Page 13 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

Tiernan sat astride his destrier just inside the gates of Druimlach, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the keep. He’d sent the maid, Ceana, to wake Rose before dawn, thinking it wiser to explain her absence to Leana after the fact. Better to face the woman’s disappointment than to endure the wailing that would surely erupt if she’d been made aware and witnessed Rose leaving.

The sky above was a low ceiling of angry clouds, the kind that threatened a storm it might not actually deliver. Fitting, he thought. It suited his mood well enough. Four men waited with him, two scouts—which were frankly unnecessary since the route was short and well-traveled—and two others, because even in friendly territory, it was never safe to travel with too small a party.

The plan was simple. Take Rose to Dunmara, leave her in Brody’s care, and return home.

And then forget about her.

It would be the last time he saw her. It was as it should be. He’d done what was necessary, had opened his home to her, had tolerated the chaos she’d brought to Druimlach long enough. Her presence had unsettled too many—his people, Lord and Lady de Moubray, and himself most of all.

And yet, as the minutes stretched and the keep’s door remained shut, he found no peace in the certainty of her departure.

He still didn’t understand why Brody had brought her here in the first place—aside from the obvious, that she bore the face of the dead. But he couldn’t fault his friend. In Brody’s place, he might have done the same. The lure of mysticism in the Highlands ran deep, embedded in the hearts of even the most hardened skeptics. And when grief took hold, even the sharpest minds turned soft at the edges.

And frankly, he’d seen enough of what Rose’s presence could do—how her face stirred old ghosts, how easily she’d unsettled the servants, who whispered prayers behind her back and crossed themselves when Rose wasn’t looking. She’d maddened and saddened Margaret’s father, to the point where Tiernan had a wee bit of concern that the de Moubrays might become enemies of the MacRaes. Her very presence had shattered any hope of Leana grieving properly—not while she clung to the mad, desperate notion that Rose was her dead daughter.

Still worst of all, Rose had begun to unsettle him —not with illusion, but with something far more dangerous. With truth. With the vivid, living reality of who she was.

Then there was her wild claim—come from some other time, hundreds of years in the future, for Chrissakes! He shook his head with disgust. It was time she left.

So why, in God’s name, did it feel like the beginning of something... instead of the end?

Rose emerged at last, stepping carefully onto the stone steps, her movements stiff and hesitant, though her chin was held high. She wore the MacIntyre plaid draped over her shoulders, as she had nearly every day since her arrival—a quiet flag of allegiance, perhaps, to the only people who’d made her feel even marginally welcome.

Aye, Tiernan thought bitterly. Let MacIntyre figure out what to do with the lass now.

Her dark blue eyes met his briefly before skittering away. There was something in them—resignation, perhaps, or grim determination. Maybe even reluctance. Whatever it was, he told himself it did not matter.

He dismounted with a sigh, his boots striking the ground as he approached her at the steps. She held only a single small saddlebag, which he took from her without a word. As he fastened it to the back of the saddle, his brow furrowed faintly. He wondered if it held all her worldly possessions—and then wondered why he was curious about such a thing.

Realizing he hadn’t even offered her a proper greeting, he spoke over his shoulder as he secured the straps. “I reckoned it would be easier on ye—and on Lady Leana—if she dinna learn of yer leaving until it was done. Hence the early start.”

“I appreciate that,” Rose replied softly. “I wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to her.”

He turned to her and nodded toward the destrier. “I’ll lift ye up,” he said, his voice low. If ye dinna mind me touching ye , he thought but did not add, being visited by a recollection from last night, when he’d taken hold of her wrist, how she’d gone rigid at his touch. To be fair, though, last night’s touch had been... different, had begun with intention, had not at all been utilitarian as this would be.

She gave a small nod and Tiernan stepped closer, lifting her by the waist. He was fully aware of the subtle curve of her body, the tension in her muscles as she resisted leaning into him. When she was settled and had adjusted her skirts around her lower legs and her odd shoes, he mounted behind her, swinging up with ease.

She stiffened again or remained stiff, but Tiernan ignored it.

Without a word, he settled in, reaching around her to take the reins, his arms caging her in. He pulled her close—not tightly, but enough to eliminate the space between them, enough to make the ride easier for her. Safer, more secure.

That was the only reason to pull her close.

He told himself that twice.

But the feel of her against him was not something he could disregard. Jesu , she was soft. And warm. Her hair, loose today, brushed against his chin until she pulled up the MacIntyre breacan over her head. He caught a whiff of something light, something floral—lavender or wildflowers—delicate and maddening.

He forced his eyes forward as the great gates of Druimlach groaned open before them. The destrier moved beneath them with slow, lazy strides. Tiernan focused on the road. On the weight of the reins in his hands. On the miles between here and Dunmara. He ignored the way her body fit so perfectly against his.

The ride was quiet. The kind of quiet that clung, not peaceful but strained. The escort he’d chosen rode ahead and behind, silent as shadows, their eyes alert. Early morning mist still clung to the hollows and swells of the land, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and last night’s rain.

It should have been a moment of calm, but he felt anything but.

Rose sat stiffly in the saddle, her spine ramrod straight, her hands resting just barely on the pommel. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the gates. No sharp remarks. No stray questions. No idle chatter.

And for some reason, that did not sit well with him.

She wasn’t the sort to chatter aimlessly, but in the time he'd known her, he’d sensed that silence had often made her uneasy. But now... nothing.

He told himself he was grateful for it. It was easier this way, cleaner. Still, the silence pressed on him. He considered saying something—asking if she was cold, or if the saddle was too uncomfortable, or if she needed a rest. Mundane, unnecessary things. The sort of things he never said. And yet the impulse tugged at him.

He rolled his eyes. Why the hell did it matter if she spoke or not? He certainly wasn’t the sort who needed conversation. He’d ridden entire days with men who said less than a dozen words. He much preferred it that way.

So why did her silence feel so loud?

Because it was final, he realized. That’s what gnawed at him. Because this was the last time they would share anything—words, or a horse, or even the same stretch of road. Because once she stepped through the gates of Dunmara, she’d be gone from his life. He shifted slightly in the saddle, tightening his grip on the reins. And he realized, with no small amount of irritation, that he didn’t like that thought at all.

It was not supposed to feel like this, like something was slipping beyond his control.

Relief should have been the only thing he felt right about now.

The landscape shifted as they rode, the steep hills rising more sharply, the trees growing denser, thick with moss and rain-dampened bark. They had been traveling for nearly thirty minutes when Ruairidh, riding ahead, veered back toward them, his horse kicking up clumps of damp earth. He pulled alongside Tiernan, his expression grim.

“The ford’s too high,” he said, spitting onto the ground. “The river’s flooded past the banks. We’d be foolish to try crossing it.”

Tiernan ground his teeth. He had intended to take the fastest route, but if the river was impassable, there was no choice. “The eastern pass, then.”

Ruairidh nodded, though his displeasure was evident as well. The alternate route would add at least another hour to their trek.

And so, they veered east, taking the winding trail that cut through the hills, moving steadily toward the narrowest part of the pass. The air grew still, too still, and Tiernan scowled, considering the unnatural quiet, the usual sounds of the forest—birdsong, rustling leaves, and snapping twigs—eerily absent.

Tiernan’s grip tightened on the reins, his instincts flaring with warning as his gaze swept the cliffs above them, searching for movement among the jagged outcroppings of rock. But there was nothing. Just sheer, moss-covered walls rising steeply on either side, narrowing the path and trapping them within a corridor of stone.

A moment later, without warning, a small rock tumbled down from above, bouncing harmlessly along the path ahead.

Arailt, in the lead, threw over his shoulder in an unperturbed voice, “Rains turned everything soggy. It’ll all be sliding down sooner or later.”

A moment later a second rock followed, then a third, the size of a man’s head. Neither of those made contact with any of their party.

The pass narrowed, cliffs rising steeply on either side—two stories of jagged rock looming above them, silent and still.

And then a deep, splintering crack split the air. The entire cliffside seemed to groan, a shudder rippling through the earth as a cascade of stone and debris broke free and thundered down the slope. Tiernan’s head snapped up.

“Go!” he barked, heels slamming into the destrier’s flanks. He yanked Rose closer against him, his arm tightening around her as the massive horse surged forward.

And then the mountain gave way.

A cascade of stone and debris broke free from the cliffside with a deafening roar. Boulders the size of barrels crashed down in a deadly torrent, striking the ground behind them with bone-shaking force. Dust exploded upward, a blinding cloud that swallowed everything, thick and choking, turning sky and ground into one seething haze.

Behind them, a horse screamed, and a man cried out, but Tiernan didn’t look back. There was no time. He needed to get Rose safely away.

She clung to him, her fingers digging into his forearms, but he barely felt it. His entire focus narrowed to the path ahead, to getting them clear. He coughed as they were enveloped in a haze of pulverized stone, urging the destrier to move faster, ignoring the sudden sting of grit in his eyes, and the burning in his lungs.

Rose jerked against him and emitted a strangled cry. Assuming she’d been struck by some falling and shooting rock debris, a vicious, seething anger coiled in his gut, a primal surge of protectiveness that nearly broke his focus. But there was no time to check on her, no time to do anything but escape, and get clear of the danger.

As they emerged from the fog of gritty dust, Tiernan realized more danger lay ahead.

Two mounted men stood ahead in the narrow pass, horses planted firmly in the center of the trail. They were motionless, waiting—shadowy silhouettes at first, emerging from the lingering haze like ghosts.

Tiernan growled as reality hit him hard. These weren’t helpful travelers, and they weren’t errant scouts. These were armed men, one holding a short hatchet, the other sitting with a short, makeshift spike across his lap. Knowing this wasn’t chance, Tiernan’s mind moved swiftly, sharper now, his instincts roaring to the surface. The slide hadn’t been caused solely by the softened earth from several day’s rain. The rain might have made it easier, but this had been planned.

“Tiernan?” Rose questioned worriedly.

“Aye,” he said, breathless already from their short, swift flight from the rockslide.

An ambush—possibly by the same bandits he’d spent half of yesterday chasing through the northern hills.

And now they had him boxed in. The pass behind them was buried in rubble. He couldn't turn back. He couldn't risk stopping, not with Rose exposed and the way blocked. If he were cut down, it would be quick, but she would likely not be afforded so swift a death, he feared.

It was all the time he had to think. It was time to act.

He shifted the reins into his left hand, locking his arm firmly around Rose’s waist to keep her anchored against him. With his right hand, he drew his sword, the metal hissing as it scraped against the sheath.

“Hold tight, lass,” he growled. “Duck yer head—low.”

The destrier surged forward with a violent snort, its ears pinned flat, hooves pounding the earth in a thunderous rhythm. The massive war horse gathered speed in a heartbeat, muscles bunching beneath them as it hurtled straight toward the gap between the two mounted men.

The bastards didn’t move, but rather seemed shocked by his charge.

All the better.

At the last moment, Tiernan yanked the reins, veering sharply to the right, the destrier responding with stunning agility for its size. The bandit with the spear barely had time to register the change in direction before Tiernan was upon him.

Tiernan rose half in the stirrups and swung. His sword met the man’s chest with brutal force, slicing through leather, bone, and flesh in one clean strike. The spike fell from the bandit’s hands as he crumpled sideways in the saddle, blood spraying across Tiernan’s chest and thigh.

The destrier never broke stride. Tiernan had to wrench the blade free with a hard, jerking pull so as not to lose it to the dying man’s weight.

Rose gave a strangled cry as Tiernan plopped down against her back, as they galloped past the squealing horse and rider and the too-stunned-to-move, hatchet-wielding man.

The second man recovered quickly enough, though, and within seconds, the thunder of hooves began to rise behind them as he gave chase.

Tiernan didn’t look back, though he half expected the hatchet to come whistling through the air at any moment, burying itself between his shoulders. Just as he considered wheeling the destrier around to face the lone man behind them, movement caught his eye—two more riders descending the lower cliffside ahead.

The path widened here—thankfully—but not by much. And he wasn’t certain the destrier could outpace them, not if they reached the trail before he did. Their mounts—likely stolen—were lean and fast, meant for pursuit, not brute force.

Outrunning them might no longer be an option.

He would have to make a stand.

But not here, not with nowhere for Rose to go. He needed space—and cover. A place where she could run if she had to, somewhere he could meet their blades without risking her life further.

Tiernan leaned low over Rose as she’d made herself as small as possible in front of him. With a harsh word and a sharp squeeze of his knees, he urged the destrier once again. The great horse responded with a fresh burst of speed, its breath flaring hot and heavy as it thundered down the pass.

The two riders ahead shouted, but could not increase their speed, coming down the wet earth and jagged rock of the slope. He barreled past them just before they reached the narrowing trail, close enough to see the whites of their eyes.

They rushed on, the cliffs soon falling behind them, the narrow pass opening into a stretch of wild woods, dense and tangled with undergrowth and shadows. As soon as they cleared the last outcropping of rock, Tiernan veered hard to the right, yanking the reins and guiding the destrier off the main trail and into the trees. Low branches clawed at them, whipping past in a blur, but he pushed deeper and deeper into the trees until they were swallowed by the forest.

Then he forced the horse to a stop in a small, sheltered hollow beneath a thicket of pine.

He dismounted fast, turning to Rose.

“Ride northeast,” he ordered, voice low but sharp. “Follow the sun. Go until ye reach open ground or water. If they dinna follow ye, circle back to the road and keep east to Dunmara.”

Rose blinked, stunned, still catching her breath, her face without a trace of color.

He pressed the reins into her hands. “Go, Rose.”

“I can’t,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I-I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“Ye simply hang on and kick his sides,” Tiernan growled instruction, glancing behind him as the sound of hooves began to close in. He had a sudden vision of Rose being too inept on horseback to actually make a good escape, and of one of the approaching reivers neglecting Tiernan to focus on her.

Another growl of frustrated fury erupted from him before he reached up, hauling Rose from the saddle, setting her firmly on her feet, and immediately pushing her toward the further, denser trees.

“Run,” he commanded, his voice hard as steel. “Hide.”

She hesitated—resisted even, damn her.

“Tiernan, I—”

“Go!” He clipped, fisting his hand into the fabric at her lower back, roughly shoving her forward. “Go.”

She stumbled but did move, staggering toward cover.

Spinning on his heel, he lifted his sword, just as the first attacker bore down on him—a hulking brute with a raised blade, his sneer bared as he circled Tiernan on his charger. Tiernan met the man’s first strike mid-swing, steel colliding with steel in a shattering clash that sent vibrations jolting up his arms. The force of the blow was brutal, but Tiernan twisted, breaking the lock, using the man’s own momentum against him. The man thought he had the advantage of height and power, being on the horse, but Tiernan knew that the advantage was his, having solid ground and his planted foot as leverage. A hard parry, a vicious upward stroke, and the bandit staggered back, gasping as the blade bit deep. He crumpled, falling from the saddle.

Tiernan barely had a moment to catch his breath before the second attacker came at him. This one was different—lean and quick, far lighter in the saddle, with no intention of dismounting. Much smaller in stature than Tiernan, he was clever enough to know that facing Tiernan on foot would be suicide. He circled warily, blade poised, his eyes flicking over Tiernan’s stance, searching for an opening. His movements were nimble, a man used to harrying from horseback, not charging head-on.

Tiernan matched his circling, turning slowly, sword held ready. He had no intention of rushing the fight. If he could stall the bastard long enough, Rose might gain enough of a lead to be safe.

But then he heard it—hoofbeats pounding in the distance. He didn’t know if they were friend or foe, and now he couldn’t afford to wait. With a growl, Tiernan lunged—not at the rider, but at the horse. Steel met flesh with a sickening sound as his blade slashed deep across the roan’s chest and shoulder, a brutal, angled stroke meant to maim. The beast reared with a scream, front legs flailing, blood pouring down its flank.

The rider cried out in alarm, jerking at the reins, but it was too late. The horse bucked violently, and the man lost his seat, tumbling sideways and crashing to the forest floor with a thud.

Tiernan didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance in two strides, raising his sword high as the man scrambled for his bearings. He brought the sword down in a ruthless arc, cutting cleanly through flesh and bone. A sharp exhale, a final gurgled breath, and the bandit collapsed, his body folding into the damp underbrush, motionless.

For a single breath, Tiernan stilled, chest heaving, his instincts still screaming a warning through his blood. And then pain exploded through his shoulder.

Not from a blade.

An arrow.

The force of it wrenched his body sideways, his breath locking in his chest as fire lanced outward from the point of impact. He staggered, boots sliding against the loose earth as his vision flared white. Somewhere ahead, movement caught his eye, and he lifted his head just as a third figure emerged from the trees, bow still raised, a smug, knowing smirk curling his lips.

Tiernan’s jaw tightened, fury battling against the sharp pain radiating from his wound. His grip on his sword faltered for half a second before he forced his fingers to tighten, his body to stay upright. The bastard was already nocking another arrow, taking his time, measuring his shot, knowing Tiernan wouldn’t be able to reach him before he let loose another arrow.

Tiernan moved, staggering backward a step, then another, before suddenly whirling and vanishing into the thick underbrush. Branches slapped against his face as he ran, as hard and as fast as he could before he ducked behind a wide-bellied pine, his breath harsh and shallow. He crouched low, ears straining for the sound of pursuit. He reached over his shoulder, gritting his teeth as he gripped the arrow’s shaft. With a sharp snap, he broke off the bulk of it, leaving the head and about ten inches of the shaft embedded for now, poking through his back and front. The pain in his shoulder was sharp and hot, but not deep enough to drop him. Not yet.

He slipped his long dagger free from its sheath and transferred his sword to his left hand.

The rider eased his horse forward, weaving between the trees without a trace of urgency.

Tiernan stayed low, quiet as the dead, knowing he didn’t need speed or even all of his strength, but timing.

As the archer’s horse stepped into view on Tiernan’s right, and while the rider leaned slightly, scanning the underbrush to his left, Tiernan struck. He lunged from the right, driving upward with the dagger in a tight, brutal arc. The blade sank deep beneath the man’s ribs, just below the edge of his leather cuirass. He wore no smirk now; his mouth opened in a soundless gasp. Tiernan shoved the man backward by pushing his blade deeper, sending him tumbling from the saddle.

The horse reared and bolted, and Tiernan yanked his dagger free, trying to rise off his knee to capture the steed. He was too slow now, and the horse disappeared into the trees.

Tiernan stood over the crumpled body, breath ragged, the dagger slick with blood in his hand. More blood ran freely from his shoulder now, warm and steady, but the forest was quiet again, at least for the moment. Still, he scanned the trees all around him, turning in a slow circle. Looking for even the slightest movement among the shadows.

It wasn’t movement he saw, but a flash of blue.

Just beyond a thick oak, a pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at him.

Rose.

She was half-hidden, frozen in place, breath shallow, her expression pale and stricken. Her hands clutched the bark behind her, knuckles white. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Tiernan started toward her, hissing, “I told ye to run.”

She stepped out slowly, her gaze locked not on his face, but on the arrowhead jutting from his shoulder.

“Oh, shit,” she said. “Tiernan, you’re bleeding. You’ve been shot—Oh, God, it looks awful,” she whined, words tumbling fast and anxious. “Does it hurt terribly? It does. It must. Tiernan, you have two holes in you—front and back.”

“Rose,” he snapped at the same time, voice low but sharp. “I said run .” Despite the fact that she hadn’t run, despite the searing pain in his shoulder, a wave of pure relief rolled over him. She was safe.

She wasn’t listening to him. “Can you lift your arm? We need to stop the bleeding—where are your men? Oh, my God, are they dead?”

And Tiernan wasn’t listening to her. “Ye dinna heed me,” he scolded severely, sheathing his sword finally. “Ye run, Rose. When I say run, ye run, dammit.”

“What if they’re trapped under those rocks? Tiernan, we need to—”

He circled his fingers around her arm, yanking her toward him, effectively silencing her. “Cease. We need to find the destrier first.” More men could be waiting beyond the tree line, more arrows could already be trained on them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And he was growing weaker by the minute.

Exhaling sharply, he forced himself to move. His grip on her arm was firm, but not unkind. “Come,” he muttered, his voice rough with the effort it took to stay upright. “We need to move.”