Page 10 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

Rose marched back into the hall, her pulse still racing from her encounter with Tiernan on the battlements. The warmth of the keep did little to settle the lingering chill in her bones, nor did it ease the agitation curling deep in her stomach. Her eyes immediately sought out Emmy, who looked as if she were just about to stand. She paused, her hand on the table, when she noticed Rose’s approach.

Thank God, Leana was nowhere in sight.

Giving Emmy a clear I need to talk to you look, which settled Emmy fully into her seat, Rose slipped into the chair beside her and leaned in close, lowering her voice. “I finally pieced it together. The journal I was reading about—when I was still in my time, when I was still in the archive—belonged to Margaret. Not just any Margaret—this Margaret. Margaret de Moubray. The one who was betrothed to Tiernan. The one who just died.” She shook her head, her voice dropping even lower. “I didn’t realize it until tonight. I knew the name Margaret was common, but I never made the connection. Not until Leana said his name.” With greater urgency, she revealed, “Margaret wrote about Tiernan.”

Emmy’s brows pulled together in concern, her face arrested with astonishment.. “Oh, my God.”

“I know!” Rose let out a breath, pushing her hands through her hair. “And I don’t think Tiernan believed me. But I don’t blame him—I wouldn’t believe me either. The whole thing is insane .” She pressed her lips together briefly, then admitted, “But I agree with him. I can’t leave yet. The answers are here, Emmy. I know they are.” She reached for Emmy’s hand, gripping it tightly. “Stay with me. Please.”

Emmy’s expression softened, but she shook her head. “Rose, I... I can’t—I couldn’t. Brody would—”

“Jesus, Emmy,” Rose snapped, frustration and anxiety sparking too harshly. “Have you assimilated so much that you let a man dictate what you can and cannot do?” The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

Emmy’s jaw tightened, her back straightening. Her eyes flashed—not with anger, but with something colder.

“I was going to say that Brody would be an anxious wreck, knowing I was here without him,” she said evenly. “If I asked—if I insisted—he would allow it. But I wouldn’t do that to him , knowing it would keep him from sleeping at night.” She paused, letting the words settle between them. “In his mind, he’s the only one who can keep me safe.”

Rose swallowed hard, shame curling in her stomach. “I’m sorry, Emmy. That was awful of me.” She shook her head, squeezing her friend’s hand. “I’m not myself, I’m in shambles. It’s just the thought of not having you here...”

Emmy sighed, her expression softening once more. “It’s fine. I’m sorry that I—or we—can’t stay. But Dunmara is Brody’s home, and he’s only just gotten it back on its feet after the war. He wants to be there.”

“I understand. Of course.”

Emmy studied her for a long moment, then said gently, “You don’t have to stay here, you know. Don’t feel like you do.”

Rose nodded automatically, but the response felt hollow. “I know.”

Emmy’s gaze didn’t waver. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to leave either.”

That, too, should have been simple. But it wasn’t.

Emmy nudged her lightly. “You don’t like it here, do you?”

Rose hesitated, then shook her head. “Not really.” Not at all, actually. Navigating the fourteenth century was difficult enough for a girl from the twentieth century, but it was so much easier at Dunmara. “Not at all,” she confessed. “I think this place and everyone in it is awful.”

Emmy arched a brow. “So what’s the problem? Come home to Dunmara with us.”

Rose groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. “I don’t know! I just—I don’t want to be here, with all the suspicious stares, with Leana clinging to me like I’m going to disappear at any second, with Tiernan looking at me like I’m some kind of infestation—”

Emmy raised a brow, her mood lightened, holding back a grin. “An infestation?”

Rose shot her a glare. “You know what I mean.”

Emmy hummed, barely suppressing a smirk. “Okay, so you don’t want to be here. Come home with us, Rose,” she repeated, enunciating the words slowly.

Rose sighed, meeting Emmy’s green eyes. “I need answers, Emmy. And I believe they’re here.” Pressing her fingers to her temples, she exhaled sharply. “Can you just—” Her voice wavered before she groaned and squeezed Emmy’s hand. “Can you decide for me? Just tell me what to do.”

Emmy’s brows lifted slightly, her hands warm and steady against Rose’s own. “That’s not how this works, Rose.”

“I know ,” Rose moaned, slumping slightly. “But I don’t—I can’t —I have no idea what I’m supposed to do! Every option feels like the wrong one.”

Emmy’s expression softened. “Because this is the first real decision you’ve had to make since you got here.”

Rose’s stomach clenched.

She was right.

When she had first arrived, everything had been chaos. She had been swept up in a tidal wave of events, reacting more than deciding, barely keeping her head above water. Emmy had made all her decisions for her, essentially. This was the first time she had been given the choice to stay or to leave.

And she had no idea what to do with it.

Emmy squeezed her hands gently. “I know it’s scary. But you do know the answer. Rose, if I were you, I would want to know, to understand....”

Rose nodded, and yet....

Emmy’s voice softened further. “Rose, I have a feeling that if you did return to Dunmara with us, you’d be wishing you’d stayed here, that you’d at least tried to get to the bottom of...well, whatever this is. It’s so different than—I didn’t have any underlying mystery in my event. It was just me, hurtled through time. I guess the only questions that still remain are: by whom? How? Why? But I don’t let it consume me anymore.” She waved her hand, dismissing her own digression. “The best advice I can give you is to accept it as best you can—for the moment. Looking back, I feel like I wasted too much time trying to get away. And maybe you will get back to the future. Maybe that’s still in store for you.” She lifted her gaze to Rose’s again, something earnest in her expression. “But Rose, you’ve got things to do, things that need attention—this whole mystery of your apparently spot-on resemblance to Margaret, and now to discover it was the same woman’s journal...you can’t let that go uninvestigated. Secondly, look around you. Look at the gift you’ve been given. You’re the historian—isn’t this a dream of historians? To actually live history rather than just read about it in dusty books? There’s so much more going on at Druimlach than Dunmara, the keep and clan being so much larger than the MacIntyres. Rose, this is the place to do that, to study, to learn, to immerse yourself.”

Rose nodded, because she had thought the same thing. But then she laughed, pinning Emmy with a look of mock suspicion. “Wow. Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Emmy’s denial was, blessedly, instant and genuine. “Never. Rose, for as long as you’re here or as long as you live, you have a home at Dunmara. I give you my word.”

Rose’s entire body and face melted at such heartfelt kindness. “Thank you, Emmy.”

At the same moment, they both began to move, leaning into each other, an embrace feeling perfect for the moment.

Rose squeezed her friend tightly. “I am so thankful for you,” she whispered into Emmy’s hair.

“And I you,” Emmy returned, shimmying their hug a bit. “We time-travelers have to stick together,” she whispered.

***

The next morning, Rose followed Emmy outside into the courtyard, where Brody and the MacIntyre men were already busy, saddling horses and checking weapons and supplies. Rose was surprised to see at least a dozen other men, MacRae men, doing the same. Two of them—one being the insufferable Malcolm—were already sitting in the saddle, waiting.

The sun was bright this morning, so much so that Rose had to lift her hand to shield her eyes as she scanned the busy and crowded yard. Tiernan was there, standing a short distance away, speaking in low tones with the man named James. The light caught in the strands of his dark hair, revealing hints of deep brown beneath the black, and highlighting the strands of gray in his short beard. The sun cast sharp angles over his chiseled features, illuminating the strong lines of his jaw and the perpetual crease between his brows. Fleetingly, Rose considered that at least he scowled at other people, too, and not only her.

“Are these MacRaes going with you?” Rose asked Emmy as they crossed the bailey.

“They are,” Emmy answered. “MacRae insisted. Apparently, he’d gotten word yesterday from a neighboring clan to the east that there have been sightings, and actually some run-ins, with reivers along the old roads, no doubt preying on travelers—very dangerous thieves, Brody has cautioned me.”

Reivers . Rose tucked that word away in her mind. Not just common thieves, then—dangerous ones, if they were desperate enough, she supposed.

“Actually,” Emmy went on just as she reached her husband, handing him her plump saddle bag, “it works out perfectly, since I wanted to send you some clothes. I’ll just have these men bring them back to you.”

“Thanks, Emmy.” She exhaled and squared her shoulders. This was only goodbye for now, she reminded herself. She would see Emmy again. Drawing closer, she offered her friend a small smile. “I’m going to miss you.”

Emmy turned, her blue eyes warm with understanding. “But only for now. We’ll see each other again. Soon.” She reached for Rose’s hands, giving them a firm squeeze. “You’ll be all right?”

“Who knows,” Rose admitted honestly, though the words carried no despair, only the truth. “But I’ll figure it out.”

Emmy’s lips curved in a small, knowing smile. “I have no doubt that you will.”

Brody stepped forward, his keen gaze settling on her with quiet consideration, his broad frame draped in the muted tones of his plaid, the hilt of his sword glinting faintly in the morning light. The imposing Highlander had always carried an air of quiet authority. There was kindness in his expression now, tempered by something more serious.

“Lass, if ye want—or need—to come back to Dunmara, MacRae can get word to me,” he said. “I ken how difficult Emmy’s...settling in was. Like as nae, if it becomes...difficult here, ye’ll want to be with Emmy.”

Rose nodded in full agreement, warmed by his thoughtful words. “Thank you. Please be careful. Get home safely.”

Brody’s lips twitched with something like amusement. “I’m always careful, lass.”

Tiernan had stepped away from his conversation, his focus now turned toward Brody and Emmy. Though he stood a short distance apart, his presence was impossible to ignore.

“All right,” Emmy said, forcing a wide smile, “Give me a hug and let’s not drag this out. I’m already sad that you’re not coming with us. I don’t want to start bawling in the middle of the courtyard.” She wrapped Rose in a quick, fierce hug before stepping back. “Take care of you.”

“You, too,” Rose said, having one late-blooming twitch of regret, wondering if she should actually be going with them. But then Emmy pushed away and climbed up in the saddle of her mare, making it look ridiculously easy.

Brody swung up into the saddle at the same time, offering one last nod to Tiernan. “I appreciate the extra men.”

“Better to be safe,” Tiernan acknowledged.

“Try not to cause too much trouble,” Emmy teased, her grin impish, her green eyes darting briefly to Tiernan.

“I make no promises,” Rose shot back.

Emmy laughed, shaking her head before turning her horse toward the gate.

Within moments, the party was moving, the sound of hooves striking damp earth echoing through the courtyard. Rose watched them go, a dull ache settling in her chest as she stood there, her throat tightening for a moment.

And then, as the last rider disappeared through the gates, the bustling energy of the courtyard faded.

The few others who’d come to see off the MacIntyres dispersed, leaving Rose standing alone in the courtyard with Tiernan.

Almost immediately, an awkwardness settled thick and heavy between them, their last conversation having been last night, upon the battlements, where he’d essentially labeled her a liar.

He surveyed the departing group a moment longer than Rose had.

And then he turned his attention to her, and she realized that in the bright morning sun, his eyes were different. Inside the dimly lit hall, they were a colder shade—deep, stormy, almost gray. But out here, under the clear light of day, they were strikingly pale, like glacier-fed waters, bright and sharp against the tanned planes of his face. His lashes were impossibly dark, thick and long, framing that piercing blue in a way that would have been enviable on any woman.

“What will ye do with yer time here?” He asked.

The question caught her off guard.

“I have no idea,” she admitted, then tested out a small but irreverent grin on him. “I imagine a good part of it might be spent trying to remain outside of Leana’s clutches.”

He didn’t smile—of course, he didn’t—but he tilted his head slightly, a small, considering motion, as if to acknowledge that her expectation wasn’t entirely unfounded.

She couldn’t help but wonder how much more beautiful he’d be if he did smile.

The thought startled her. She had spent so much time caught in the intensity of his inscrutable expressions that she had never even considered what he might look like unburdened . Maybe joyous, or simply pleased about something.

The idea was almost too foreign to imagine.

Before she could stop herself, she asked, “Do you ever smile?”

The moment she asked, she regretted it. But then, part of her reasoned, what the hell do I have to lose?

Rather than answer, he turned the question back on her. “Canna say I’ve seen too many smiles on yer face, lass.”

Purposefully, she beamed at him, a deliberately sweet, exaggerated expression. “Yes, well, harrowing time travel, being hundreds of years and thousands of miles from home with no certainty that I’ll get back—those things can dampen a girl’s spirits.”

“Let’s nae forget yer unnatural likeness to Margaret.”

“How could I?” She challenged lightly. “I’m reminded of it nearly every day, in some fashion, as if it’s the most remarkable fact to ever exist.” Her smile faded as she studied him, searching for something in his face. “But is it? A fact, I mean. Do you think I look like her? Not just somewhat or in passing , but do I resemble Margaret enough to have provoked such... drastic and overwhelming reactions from nearly everyone?”

She wished she’d have thought that question out before speaking it. It invited him to study her face at length, apparently in great detail. Those magnetic blue eyes roved leisurely over her face, seeming to miss not one inch.

“Aye,” he finally said, his voice quiet but firm. “Ye do resemble her strongly—almost perfectly. But I can see what others refuse to acknowledge.” He shook his head. “Ye are nae her. Nae at all.”

The way he said it left no doubt in her mind—he did not, could not, and would not see her as anything close to Margaret. Not in spirit, not in substance, and certainly not in worth, she imagined.

A strange sort of heaviness settled in her chest, though she wasn’t sure why.

A question pressed at the edges of her mind, one she hadn’t quite let herself consider before.

She hesitated, glancing down briefly before lifting her gaze to meet his once more. “Does it... bother you?” Her voice was quieter now, a touch uncertain. “To have me here? To see me every day and know that I’m not her?”

“It doesnae change what is. Ye are here and she is nae. I buried Margaret a week ago.”

Like so many of his responses, this one was vague, telling her nothing really.

Not an answer at all.

Rose nodded tightly and with a rigid smile, turned and walked away.

***

The sun had shifted high into the sky by the time Rose stepped outside again, making her escape as she saw it.

She had spent the last few hours in Leana’s solar—or rather, what would have been Margaret’s solar had she lived, had she wed—a length of embroidery sitting idly in her lap while Leana prattled on, seemingly unaware that Rose never once pressed needle to cloth. The older woman had been content just to have her there, a silent presence, nodding when prompted, murmuring sounds of agreement when required.

Rose had done her duty. She had sacrificed the time to sit with Leana, listening, enduring. Surely now, she deserved a bit of freedom.

Stepping into the open air, she inhaled deeply, the weight of the morning’s stillness lifting from her shoulders. She wandered past the keep, following the sloping path that wove through the tall grass. A short distance ahead, the clang of metal on metal carried on the breeze, punctuated by the occasional shouted command.

She had noticed the training field before, had paused and maybe wondered a bit at what went on specifically, but had not dared to intrude. Today, though, curiosity tugged at her, drawing her closer until she found herself lingering beside the only tree in sight, standing on the rise overlooking the field, its gnarled trunk offering a bit of cover. From there, she could see flashes of movement—men shifting, lunging, striking, in groups of two, sparring she supposed.

She had studied such things before—tactics, formations, battle strategies—but only in books. She’d seen poorly made films of reenactments, learning nothing from those, but had never seen it like this.

The sound of footsteps turned her around toward the keep in the distance.

A man approached, one eye pinned on her and the other closed against the sun until he walked under the canopy of broad branches, into the shade.

Rose tensed, expecting his stare to be unkind, but as he drew nearer, she judged his expression pleasant, unaffected even.

He was middle-aged, his thin hair cropped short and streaked with silver at the temples, his beard neatly trimmed. Unlike so many others—almost everyone else at Druimlach—he did not gawk at her as though she were a ghost. If he had thoughts about her presence, they did not show on his face.

“Have an interest in fighting, lass?” he asked, stopping beside her.

Rose let out a soft, self-conscious laugh. “Not in fighting , exactly. But I’ve studied military training and strategies of this—or similar to this. I’ve never seen it this close up, though.”

The man tilted his head, considering her. “This is nae close, lass. Come down and see.”

“Oh, I don’t want to... I couldn’t.”

He merely shrugged and began to walk away.

Rose hesitated, then called after him, “Could I? I mean... would that be allowed?”

Another shrug as he paused and turned back to her. “Lasses fight, too.”

She let out another short laugh. “Oh, I couldn’t actually fight.”

“Nae bad skills to have, though, aye?”

Her fingers drifted to her cheek, a gesture so habitual she barely noticed doing it.

The man, perhaps mistaking the reason for her hesitation, nodded toward the men training below. “Loads of scars down there with them. They willna be bothered by it. And those ones who gave ye grief the other night? They’re nae here today.”

Rose grimaced. “I didn’t mean to get them in trouble.”

The man snorted, amused. “Those ones—Malcolm, mostly—make their own trouble.”

She shifted her weight, torn between wanting to step forward and holding herself back. “It’s not just that,” she admitted. “People are unnerved by me... because of her, Margaret.”

“The resemblance,” he guessed, nodding.

Rose nodded in turn.

“They’ll get used to it.” He said it simply, without much concern. “Likely, ousting the whispers will help with that. Let ?em see ye, lass.”

Rose frowned, unsure if that was the direction she should take.

“ I can plainly see ye’re nae her. Lady Margaret was kind, they said, but she’d never have deigned to speak to a lowly soldier as ye have.” His mouth quirked slightly. “Spent a lot of time with a kerchief pressed to her nose, she did, couldnae stand the foulness here, it seemed.”

Rose showed a small grin, confessing, “I don’t even have a kerchief of my own.”

He chuckled. “All the better.” Then he leveled her with a look, amused yet, and patient. “Seems ye’ve exhausted all the reasons why ye should nae—unless ye’ve more?”

She hesitated for only a moment longer before sticking out her hand. “I’m Rose, by the way.”

He looked at it, clearly startled by the gesture, before tentatively grasping her hand in his. The shake was awkward at best, more of a light grasp than anything. Rose had to do the pumping herself, guiding their hands up and down before letting go.

He considered his hand and then hers for a moment, as if unfamiliar with the gesture, before dropping his hand back to his side. “Gregor,” he offered.

She smiled. “Well, Gregor, if you’re sure I won’t get in the way...”

He lifted a brow. “Ye may. But that’s nae calamity either.”

She glanced once more toward the field, then back at him. “Is the laird down there?”

Gregor’s brow lifted slightly. “Worried he’ll send ye away?”

“Wouldn’t he?”

“Aye, he might.” He smirked slightly, then added, “But he’s nae here—out with a scouting party, looking for miscreants said to be in the area.”

Rose glanced toward the training field once more. “Then maybe I’ll take my chances.”

Gregor motioned ahead, a silent c’mon then , before heading toward the men himself.

A bit nervous still, Rose followed, falling into step beside him, walking down the path.

“That’s a lot of hesitation, lass, simply to walk out here,” Gregor commented dryly. “Might as well have been debating whether to step off a cliff, with all the reasons ye had against it.”

Rose grinned. “I’m not normally so skittish. Or, I didn’t used to be,” she reckoned, her eyes on the business at hand ahead of her.

She watched as the warriors of Clan MacRae in one group loosed arrows toward distant targets, their powerful arms drawing back bowstrings with fluid ease, the twang of release followed by the satisfying thunk of arrows finding their mark. She’d long been fascinated by it in theory, had studied battle tactics, had read about the training of medieval warriors, but standing here, watching it unfold before her, it was something else entirely. These were not like the flimsy wooden bows she’d once used in physical education class in high school. These were weapons of war.

Another group, broken off into pairs, sparred with swords, thrusting and parrying with more menace than Rose would have expected to see in training. They wore snarling battle-ready faces as they lunged and struck. Even the faces of those side-stepping and countering an attack were twisted with determined rage, it seemed.

At the opposite end of the long barren field, more men trained on horseback, galloping swiftly toward a wooden pole struck in the ground, from which flapped a series of linen flags. The highest flags snapped and fluttered, caught on the wind, but the lowest pieces of ragged linen hung limp and stubborn near the base. One by one, the riders thundered past, leaning dangerously off their saddles, fingertips outstretched, straining to catch hold of the lowest cloth. Some managed the higher ones with ease, snatching them mid-stride to a cheer or a barked command. The lowest flags demanded not just daring but balance, precision, and a fearless trust in their horse. A few slipped, nearly unseated, their mounts veering as the men fought to stay upright. Others slowed, gauging the distance, choosing technique over speed. One man lost his seat completely, tumbling and rolling on the ground, his hand empty, the flag he’d meant to snatch still attached to the pole. This was greeted by laughing and good-natured jeering.

As she came closer to the archers, they paused, one after another, lowering their bows as they noticed her approach. Her cheeks pinkened even as she smiled silent greetings, acknowledging their curious stares.

“Lass only wants a closer look,” Gregor said, having paused, facing her now. “Has a keen interest, she says.”

Rose swung her gaze to Gregor, wondering if she only imagined or had actually heard some mockery or doubt in his tone now. But then he took the bow from a young man’s hand and held it up toward Rose.

“As close as it gets, lass,” he challenged mildly.

“She’ll nae have the strength to draw the bow,” predicted a kid about her age, with lank brown hair and matching brown eyes.

It was her own curiosity and not any desire to prove him wrong that had Rose stepping forward, accepting the longbow. It was heavier than she expected, the polished yew cool and smooth against her palms. She turned it carefully, studying the graceful curve of the wood, the subtle taper from grip to limb. The string, tightly wound and slightly waxy beneath her fingertips, stretched taut with rigid, finely tuned tension. Every detail bore the mark of craftsmanship, from the elegant shaping of the nocks to the slight notches carved into the grip, worn smooth by countless hands. It was beautiful, in a severe and practical sort of way, and so much better than merely reading about it, or studying later-made diagrams, of which there were few.

“Ye’ll nae find better north of the Tay,” Gregor said, his voice a little less teasing now. “Made by Ewan MacRae, every one of them. Cares for each like a bairn.”

Rose nodded absently, still caught in quiet wonder. At times, it still astonished her, and she had to consciously remind herself that she was seeing, hearing, and now touching things over seven hundred years old. Objects no one from her world—not even the most veteran historians or professors, unless granted rare access—could ever hope to handle firsthand.

“But ye canna draw on it,” another young soldier repeated. “Too wee and weak, ye are.”

Having plucked the taut string but once, she wasn’t sure she could either. “Maybe not, but I’d like to try,” she said, looking at Gregor for permission.

At his silent nod, Rose stood as she’d been taught in PE class back in Sauk Prairie High, placing her feet on either side of an imaginary shooting line, her stance as wide as her hips. She began to lift the bow.

One of the MacRae soldiers corrected her almost immediately, prompting her to lower the bow and listen.

“Too narrow, lass,” he said. “Nae stability in that.”

“Aye, too narrow and ye’ll tend to lean away from the target,” said another helpfully.

Rose adjusted her feet, putting more space between them.

Almost instantly, several of the watching men shook their heads.

“Too wide now,” said one, with a mop of sandy brown hair.

“Ye’ll feel too much tension in yer shanks,” explained Gregor.

Rose adjusted her stance again and looked up to gauge their response. Several nods now greeted her as she stood with her feet almost exactly shoulder width apart.

She lifted the bow, raising her back arm to match the front, angling her chin slightly upward as she recalled her old PE teacher, Mrs. Gregoire, used to say it should look as though she were peering down her nose at the bow.

A low murmur—“Aye, that’s it”—came from somewhere behind the line, followed by a few other encouraging sounds. It seemed she’d gotten the stance right, at least.

But they hadn’t been wrong about the strength it took to draw the string. Rose gritted her teeth, arms quivering slightly as she fought to pull it back—and that was without an arrow, without even having to worry yet about balancing that narrow sliver of wood between her fingers.

“Nae, lass,” someone called mildly.

Relieved, Rose let the string go, lowering the bow to her side.

“Dinna pull it slow,” said a young man as he stepped forward, bow in hand. “Power comes with the draw—smooth and swift,” he explained, lifting his own and demonstrating the motion deftly.

She tried again, hooking the string with her index and middle fingers, this time aiming for a quick, fluid draw rather than obsessing over perfect form. The taut string bit into the bend of her knuckle, and she grimaced, shifting her forefinger in an attempt to adjust—but the small movement cost her. Her grip slipped entirely, and the string snapped forward with a sharp twang, the sudden release vibrating through the bow.

Even as she knew it was coming, the suddenness of the motion caused her to jerk and stutter, wincing a bit as if she expected to be pinched by the string.

A bit of laughter followed this, none of which sounded particularly mean-spirited, so that Rose grinned along with them, shrugging a bit sheepishly.

The young man who’d directed her to pull the string smoothly and swiftly stepped up behind her, still grinning, positioning his hands over hers. His chest brushed lightly against her shoulder as he encouraged her to lift the bow more fluidly. “Aye, like that, lass,” he said as he helped her pull back the string, more easily now with his fingers attached to the string as well. “Steady now.”

Rose barely had time to rejoice in this small success before a sharp, commanding voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip.

“Bluidy hell, Niall. Take yer hands off her.”