Page 14 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

The forest was so much less scary when one wasn’t being pursued by murderous thieves—and when walking side by side with a man like Tiernan MacRae.

The woodland loomed around them, its ancient trees towering high. Gnarled branches, swayed by a strong wind, cast restless shadows over the uneven ground. Every sound seemed amplified in the heavy quiet—the distant rustling of unseen creatures, the crunch of their feet against the soft, leaf-littered earth, the occasional ragged inhale from the man beside her.

Rose walked blindly, keeping pace with Tiernan, her mind still trying to comprehend what she’d just witnessed.

She couldn’t stop seeing it, the fight. The way Tiernan had moved—so fast, so brutal, so completely in control. There had been no hesitation, no wasted movement. Every strike had been purposeful, every blow calculated. And yet, for all that skill, there had been nothing graceful about it. He had fought like a man who had done this a thousand times before, like someone who did not just survive violence but lived in it, thrived in it.

She’d watched as his sword cut through flesh, as men collapsed beneath the force of his strikes, as the glint of steel disappeared into the bodies of his enemies and came back red. She had seen the moment life left them, the moment their eyes had gone blank, and their bodies had crumpled to the earth.

Rose’s stomach churned, her fingers twitching at her sides. This wasn’t like reading about history in books. It wasn’t like watching a battle unfold inside a theatre, where the violence was contained, made unreal by the barrier of a flat screen and larger than life actors.

She had never seen a man killed before. Not once. And now she had seen three die by Tiernan’s hand in less than five minutes. She exhaled, slow and measured, trying to steady herself. But the memory of it pressed against her skull. The brutal violence of it was hardly something she would ever forget.

Tiernan's voice broke through her thoughts, startling her. “Ye’re quiet, lass,” he remarked, his tone low. "Were ye harmed? Are ye well?"

The absurdity of it nearly stopped her in her tracks. She turned her head sharply, her gaze catching. "Am I well?" A short, disbelieving laugh escaped her. "You’re the one with an arrow sticking out of your shoulder, and you’re asking if I’m okay?"

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the gleam of something in his sharp blue eyes. "Aye," he said simply.

She let out another shaky breath, this one closer to a scoff. "I’m fine.”

They continued on through the underbrush, Rose watching the dimming light filter through the trees. After a few minutes, she glanced at his shoulder again. The bleeding had slowed, but not stopped. His face was pale, taut with pain. But he kept moving forward like the wound was nothing more than an inconvenience.

“How far to Dunmara?” she asked.

He grunted. “Naught but an hour, if we’d a horse.”

She glanced behind them. “Is that what we’re doing? Looking for your horse?” She’d noticed they seemed to be backtracking, walking through the woods to the scene of the first murders and the rockslide.

“Aye,” he said shortly. “If nae my steed, there might be a stray.”

Rose kept her eyes peeled, but the woods were empty. No pounding hooves. No sounds but wind and leaves.

After several minutes, Tiernan slowed, then stopped. His eyes swept the forest ahead, narrowing.

“We’re close to the path,” he muttered. “Too close.”

She looked at him, waiting for him to explain what that meant.

He turned sharply. “If there are more of them waiting, that’s where they’ll be. Eventually, they’ll come this way, searching for their dead friends.”

Rose swallowed thickly, shrinking a bit into the MacIntyre breacan.

“And what about your men?”

His expression grim, he shook his head and turned east again. “If they were nae killed by the rocks, they were killed by the reivers. Or they’re gone, run off—they’ll nae be around here.”

“But... who were those men?" She asked. Bandits and thieves didn’t seem to describe them adequately, not when they meant to kill with so little hesitation. “They weren’t soldiers. Not English. Just... thieves?”

"Aye," he said, a grimace tightening his features. "The war has made many men desperate, but some were lazy long before. Bandits, outlaws... men with no land, no lord, no trade. They take what they can from those weaker than them."

She shuddered. But then her brow furrowed. How had any one of those bandits looked at Tiernan MacRae and supposed him weak?

“Where are we going now?” she asked as she climbed over a thick root and into a denser section of trees.

“Dunmara. On foot.”

“You’re going to walk for an hour? Is that—"

“Aye,” he said. “The quicker we move, the better.”

Rose frowned, wondering if the quicker he moved, the weaker he would become.

They marched in silence for a hundred yards or more before Rose spoke again.

"Does it ever bother you?" she asked, voice quieter now, hesitant. "Taking a life?"

He was silent for a moment, long enough that she wondered if he would answer at all. Then, with the same calm conviction she had grown accustomed to, he said, "It did once."

She waited, but he said nothing more.

The forest grew quieter the deeper they went. The wind had settled, and even the birds had gone still. Only their footsteps broke the silence, and they were quiet, careful.

Rose kept pace beside Tiernan, eyes flicking to him now and then. His jaw was clenched, shoulders rigid, his tunic still dark with blood on his back where the arrow had entered, and on his front, where the arrowhead protruded just below his collarbone. The misshapen stains of blood were larger now. He hadn’t wavered once, hadn’t stumbled, but she wasn’t fooled—even a man like him couldn’t walk forever with a wound like that.

Just as that thought troubled her, Tiernan staggered.

She turned just in time to see him falter, his knees hitting the ground with a hard, jarring thud.

“Tiernan!”

She was at his side in an instant, kneeling in the damp earth. His breaths came fast, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. His skin had gone pale, lips parted as he tried to steady his breath. He didn’t make a sound, but his fingers trembled when he moved.

“All guid,” he muttered. The words were thin, nearly toneless.

“This is not good,” she said flatly. “Not at all.”

His hand moved toward the triangular head of the arrow, fingers curling around it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes widening.

He didn’t answer but winced as he tightened his fist around what remained of the bloody head.

“Don’t,” Rose snapped, grabbing his wrist. “You can’t pull that out now—not until we have something to...stitch it or sew it.”

His eyes met hers, and for a second, she thought he might do it anyway.

She held his gaze and hissed, “Don’t be an idiot.” And she waited, holding his blue gaze, until he released the missile embedded in him. He slumped a bit, sitting on his heels.

Rose took his face in her hands. “Tell me what to do,” she said, steady and direct. “Do I find your men? Go for help?”

He blinked sluggishly, and lifted his hand, trying to dislodge hers. “Nay. They’ll find us.”

“What if they don’t?”

“They will.”

She clenched her jaw, biting back the urge to argue. Stubborn man. With a sigh of frustration, she released him and straightened, glancing around the dense woods. Nothing moved. There was no noise at all but the wind through the branches and Tiernan’s unsteady breathing.

She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ruairidh?”

Before the echo faded, Tiernan’s hand tugged at her skirt.

She turned, startled.

“Ye could be calling more than just my men,” he said gruffly, despite his growing weakness.

She went still, her pulse quickening. He was right. If others were nearby, they'd hear her too. She lowered her hands, folding her arms tight across her chest inside the plaid.

The minutes dragged.

She looked at him again and again. His face was grayer now, shoulders slack, breaths coming slower.

“Which way is Dunmara? How far now?”

“Mayhap a few miles yet,” he informed her. “Just give me another minute or two, and I’ll rise—”

“You’re going to sit right here,” Rose decided, “and I’m going to Dunmara. Just...point—where is it?”

“Bluidy hell ye will,” he said

"You can’t go any further,” she said, stating what was patently obvious to her.

His glare snapped to her, sharp as flint. "I can," he growled, nostrils flaring, his jaw clenched so tightly she thought his teeth might crack.

Rose exhaled slowly, softening her voice. “I can do this,” she said, holding his gaze, willing him to see reason. “Let me do this. Just point me in the right direction.”

Tiernan’s entire body stiffened. She could see how much he hated the idea, the way his fingers twitched, his mouth pressing into a hard, thin line. He was a man who commanded, he was the protector, the man who took action without hesitation. The thought of relinquishing control—even when it was his only option—was anathema to him.

But he was weakening.

And she was done arguing with him. “I’m going—I’ll go faster and safely if you simply point me in the right direction. I’ll come straight back with Brody and as many men as he can spare.”

His eyes met hers, sharp and blue and full of reluctant fury. They stared at each other for a long beat—her resolve against his pride. And slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders.

With visible effort, he lifted one hand and pointed, vaguely in the direction they’d been heading.

“Take my dagger,” he muttered, voice thick.

A pained expression crossed her face. “I don’t need it—I wouldn’t be able to use it anyway.” The thought of striking the long knife into someone’s flesh brought up a reflexive gag.

The corners of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. “Bluidy hell, Rose,” he rasped. “Ye’ll take the damn dagger, and ye’ll use it if ye must. Plunge it into the gut of any bastard who so much as looks at ye wrong.”

“Fine,” she snapped, thrusting out her hand. “Christ, you’re stubborn.”

“As are ye,” he said without missing a beat, though it came out hoarse.

He reached for the sheath at his side, pulled it free from his belt, and held it out to her.

She stepped closer, dropping to her haunches in front of him, and took it from his hand. She waited until he looked up again, waited for his eyes to meet hers.

“Do not die,” she told him, steady and sure. “I’ll be pissed—seriously pissed—if you do. And I swear to God, if I come back and find you’ve yanked that arrow out of your body, I promise I’ll shove it back in there myself.”

His eyes were closed now, but his mouth twitched again—this time with the faintest ghost of a smile, meant to appease her, no doubt. It was weak and a little crooked, but undeniably real. And somehow— wow —so handsome.

“This willna kill me, lass,” he murmured. “I’ve endured worse.”

She shook her head. “Now you smile,” she mused softly.

She shifted, about to stand, when Tiernan seized her wrist once more.

“Dinna stray, dinna get lost, and use the dagger if it means saving yer own life,” he instructed firmly. “I’ll be seriously pissed if ye dinna.”

For all the money in the world—for a chance to return instantly to 1978!—Rose couldn’t have stopped the smile that curved her lips. “I may look and seem helpless—and for the most part I admit that I am in this century—but I won’t get lost, Tiernan.”

She squeezed his hand once before gently pulling free. Then she stood, turning to face the direction he’d pointed. The forest loomed ahead—dense, uneven, unfamiliar—but she didn’t hesitate. She wasn’t a runner. Not really. The occasional jog, sure. But this wasn’t a treadmill or a morning in the park. This was for real. And Tiernan’s life depended on it, and so she paced herself. Not quite a sprint—she’d burn out too fast. Not a walk, either. Something in between. A light, steady rhythm that would carry her farther, faster. She focused on her breathing, on the feel of the dagger’s weight in her hand, on the ache that soon began to creep into her thighs as she picked her way across the uneven ground.

And with every step, she repeated to herself like a vow: Don’t get lost. Don’t slow down. Get help. Save Tiernan.

She had no doubt she’d be dead already if not for him. A lesser man would not have been able to take on three enemies, let alone tackle the last one with an arrow sticking out of his front and back. Possibly, his own men were already dead. Rose cringed at the thought, heat gathering behind her eyes and nose.

Stop. Focus.

Branches snagged at the plaid and leaves slapped and scratched her face. Rose kept moving, scanning the shifting light for anything that looked like a trail, anything that would lead her out of the woods and toward Dunmara. The deeper she went, however, the thicker the trees became. The light dimmed, filtered through layers of pine and oak. Shadows crept across the ground, swallowing even the imaginary path she thought she’d been following.

A rising sense of isolation chilled her. There was no path, no people, and no sound but the beat of her own heart. She was utterly alone. Her steps slowed. A tightness bloomed in her chest, pressing against her ribs. For one sharp second, she couldn’t breathe. What if she was going the wrong way? What if Tiernan’s vague gesture hadn’t been enough? What if she couldn’t find her way back? The thought hit harder than she expected—not just the fear of being lost, but the deeper fear of not returning to him. Of failing him.

Stop. She closed her eyes for half a second and inhaled through her nose. Panicking won’t help. Think. Focus.

She opened her eyes and turned slowly in place, scanning her surroundings.

Then, deliberately, she picked a point ahead and began moving again—slower this time, more purposeful. And she started noting everything she passed—a low, moss-covered boulder shaped like a crooked knee; a fallen pine, its trunk snapped clean halfway up, bark stripped on one side by lightning or rot; a blackened patch of earth near a charred stump—old, but clearly once a burn site; and then, not far beyond, where the light was brighter—the edge of the forest, she presumed—a cluster of three white birch trees growing side by side, their bark stark and smooth against the green around them. Rose turned to memorize them. They would mark the edge of the forest, she decided.

With the picture of the trio of birches in her mind, she turned and began to jog again, focusing on a hill rising ahead, its incline steeper than she had anticipated. Her sneakers slipped slightly, her legs burning from exertion, but she dug in, pressing forward, refusing to slow. The grass thinned near the crest, giving way to dark, damp soil, the slick earth making each step harder. Reaching the top, she gasped, breathless, and nearly stumbled with relief.

Below, nestled between the hills, still quite a distance, a great stone keep loomed, its weathered walls standing stark against a backdrop of dark gray clouds and another black forest of trees beyond it.

Dunmara.

She inhaled sharply, squaring her shoulders. One last stretch of land to cross. Rose bolted down the hill, slipping, stumbling, forcing her legs to keep moving. Her boots hit solid ground as she reached the bottom of the hill, her lungs burning, her tousled hair flying over her shoulders as she sprinted across the last stretch toward the towering walls of Dunmara.

The gate came into view, half a dozen guards stationed there, eyes narrowing with sharp curiosity as she approached.

One of the soldiers—a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard—stepped forward, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition the moment his gaze landed on her.

“Lass?” he said, frowning.

She had seen him before, when she had first arrived at Dunmara.

His sharp gaze swept over her, taking in her breathless state, the raw panic in her eyes, the way her hands clenched into fists as she fought to steady herself. He didn’t waste time with questions.

“Get the laird,” he barked to another guard. “Now.”

Rose stopped, bending at the waist, putting her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. She felt as if tears might rise again, so overwhelmed with hope and even a premature relief. She was halfway there, she’d made it to Dunmara.

The bearded guard was speaking to her, asking what happened. She hardly paid him any mind. Before she’d even fully caught her breath, she was moving again, rushing toward the keep. Where was Brody?

She rushed through the gates, past the startled glances of those in the yard, shoving through the doors of the keep—and nearly colliding with Brody MacIntyre as he attempted to exit the hall.

His hands shot out to grip her arms, steadying her.

His brows pulled together sharply, his green eyes scanning her with swift concern. “Rose?”

She opened her mouth, but the words tangled on her tongue, her thoughts too scrambled, too disjointed. “I—we—there was an—” She swallowed, trying to organize the whirlwind in her head. “We were—”

No. Not important. Not now.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Tiernan needs help.”

Brody didn’t hesitate. “Where?” he demanded, already striding toward the stables.

Rose stumbled after him, urgency clawing at her ribs. “I—I don’t know exactly, but I can show you. Please, hurry.”

Brody gave a sharp nod and turned to the nearest soldier. “Twenty men, on me. Now.”

“A cart,” Rose suggested, breathless still. “I don’t think he can sit a horse.”

Brody MacIntyre turned a ferocious scowl onto her in the midst of saddling his own horse.

She managed to get out the details between his hurried preparations—the rockslide, an ambush, Tiernan wounded. She had run several miles to Dunmara. This information prompted Brody to call for reserves, another dozen men.

Within minutes, the courtyard had exploded into motion—shouts echoing, weapons readied, horses saddled in a flurry of practiced urgency. Orders flew. Steel rang. And then they were gone.

The ground thundered beneath the hooves of more than thirty mounted men as they pounded across the hills, the rolling landscape trembling beneath their weight. Rose sat in front of Brody, her fingers clenched tight around the saddle horn, her body tense as the wind lashed against her face. The laird’s solid arm was wrapped around her middle, keeping her steady as the great warhorse surged forward, its massive strides devouring the distance.

She had thought she would need to lead them back. But as they rode, she noticed the scouts at the front, their sharp eyes scanning the wet ground. They weren’t relying on her. They were following her trail. Her hurried footprints, the bent stalks of grass, the muddied indentations in the earth—she had left a clear path without realizing it. Relief pulsed through her. They didn’t need to rely on her memory alone. Thank God. She wasn’t sure she could have retraced every step with certainty.

The scouts led them across the meadow, over the hills, and toward the dense forest below. As they reached the trees, Brody reined in his mount. The underbrush thickened quickly, and the scouts hesitated, struggling to pick up the trail again.

Rose’s eyes swept the line of trees—then she saw them. “There,” she said quickly, pointing. “Those birches. I came out near them.”

Brody gave a single nod and raised his hand. At once, the company veered toward the birches, horses moving carefully now, weaving through the narrowing paths beneath the canopy.

As they moved deeper into the trees, Rose leaned forward, scanning the forest floor, her voice sharp with purpose.

“There,” she said, pointing off to the left. “That boulder—shaped like a bent knee. I passed it.”

The scouts adjusted course, following her indication. The riders fell quieter now, hooves muffled by the soft forest loam, the air thick with tension.

A few minutes later, she sat straighter, spotting another landmark just ahead.

“The fallen pine—half the trunk’s stripped. I remember that.”

They wound around it carefully, pushing through a narrow path where the underbrush had thinned. The deeper they went, the closer her memory pulled her.

“And there—see the blackened stump?” She pointed again, heart pounding. “It was a burn site. I came from that direction.”

Brody didn’t speak, but she felt his grip tighten around her middle, the horse beneath them shifting pace, almost as if it sensed the urgency now.

Rose pointed once more, her voice barely above a breath. “That’s where I...that’s where I left him.”

The scouts surged forward now, threading between the trunks, eyes scanning every thicket and hollow. Rose’s heart thudded hard in her chest, the ache of the run long forgotten. She twisted again, eyes searching the underbrush.

And then she saw him, Tiernan’s dark shape, slumped near the base of a tree. Still.

Too still.

Her pulse pounded against her ribs.

Tiernan lay motionless on the ground, his body limp, his skin too pale.

Her breath caught, her vision blurred, the world tipping sideways. She barely registered Brody’s sharp intake of breath, barely noticed the men around her moving in reaction.

She swung herself off the saddle too soon, misjudging the drop. Her feet hit the earth wrong, her ankle twisted, and she went down. The impact jolted through her, but she didn’t feel it. She pushed to her feet, sprinting toward him.

No. No, no, no.

Her knees hit the ground beside him, her hands flying to his face. His skin was cool beneath her fingertips, his breath too shallow.

A sharp, panicked whimper escaped her throat. “Oh, no. Please, no,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her fingers tightened, shaking him gently, desperately. “Tiernan,” she pleaded. “Please.”

For one agonizing moment, nothing happened.

Then his brow furrowed slightly, his eyelids fluttered, and his hand lifted, his rough palm closing over hers at the same time his ice-blue eyes opened.

“I’m still here, lass,” he rasped, his mouth twitching weakly while his gaze moved slowly over whoever had come to stand behind her. “Ye brought the bluidy cavalry.”

Rose let out a breathless laugh, relief crashing through her.

“Yes,” she murmured, her fingers still curled against his. “Yes, I did.”