasture. The moon was full, bright enough to read by.” He set down the spoon and turned to face her. “I saw the first shot fired. Not from the Campbell side as they advanced—but from a cluster of men hiding in the trees on the MacTavish side. A signal shot. I saw it rise into the air before any other weapon was drawn.”

Iona’s hands gripped the edge of the table. “A signal?”

“Aye. It was meant to draw both clans into the valley. I didn’t understand it at the time—I was young, frightened. But I saw the man who fired it. He was wearing a Campbell tartan, but he was too close to the MacTavish lines for me to make sense of it. I told myself I must have been mistaken, that the darkness had played tricks on me.”

“But you weren’t mistaken,” Iona said.

Tam shook his head slowly. “I saw him again. Two years later, at a market in Stirling. I’d gone to sell wool, and there he was, standing in the crowd. The same build, the same way of holding himself. He was wearing a plain coat, no tartan to identify him, but I knew his face. I followed him to an inn, watched him meet with a man I didn’t recognize. And then he went to Braemore.”

Iona’s blood went cold. Braemore. The Campbell estate. The man had been at Braemore.

“I came back to the MacTavish lands, planning to tell your father what I’d seen. But before I could, someone broke into my cottage. Ransacked it. Left a knife on my pillow with a note telling me to leave the Highlands or never see my family again.” Tam’s voice hardened. “I had a wife and a bairn on the way. I couldn’t stay. So I ran.”

“You left your family behind?” The words slipped out before Iona could stop them.

Tam’s eyes met hers, full of pain. “I sent for them later. They’re in Glasgow now, safe. I come and go as Jamie Ross, a man with no past. But I’ve always known I’d have to answer for what I saw someday. I suppose that day is here.”

He moved to a trunk against the wall, unlocked it with a key from his pocket, and lifted out a folded piece of paper. He hesitated, then held it out to her.

“I told myself I’d remember his face forever. But memory fades, and I wanted proof. I made this sketch a few days after the raid, before the fear set in. I know it’s not much.”

Iona took the paper and unfolded it. The sketch was rough, done in charcoal, but the figure was clear: a man of medium height, broad through the shoulders, wearing a tartan she recognized all too well. But where his face should have been, the paper was smudged, the features indistinct, as if the charcoal had been smeared deliberately.

“His face,” Iona said, looking up. “It’s ruined.”

Tam’s expression twisted with frustration. “I’ve stared at that sketch a thousand times, trying to remember. But I only saw him at distance that night, and the second time I kept my head down, afraid he’d notice me. I remember the set of his shoulders, his height, but his face…” He shook his head. “The harder I try to recall it, the more it slips away.”

Iona stared at the smudged features. She could feel the weight of everything riding on this—the marriage, the feud, her mother’s death, the strange payments to D. MacAllister. And now the only witness to the truth couldn’t identify the man who started it all.

She folded the sketch carefully and tucked it into her pocket beside the ledger figures. “You said he was at Braemore. Do you remember when?”

“Autumn of that year. Early October, I believe. I marked it because I nearly turned back when I saw where he was going.”

Iona’s mind raced. Autumn. The raid had been in late autumn. If the man had been at Braemore before the raid—if he had been planning it with someone inside the Campbell estate—

“Lady Iona,” Tam said, his voice urgent. “You’re a Campbell bride now. If the man who fired that shot was acting on someone’s orders from within Braemore, you may be sleeping under the same roof as the person who orchestrated the feud that killed your mother.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. Iona thought of the portrait of Lachlan’s mother, her kind eyes watching from the wall. She thought of Elspeth’s cold smile, her veiled warnings. She thought of the payments in the ledger, marked with a G.

“I have to go,” she said, rising. “But I won’t forget what you’ve told me. If I find the truth, you’ll be vindicated. Your name cleared.”

Tam shook his head. “I don’t want my name cleared, my lady. I want justice. For the families who died, for the lies that were told.” He paused. “For your mother, who deserved better than a grave built on a falsehood.”

Iona nodded, unable to speak. She pulled her bonnet back on and opened the door, stepping into the gray afternoon light.

“Wait,” Tam called. He crossed to her, pressing something small and cold into her palm. A key, old and tarnished. “Braemore has a chapel in the east wing. There’s a crypt beneath it, locked for years. If there are secrets in that house, that’s where they’re buried. I heard the master of Braemore mention it once, years ago, when I was delivering wool. He said nothing of value was ever kept under lock and key unless someone was afraid of what might be found.”

Iona closed her fingers around the key. It felt heavier than its weight.

“Thank you,” she said.

She mounted her mare and rode out of Bendarroch without looking back. But she felt the key press against her palm the whole way home, a question burning in her mind: what could be so valuable—or so damning—that someone had locked it in a crypt beneath a chapel?