Page 18 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, staring ferociously at the closed door.

What in God’s name had just happened?

His shoulder throbbed, but the pain was a trivial thing, overshadowed by his confusion. Funny though, how the nagging, persistent pain in his shoulder hadn’t deterred him at all, had given him even less grief over the last hour or so.

A lesser man might have reeled presently, might have crumbled beneath the weight of her fury and obvious pain, scrambling to piece together what had just happened. Tiernan’s mind didn’t spin; rather it locked into place, clear and exacting, just as it did in battle. He scoured through every word they’d exchanged, every glance, every breath between them. Her questions. His answers. Where he’d paused, where her expression had shifted. What he’d said and she’d said—and what she hadn’t. He examined it all with the same unflinching scrutiny he brought to strategy and defense. Her anger had been real. Her pain, sharp.

And yet, it didn’t make sense to him.

She’d asked why he slept with her if he didn’t believe her—if he thought she was mad.

Had her extreme reaction truly been about his inability to express himself fully? Christ, had his answers not come swiftly enough to suit her?

This only caused Tiernan more confusion.

He hadn’t taken Rose for one of those overly dramatic sorts, the kind who combed through a man’s every word in search of insult or slight. She hadn’t struck him as the type to pick fights for the sake of it, to look for reasons to be wounded. She was sharp-tongued, aye. Independent to a fault. But not petty. Not hysterical.

That had always been Margaret’s strength, her stillness, her quiet. The way she met the world with such sweet serenity. There had never been dramatics with her, no raised voices, no tearful outbursts.

Just thinking her name made something shift uneasily in his gut. He replayed the moments again—Rose’s expression just before she pulled away from him, the anger and heartbreak bleeding into something else. Something more raw. More personal.

You don’t see me. You see her.

But, damn it, he hadn’t even mentioned Margaret’s name.

Or...had he? He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

But I looked at ye and....

It should have been...

God’s bluid.

It took no great leap to imagine what she might have supposed he’d meant to say.

Margaret. Rose thought he saw—wanted!—Margaret.

His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching, while it gnawed at him, her mistaken impression.

It wasn’t Margaret he had wanted.

It had never been Margaret.

Margaret had been kind, gentle, and perfectly agreeable in every way. She had been exactly what a man like him was meant to have—obedient, dutiful, an easy companion who would never challenge, never demand. She had been raised to be a wife, a lady of a keep, to rule quietly, with grace and composure.

Rose was none of those things.

She was fire where Margaret had been water, all sharp edges and fierce words, refusing to be shaped or molded into something more palatable. She was restless, opinionated, wholly untamed. She had walked into Druimlach a stranger, a woman alone in a world not her own, and yet she had not cowered. She had faced him, fought him with words, with defiance, with that sharp, unrelenting mind that made her unlike any woman he had ever known.

It was her he wanted.

He hadn’t been thinking of Margaret—not even for a moment.

I look at ye and....

He hadn’t finished the statement because he couldn’t. Because it had struck him too suddenly. Because finishing the sentence would’ve laid something bare that he wasn’t prepared to face, let alone speak aloud.

Honestly, either now or then he didn’t know what he might have actually said, but he knew damn well what had floated through his mind at the moment.

He looked at her and forgot reason.

He looked at her and saw fire. Not the wild kind that raged and destroyed, but the kind that burned steady and strong. A resilient flame. A woman who shouldn’t have survived here—who by all rights didn’t belong in this world—and yet somehow had.

He looked at her and saw defiance wrapped in vulnerability. He saw the way she squared her shoulders even when she was frightened, the way she met a room with her chin high, even when it trembled. He saw the scar that sliced across her cheek—not just a mark of pain but a part of her, a piece of her story that hadn’t dulled her in the least.

He saw a woman who challenged him. Who listened with interest, argued with heat, looked at him not with awe or deference—but curiosity . Like she wanted to know him. Really know him.

I look at ye and....

And I want to protect ye. And I want to understand ye. And I can’t stop looking.

Pain creased his features as he considered what else he hadn’t said.

It should have been....

He sighed, knowing what he’d meant to say there as well, and how guilt had made him clamp his lips against the truth. It should have been like this with the woman I was meant to take as wife. I should have felt this way for Margaret. I should’ve cared. I should have mourned.

He had been lying to himself. For years, he’d told himself Margaret was exactly what he wanted—quiet, composed, biddable. A woman who would never raise her voice, never question him. She was safe. Predictable.

But Rose—God above, Rose was none of those things. She challenged him at every turn. Rose had challenged what he’d told himself was the truth—he didn’t want serenity. He had never needed quiet.

What he wanted was fire. A woman who stood toe to toe with him, met his sharpness with her own, forced him to feel and think and want more than he’d ever let himself before.

But he hadn’t said any of that. Hadn’t said anything .

Furiously, he reached for his hose and breeches, meaning to dress and give chase. A simple explanation—clarification—was all that was needed. He would do that before the misunderstanding festered into something worse.

Tiernan paused, the garments suspended in his hands. Unless he planned to bang on every door in Dunmara and demand her whereabouts like some madman in the dead of night, there was little he could do now.

Another thought gave him further pause.

Could anything truly come of what they had just shared?

He clenched his jaw, still staring at the door she’d closed between them. Rose could never live in peace at Druimlach, not as things stood. The whispers would never cease, the tension would never lift, and she would always be trapped beneath the weight of Margaret’s shadow, wearing the face of someone she wasn’t. He’d just been witness to such a spectacular phenomenon, had seen the agony of it.

She deserved better. She deserved to be seen for who she was, not who she resembled. She deserved a place where she could be at ease, where she did not have to fight for every scrap of acceptance. But would she ever find that with him? Could she ever truly belong at Druimlach?

That question twisted something inside him.

He wouldn’t go after her, he decided, dropping his hose and breeches to the end of the bed.

He—and Druimlach—would only ever bring her pain.

***

Rose sat at the end of the head table at Dunmara the next morning, a torn piece of bread resting in her hand, untouched as of yet. The hall was quiet, having begun to empty as she’d sat down. The thoughts inside her head, however, were very loud.

She felt shame, regret that was nearly nauseating, and wanted so badly to kick herself for being a fool. Overriding any of that, however, was the indelible impression and recollection of what she’d done with Tiernan last night.

It lingered beneath the surface, impossible to ignore. She could still feel the weight of his body over hers, the heat of his breath on her neck, the exquisite roughness of his hands against her skin. She recalled the way his mouth had found hers, possessive, assertive. Her first time had not been awkward or hesitant, not shy or gentle. It had been consuming. A collision that had taken her breath away and left her beautifully stunned and aching. There had been moments—sharp, searing flashes—where she hadn’t even known where she ended and he began. Sitting here now in the gray morning light, she felt every one of them still etched into her skin.

Maybe that was what made it all worse—that despite the anger, despite the sick humiliation of thinking she’d meant more than she had, she wanted to remember. She still wanted to feel it, to never forget one moment of last night.

God, how she wished the memory of her first occasion of sex hadn’t been tainted by the truth behind it.

A sound drew her out of her thoughts, and Rose glanced up from the bread in her hand as Emmy dropped into the chair beside her with a sigh. Her cheeks were flushed a becoming pink and her dark braid was draped over one shoulder.

“Good morning, Rose,” she said, pulling a platter of cheese and hard-boiled eggs toward her. She snatched a piece of cheese from the tray but paused before she would have put it in her mouth as she looked at Rose. “Shit. What happened to you?”

Rose blinked, startled, then gave a weak attempt at a smile. “That bad?”

Emmy winced a bit. “Eh, you’ve looked better.” Purposefully, she pasted on a bright smile. “But you’re upright and dressed. We’ll call it a win.” After a moment, she probed more gently, “Did you not sleep well? Were you thinking about what happened?”

Rose knew a moment of alarm until she realized that Emmy likely referred to her and Tiernan’s run-in with the reivers and not her and Tiernan’s run-in with each other.

“It was a... rough night,” Rose confessed but added evenly, “I’m fine.”

A moment passed, in which Rose felt Emmy’s gaze fixed thoughtfully on her.

“Good, and it’s done now, everything that happened yesterday,” Emmy reminded her. “Today’s a new day. And you’re here, and safe, and now you can move forward.”

“Good advice,” Rose allowed, knowing that Emmy would have no idea how fitting it actually was.

“I’m really glad you’re back,” Emmy went on. “I was worried about you at Druimlach, wondering if it was a mistake to have you stay there.”

Huge mistake , Rose thought. “It probably wasn’t the best idea, but as you say, it’s done now.”

“That’s the spirit,” Emmy encouraged, nudging her shoulder, grinning widely. “Everything will be fine, Rose. You’re safe here at Dunmara.”

Rose blinked down at her hands, something grateful and fragile catching in her chest. “Thank you.”

“As soon as the MacRae leaves, I’ll be going into the village to check on Mildred and her new baby. You should come with me.”

Before Rose could answer, the doors of the hall opened with a rush of cold air, and Brody entered, his cloak flaring behind him.

And right behind him was Tiernan.

Rose’s heart lurched.

She could have stayed in her chamber and avoided this entirely. She’d thought about it, nearly convinced herself it was the smarter choice. But in the end, she’d talked herself out of hiding. She wasn’t the one who should feel ashamed or uncomfortable—she had acted from her heart, and she had nothing to apologize for. And if she was honest with herself, painfully honest, there was a part of her that wanted—needed—one more glimpse of him before he rode away. A final moment to see him. And maybe... a final chance for him to make it right.

Tiernan didn’t pause. He followed Brody, the two men striding directly for the corridor that led to the steward’s office and other chambers on the ground floor beyond the kitchen, but his gaze found Rose almost immediately.

And she felt it. The weight and silent pull of his gaze.

He wasn’t glaring. His gaze wasn’t even specifically cold, was only a steady, unreadable look that held her in place. Her breath caught as heat crept into her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.

Beside her, Emmy sat mutely.

Then came her whisper. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” Rose jerked her gaze to her friend.

Emmy’s eyebrows were already halfway up her forehead. “You slept with him.”

“What?” Rose choked.

“You did,” Emmy hissed with greatly misplaced excitement. “You totally did. Your face is bright red and he’s staring at you like you invented fire.”

“I didn’t...we...” Rose stopped, giving up the intent of lying.

Emmy groaned softly, a sound of sad realization. “Oh, Rose.”

“I know,” Rose agreed stoically.

“He’s leaving today,” Emmy whispered.

“I know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Rose shook her head and snorted a dispirited laugh. “God, no.”

Emmy nodded. “You don’t need to be in the yard to say goodbye when he’s ready, though,” she said, offering a sympathetic suggestion.

Rose shook her head, her gaze still on Tiernan. The bold and angry part of her responded. “Oh, no. I’m not missing that.”

***

Tiernan adjusted the strap of his saddlebag, his shoulder still stiff but manageable. Other pain, which he tried to ignore with equal stubbornness, chewed at him as well. He had intended to leave early, quietly, without ceremony or lingering glances, without having to face anything unresolved. But even the short drive to Druimlach, borrowing a handful of Brody’s men, required planning. And then Brody had wanted to share with him messages received yesterday at Dunmara, dispatches from riders traveling fast along the border roads, carrying missives from lords and commanders, rebels and loyalists both. Likely, many of them would also have made their way to Druimlach, hastily scrawled messages passed between men who were always marching, always bracing for the next campaign. They were lines scrawled in haste on damp parchment, sealed with wax smudged by wind and travel. The ones Brody had showed him included reports of English movement near the Forth, whispers of supplies being stockpiled in Berwick, and talk of allied forces gathering as spring stirred the land awake again.

It was the same every year. Winter offered its false peace, its quiet. And then, like clockwork, the season turned, and with it came the sound of swords being drawn again.

Brody and Tiernan had discussed if and when they would ride to join the larger host gathering near Selkirk, but knew they needed more information before any hard decisions could be made.

Thus, unable to have taken his leave before first light, Tiernan prepared himself to give a farewell to Rose.

He hadn’t prepared well enough, he realized as he caught sight of her standing with Brody’s wife near the entryway, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, no ribbons or pins to hold it back, nothing to tame it. The sight hit him harder than expected. She didn’t look like a woman of this time. She looked like a stranger, dropped into the wrong century with no means to disguise it.

Clenching his jaw, he finished securing the gear to the horse lent to him and tried—without success—to drive the images from his mind. But they returned with maddening clarity: the heat of her skin beneath his hands; the tentative way she’d first touched him, uncertain and exploring, and how that uncertainty had only made it... better; the feel of her breath, fast and shallow against his throat; and the press of her body beneath his, soft and new.

Christ, the moment her lips met his, the moment she hadn’t pulled away, it had been like floodgates giving way. She had felt like something forbidden, something rare and intoxicating, and he’d been too filled with longing to stop it. He hadn’t wanted to stop it, that was the truth of it. He’d wanted her, Rose, more than he’d ever wanted anything.

He remembered the way her hands moved over him, reverent and unsure, like she’d never done it before—because she hadn’t. When eventually he’d returned to bed last night, he’d found the evidence on the linen. Not his blood, but hers.

I’ve never done this before, gone this far. I’m not saying that to stop this. I just thought you should know .

The sight of the blood had stopped him cold, striking deeper than any wound he’d ever taken in battle. He’d felt shame then—raw and immediate—the kind of dishonor that settled in a man’s bones and would be difficult to dislodge.

She’d given him something she’d allowed no other man, and he hadn’t deserved it. He hadn’t treated it with the gravity it warranted. And after, he’d let her believe the worst of him, that she’d been nothing more than a poor substitute for another woman.

He clenched his teeth and tightened the strap a final time, jaw ticking with frustration.

When he straightened and turned, Brody was striding toward him. Rose’s face and figure were glimpsed over the MacIntyre’s shoulder, as she stood near the door with Emmy MacIntyre’s hand threaded through her arm. A fleeting glance at her, the straightness of her back, the way her fingers curled into the wool of the breacan, suggested she was trying to appear composed, same as him.

Brody stopped before him, cutting off Tiernan’s view. “I still ken ye should wait another day or two,” Brody said, “and give yer shoulder time to heal.”

Tiernan let his eyes linger on Brody’s wife, since Brody had intercepted his view of Rose. There was something about her—something subtle but off-kilter, the same as with Rose. It wasn’t the way she dressed or even how she carried herself; it was in the way she looked at things, as if she were constantly taking in more than what was in front of her. Her posture was confident, aye, but not in the manner of a woman raised to curtsy and defer. She stood differently, held herself differently—like someone always half-ready to move, half-expecting the world to shift beneath her feet. She wore her self-possession like armor, not grace. The way she moved, the way her mouth pulled in thought, even the odd turns of phrase he’d heard from her in the short time he’d known her—it all had the same... wrongness Rose carried. Not wrong in a dishonorable way, just... misplaced. As if she didn’t quite belong to the time she stood in.

Just like Rose.

Tiernan’s brow furrowed. He shifted his gaze to Brody. “Do ye believe what they claim?”

“What’s that?” Brody wondered.

“This...business about another time.” The words were foreign. He didn’t like the way they felt, and sounded, or that he’d said them aloud.

Brody didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

“How?” Tiernan asked simply.

Brody shrugged, but it wasn’t a careless gesture. “Because it’s her truth—now their truth. And because... after a while, it stops mattering whether it’s possible. I see the way Emmy looks at things, the questions she asks, the way she reacts to things nae one else finds strange... here. I’ve listened to her describe places I can’t imagine and speak of things I’ve never heard of—and nae once has she faltered. She dinna weave tales for sport. She’s just trying to make sense of where she landed.” He paused, shifting slightly. “She dinna try to convince me. Dinna force it on me. It’s simply her reality. And so I made it mine.”

Tiernan was silent, his brows drawn low.

Brody studied him. “I dinna need to understand it,” he added, quieter now. “Loving her dinna require that I ken the how or the why of it. I just ken that she is who she says she is.” His eyes narrowed as he considered Tiernan carefully. “I ken I’d be a damned fool to turn my back on something like that just because it dinna make sense to me.”

The words landed heavy between them.

Tiernan’s lips pressed into a hard line. Without acknowledging anything, he said, “Rose is better off here.”

Brody gave a grunt that could’ve meant agreement, though Tiernan didn’t suppose that it did. “Aye. If that’s what ye believe.”

“She dinna belong at Druimlach,” he added.

“Aye.”

Tiernan exchanged farewells with Brody, thanking him for the escort of six men, and saw Emmy and Rose approach as Brody turned away.

He did not know Brody’s wife well to know for sure, but he thought her smile was false, mayhap forced as she stopped before him.

“Safe travels, Laird MacRae,” she said politely, her tone cordial, though her eyes flicked once to Rose, then back again.

Tiernan inclined his head. “Mistress.”

She turned to Rose then, pulling her hand from the crook of Rose’s elbow. Emmy squeezed Rose’s arm gently, a touch meant to comfort, perhaps to steady, then murmured something too low for Tiernan to hear before she stepped away.

And he stood face to face with Rose, looking down at her upturned face.

She spoke first, rushed out the words as if she wanted her peace said before he might have spoken.

“I pray you travel more safely today than we did yesterday,” she said, her voice steady but cool. “And... I want you to know I’m not ashamed of what we did. And for me, it wasn’t... nothing.”

Her chin lifted ever so slightly—a small, defiant tilt that only made the strain behind her composure more visible. Though her words were measured, her posture betrayed the truth of it—the way her shoulders pulled tight, the way she gripped the edge of her plaid as if she needed something to hold her together.

“I’ve survived being thrown hundreds of years into the past,” she continued, her tone sharpening like a blade sliding from its sheath, “mistaken for a woman who died before I got here, rockslides and armed bandits, and all without shedding a tear.” Her eyes met his, burning now, not with rage, but with something quieter—deeper. “So don’t worry that I’ll cry any over you. Over a man who used me to forget someone else.”

The words landed hard, carved from pain she clearly didn’t mind him seeing. Inflicting a small bit of punishment, he presumed. Tiernan stood motionless, the full force of it pressing into his chest. There was something in her voice—some fragile, furious sadness—that made him ache with the need to set it right.

He could have at that moment, but chose not to.

“God keep ye, Rose,” he said instead, his voice low, roughened by emotion he fought to keep in check.

There was a shimmer in her eyes, tears mayhap, a flash of something too raw to hide, a fresh wound, but before he knew for certain, she turned and walked back into the hall without another word.

Moments later, Tiernan and his party rode out through the gates of Dunmara, the gray sky above matching the dull ache that had settled behind his ribs.

The road to Druimlach was familiar and not long. The hills passed in a blur, with men riding quietly around him. Normally, he preferred the silence. Today, it left too much room for thought.

He’d made the right choice, he told himself. Of that, he was certain. Rose Carlisle didn’t belong in his world. She had no place among his people, no safety at Druimlach. Her face—so like and unlike Margaret’s—would only keep old ghosts stirred. The whispers and dread would never cease.

And he... he’d already let things go too far.

Druimlach loomed ahead by late morning, the stone keep rising against the cloudy sky.

Home.

And yet, something in him twisted as he crossed the threshold. It didn’t feel like he’d come home. It felt like he’d left something behind.