Apocryphal stories and historical truths were blended and swapped all the time. Especially in old Scotland.

No. there was something in her gut that told her. She didn't know how or why, she just knew. It had to be James Graham's weapon.

Overwhelmed by emotion and the knowledge of what she held, sudden tears pricked her eyes. To think that she held in her hands something that Graham might have touched, held, used so many centuries ago.

A thrill shivered up her spine.

The implications were huge. There were very few artifacts available from Graham's life, aside from his sword on display at the Montrose Museum in Scotland. His name was apparently inscribed on that blade as well, though she'd never been lucky enough to hold it in her hands.

The discovery of another artifact was tremendous. That it was such a rare and relatively pristine example of a combination weapon was icing on the cake. Personally identifying its provenance would bring Haley notoriety across a number of fields: European history, Celtic studies, military studies, museum studies…

Grinning, Haley sat a little straighter. She'd be at the top of her department for some time.

And that wasn't even the half of it. The weapon's date threw the timing of Graham's death into question. Could it be that Graham didn't die when the history books said he did?

Surely not.

She laughed. There was no way something like that could've been kept secret, from the king, the court, the nobles, the clans.

And yet here was the suggestion of proof. A weapon bearing his initials, using technology that wouldn't have been in place before Graham's presumed death. Or to be more precise, flintlock mechanisms like this were available in 1650, but only just. It had been a major innovation: to push back the powder lid and strike the flint at the same time. By midcentury, the mechanism was still too expensive to be widespread, and the much simpler wheel lock would've been preferred.

Tracing her finger along the elegant little flintlock, she grinned. If James Graham hadn't really died on the gallows, how that would rock the world of European history. And she could be the one to break the news.

She had it. She had her dissertation.

Even if her theory weren't true, she'd get a lot of mileage out of making the argument. She'd get going on a journal article that very night, set it up so she could use it as the intro chapter.

Haley scanned the weapon, jogging her mind for other ideas. There was no deep pitting near the pan, so that would mean it hadn't been fired much. She turned it over and examined the old, nearly vanished proofmark. Stamped on by the gun maker, it would've signified the weapon was up to his standard, had withstood a heavy charge of powder. She rubbed her finger into the indentation. The insignia looked like an X with a circle beneath. Possibly crossed swords and a sunburst? She'd need to dig deeper there. See if she could find similar examples, perhaps triangulate the date using the proofmark as a milestone in time. She might even be able to pinpoint it to a specific arms maker.

Though if she traced the weapon back and it turned out to originate prior to 1650, it would only disprove her theory.

Haley shook her head. She refused to think on that just now. Something in her gut told her she was right. It made perfect sense. James Graham had bee n a brilliant tactician; he'd not have gone quietly to his death. Something - or someone - must have intervened. But what, and how?

She looked at the clock again. It was time to hustle out of there.

Beaming, Haley wrapped the precious weapon into its cloth and placed it back in the cabinet, double -then triple-checking that it was closed securely.

All the potential chapters took shape in her mind. She could see her argument clearly. And her title. A Dagger, with Love: The Secret Survival of James Graham. Or… Flintlock: Resurrecting a Military Hero. Or something. She'd drag Sarah out for a slice and they'd come up with something.

She bent to get her bag, then froze. A shadow flickered on the edge of her vision. Holding her breath, she remained still. Surely it was just her nerves on edge from what was turning out to be an eventful evening.

Silence.

She'd just imagined it then. A trick of her eyes, tired from straining all day under the fluorescent lights.

Haley stood. Her heart pounded suddenly, jolted to life as if by an electric shock.

There was something on the table.

“Sarah?”

No answer. She stepped closer. A dirty wooden panel sat in the middle of the table. It looked like a rough sketch of two people.

“What the ”-

She called more loudly now. “Sarah?”

Her bag slipped from her fingers as she looked around. It wasn't like Sarah to just plop something on the table without saying hi. Haley had only turned her back for a minute. And she would've heard the door open anyhow.

Unless someone had been in the room all along, hiding.

A surge of panic focused her. Marshalling her nerves, she ducked around the table, peeked between the cabinets, looking in nonsensical places where no person could have fit.

She shivered.

Was it some sort of creepy joke?

Could Sarah be pulling her leg to get her back for having to stay late?

She picked up the panel. The smell of charred things filled her nose and turned her stomach. “Freaky,” she muttered.

Etchings of runes and strange patterns had been crudely hacked along the edges of the panel. Haley brushed her thumb lightly along them, the wood raw and splintered where the knife had carved.

She blew the dirt from its surface. A man and a woman had been sketched with what looked like charcoal. Their features seemed like they'd been rendered quickly, loosely, picking up only the salient details. He was tall and broad, with wild hair and thick slashes of black for his brows. The woman was shorter, but not what you'd call small. She also had black hair, pulled back tight but for a hank loose over her brow. Haley tucked her own hair behind her ear.

She blew harder on the panel. There was something familiar about the woman. Squinting, Haley looked closer.

She cried out then, a single, sharp sound hitting the antiseptic walls. Her skin felt as if it was shrinking on her body, seizing her flesh into goose bumps all over, rousing the dust of thousands of hairs to stand erect.

The woman had a scar on her neck.

Haley's hand flew to her own scar, as if touching it would bring clarity to the image in her hands. Even though she knew it was empty, her eyes darted once again around the room. Was this supposed to be a picture of her? Was the man in the drawing some sort of stalker?

Haley had avoided touching the sketch for fear of smudging it, but she brushed it roughly now, trying to see it more clearly. Slivers of wood bit into her palm and she cursed, panic and anger and fear hammering through her.

Her head began to buzz, and she fought to stay focused.

She wouldn't let the shock and adrenalin drown her.

The scar. There was something on the woman's scar.

She tilted the panel. Light hit it at an angle, winking briefly along the mark on her neck. She inhaled sharply. The scar was the dull crimson of spilled blood.

A tinny squeal lanced her eardrums. She shook her head roughly. Stay focused.

Haley was mesmerized now, compelled to reach tentatively from her neck to the woman's. Gingerly, she touched it.

The cool of still-damp blood was tacky beneath her fingertip.

The air around her seemed suddenly thick, humid and dense in her lungs. She felt a tug. Fainting?

Falling.

The blackness swallowed her scream.

Chapter Four

MacColla eased his sister to the ground and placed a kiss on her forehead. He put his finger to his mouth, motioning for her to stay silent.

He needed to get her to safety immediately, but leaving Campbell's tower house was proving a more daunting challenge than entering. He nudged the wooden entry stairs with his foot. They lay perpendicular to the open doorway, having been pulled haphazardly up and into the building at day's end. Lowering them back down without the aid of another man would make a noise fit to wake the dead.

He glanced at the three souls passed out from drink on the far side of the great hall. Even a house full of drunken Campbells couldn't weather such a racket.

MacColla was leaning from the opening, assessing the long drop to the ground below, when he heard the crash. He spun to standing, dirk poised and ready in his hand, expecting to see a Campbell man.

Instead, a woman materialized before them, her white face ghostly in the darkness, dark gown fluttering at her legs as if a wraith in the night's breeze. Thick hanks of black hair hung loose around her face, blown gently along the sides of her cheek and full lips.

Their gazes held. Her eyes were gray in the ambient moonlight, transfixing him with the strange sensation that, if he only but focused a bit more, he could see forever in their depths.

The woman stumbled and he gave a start. Not an apparition.

She squatted to the ground, holding herself up on hands and feet like a wild creature. He stepped closer, straining for details in the shadows. The lass's dress stretched over her breasts and knees, baring a pale stretch of calf that

MacColla couldn't help but note.

Not an apparition at all, but a Campbell. He'd been ogling a bloody Campbell.

“God spare me,” he muttered, thinking he'd somehow bypassed a sleeping Campbell - one who'd managed to approach him unawares.

She slowly teetered to standing, and her dress continued to hug her body tightly. Though it exposed just a proper V of skin at her neck, it clung to modest swells at breasts and hips and thighs. Strange, low boots peeked from the hem, encasing her feet and lower legs in snug, black leather. His gaze raked back up her body, then stopped, snagged once more by those strange, luminous eyes. He finally found his voice, hoarse and low. “An e Caimbeulach a tha annad?”

He walked toward her. “Answer me, woman. You've Campbell blood in your veins? A sister, is it?” He leaned down and grabbed her chin roughly, turning her face from side to side. She had strong features. Thick lashes framed wide eyes and a lush mouth compensated for her almost- prominent nose. Prettier than he'd thought a Campbe ll would be.

She tensed, and he felt the lean, firm muscles of her arm flexing in his hand. And stronger too.