Read Chapter 7: Whispers of the Past

The morning after the ball, the great hall of Braemore still smelled of spilled whisky and beeswax, but Iona had no time for the dregs of celebration. She found old Morag by the herb garden, kneeling in the damp earth with a trowel, coaxing nettles from between the rosemary.

“You’ll ruin your skirts, child,” Morag said without looking up.

Iona knelt beside her, the dew soaking through the wool. “The note said to learn the truth about the ’45. You were there. You remember.”

Morag’s hands stilled. She sat back on her heels and fixed Iona with eyes the color of wet slate. “I remember a girl not much older than you, watching her brother ride off with thirty head of Campbell cattle. And I remember the morning they came back with his body wrapped in a plaid that wasn’t his.”

“The raid,” Iona said. “The one that started the feud.”

“Aye. The MacTavish men rode out at dawn, low mist on the loch, and crossed the hill into Campbell land. They took the cattle, but they lost two men, your grand-uncle among them. The Campbells retaliated within the fortnight. Burned the west barn. Killed the horses. That’s when the families stopped speaking and started counting the dead.”

Iona frowned. “But why did they raid in the first place? A cattle raid isn’t a beginning. It’s a response.”

Morag’s jaw tightened. She turned back to the nettles, yanking one free with a violence that belied her age. “Your grandfather claimed the Campbells had poisoned a stretch of burn that the MacTavish cattle drank from. Said he had proof.”

“And did he?”

“He had a dead cow and a grudge. The proof died with the cow.” Morag glanced at the manor house, where a curtain shifted in an upper window. “The truth is a slippery thing, lass. It changes shape to fit the hand that holds it.”

Iona pressed her palm flat against the cold earth, feeling the ache of generations beneath her skin. “And the ’45?” The note’s word sat heavy in her chest. “The rebellion. What does that have to do with cattle?”

Morag’s face went pale as ash. She dropped the trowel and gripped Iona’s wrist, her fingers cold and bony. “Hush now. That word doesn’t get spoken here, not by MacTavish lips. Some names are buried so deep they’d poison the well that digs them up.”

“Morag, please. I need to understand what I’m marrying into.”

“You’re marrying into a treaty,” Morag said, releasing her. “That’s all it is. A piece of paper with two names and a hope. Don’t go digging for more or you’ll find what your mother found.”

Iona’s blood went cold. “My mother?”

Morag rose, brushing dirt from her apron. “She asked the same questions once. And look where it got her—buried before her time, her name already fading from the stones.” The old woman turned and walked toward the kitchen door, pausing at the threshold. “Leave the ’45 buried, lass. Some truths are cages.” She disappeared inside.

Iona stood alone in the garden, the morning sun climbing over the hills, casting long shadows across the yard. The official story sat wrong in her gut. A poisoned burn. A dead cow. A reprisal raid. It was too neat, too small for a feud that had claimed three generations. And the ’45—her mother’s letter had mentioned it too, a passing phrase that Iona had barely registered at the time. *When the rebellion failed, so did our hopes.*

That night, Iona couldn’t sleep. The guest chamber was cold despite the peat fire, and her mind churned like the loch in a storm. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and slipped down the back stair, seeking the library where Gavin kept his maps—maybe there was an estate ledger, something that recorded the raid in more detail.

The library door stood ajar, a single candle burning on the desk. Gregor MacRae sat in Lachlan’s chair, boots propped on the polished oak, a worn volume open in his lap.

“Can’t sleep either?” he said without looking up.

Iona stopped in the doorway. “What are you doing in here?”

“Reading.” He closed the book and set it aside, his movements unhurried. “The history of the Campbell holdings. Fascinating stuff. You’d be surprised what gets left out.”

“Why are you really here, Gregor?”

He smiled, a thin expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “I told your father. A life-debt. He saved my skin at a ford, ten years back. Alistair MacTavish doesn’t forget.”

“And what do you want in return?”

“A place to rest.” He rose, tall and shadowed in the candlelight. “A man grows tired of running.”

Iona stepped into the room, letting the door close behind her. The air was thick with dust and old paper. “Morag told me the story of the raid today. Burned water, dead cattle, revenge. But I have the feeling you heard a different version.”

Gregor studied her for a long moment. Something flickered behind his eyes—calculation, or perhaps recognition. “The old woman gave you the official tale, did she? The one that keeps the peace.”

“Is it a lie?”

He moved around the desk, closer now, his voice dropping to a murmur. “The Campbells didn’t poison that burn. And they didn’t start the raid that followed.”

Iona’s heart knocked against her ribs. “How do you know?”

“Because I was there. The raid, the burned barns, the dead—I saw it from the hill above Loch Arkaig.” He paused, letting the words land. “The cattle were already dead before your grandfather ever blamed the Campbells. They didn’t die of poison.”

“Then what killed them?”

Gregor’s eyes held hers, dark and unblinking. “A blade between the ribs, the same way the Campbells were blamed. Someone wanted the feud to burn hot. Someone wanted the two families at each other’s throats.”

Iona’s breath came shallow. “Who?”

He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. “The Campbells didn’t start that raid. Your own father might have.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest. Iona staggered back a step, her hand finding the edge of the desk for support. “My father wasn’t even born then. The raid was three generations past.”

“Was it?” Gregor tilted his head. “The feud’s been quiet for thirty years. But something’s stirring it awake again. Think, lass. What changed? What brought the consortium sniffing around your land? Who stood to gain if the MacTavishes were too divided to resist?”

Iona’s mind spun. Alistair, her father, wounded and secretive, hinting at dark family truths. The letter in her mother’s chest. The brooch with the Campbell crest. The warning raid that Lachlan said he didn’t order.

“You’re lying,” she said, but her voice shook.

“Am I?” Gregor stepped back, picking up his book from the desk. “Go home, Iona. Read your mother’s papers. Ask Alistair about the spring of 1745—not the rising, the weeks before it. When you’ve done that, decide whether I’m lying.”

He brushed past her, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Iona stood alone in the candlelit library, the silence pressing in on all sides. Her fingers found the outline of the brooch in her pocket—she’d taken to carrying it since the night she found it, a small weight of hidden truth. Her father, the raid, the rebellion, the dead cattle. The pieces scattered like stones across the floor, each one connected by threads she couldn’t yet see.

But Gregor knew something. And her father knew something. And somewhere in the gap between their silences lay the real reason her mother was dead, the feud had started, and the consortium had come knocking.

She pressed the brooch against her palm until the silver dug into her skin, and made a decision. Come the morning light, she would find a way back to her father’s bedside. And this time, she would not leave until every stone had been turned.