Page 2 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)
Cold air rushed against Rose’s skin, sharp and bracing, as though she’d stepped outside in the dead of winter without a coat.
But that didn’t make sense.
She’d been inside. At the university. The desk lamp’s glow, the scent of old parchment, the discovery of the journal—it had all been right there, right in front of her. And now...
What the hell had happened? How was she...outside?
Had she passed out?
Rose pushed with her hands to sit up, and then glanced down and around her. She looked down, blinking in confusion, her breath coming faster now. The ground beneath her was uneven, covered in a thick bed of pine needles and fallen leaves. Trees loomed overhead, dark and whispering in the wind. But how...?
She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to steady herself. The world swayed, tilting unnaturally, and a deep nausea rolled through her stomach.
She was dreaming. Obviously. But geez, the nausea felt so real. She had a fleeting fear that she was going to throw up in her dream and then wake up to find the vomiting was real.
The damp leaves beneath her hands felt so...real, so cold and tangible.
Suddenly, the dream idea seemed improbable. There was too much detail. Her fingers curled into the damp leaves, the texture rough and distinct against her skin. The cold air bit at her cheeks and hands. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, its call low and haunting. The wind rattled the branches above and beyond that, a rustling sound was heard, small and faint, thankfully not louder or closer to cause alarm. Critters, probably.
This was not—couldn’t be—a dream.
What seemed like morning mist curled around her, thick and cloying, not just something she saw but something she felt. It gathered at her ankles, cool and damp, seeping through the fabric of her jeans.
She shivered.
No dream had ever felt this real.
The rustling in the distance had faded, but the wind still carried the faint creak of shifting branches. The owl’s call came again, its mournful cry echoing through the trees.
Rose swallowed hard.
This was not— could not be —a dream.
Maybe she had blacked out. Maybe she had fainted, hit her head, wandered outside in a daze...?
Gingerly, feeling more sluggish and feeble than simply tired, she shoved to her feet. After taking a moment to steady herself, she turned in a slow, stumbling circle, her nearly new tennis shoes sinking slightly into the uneven ground. Trees loomed in every direction, dark silhouettes against a gray sky.
She tried to focus, to reason this out. But a deep, crawling unease settled in her bones. Something wasn’t right.
She’d been in the reading room, poring over the diary of a woman from almost seven hundred years ago, it had been near midnight, she’d been tired... that was all she remembered.
Unable to make sense of this, Rose imagined her first order of business should be to get out of the woods. She needed to find someone, find help. Forcing her shaky legs forward, she stumbled through the underbrush. Branches scraped against her coat, snagging at her sleeves as she stumbled blindly over uneven terrain. A twig snapped underfoot, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence. She had no idea where she was going, or if she’d picked the right direction, but the forest in front of her as she moved seemed less dense than what had been in the opposite direction, what was now behind her.
She walked for what seemed to be a quarter hour or so, though she didn’t feel she’d gotten very far.
Then, through the trees, she thought she saw some light.
Not the cold, sterile glow of a streetlamp, but something warmer. She squinted through the mist and made out the shape of a small wooden building. Smoke curled from a chimney, disappearing into the night. The sight filled her with immediate relief. A house? A shop?
As she stepped closer, she spotted the sign hanging crookedly above the entrance. The words were carved deep into the worn wood, the edges softened by time as if the sign had hung there for ages. The letters were foreign but not unrecognizable. She was familiar with the ancient Scots language, by sight anyway. She should have been able to read it, at least somewhat. She’d spent years studying medieval Scotland, after all. But the script was old fashioned and faded, the words unknown. Still, the squat building and sign had a country pub feel to it, and her spirits improved-marginally, anyway. A pub meant people. And people meant answers.
Drawing in a steadying breath, she stepped forward and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
It didn’t move and she almost crashed into it. Locked. The pub was closed.
Damn, she thought, but then realized it was morning and thus unlikely that a pub would be serving drinks before the sun had fully risen. Rose stepped back, rubbing her hands over her arms as another gust of cold wind cut through her. She glanced upward, surveying the gray sky. It had to be morning— early morning, judging by the deep hush that lay over everything. No footsteps on the road, no distant hum of cars, no voices carrying on the wind.
Shaking off her disappointment—as this ancient-looking building seemed to be in the middle of nowhere—she moved along the length of the building. Set in the middle of the wall on one side was a window, which had no glass and was shuttered from inside. Carefully, she shifted her weight and peered through a narrow gap between the boards. She caught glimpses of what looked like a hearth, a few heavy wooden chairs pushed haphazardly near the darkened fire, and a thick wooden beam overhead blackened from years of soot. But there were no signs of life.
She moved along the side of the pub, trying another window, but the view was just as unclear. Frustration curled in her gut. Turning the corner, she nearly stumbled over a row of wooden buckets, filled with rainwater and stacked against the outer wall. Beyond them, something else caught her eye—a long row of fabric draped across low, bramble-covered bushes, shifting slightly in the breeze.
Clothes.
She considered the oddity—not that they were laid out over bushes, since they were probably put there to dry—that the items were so...unusual. Rose took a step closer, her brow furrowing as she tried to make sense of them. Long tunics, their rough linen fabric stiff from drying, hung beside a woolen shift, its shape strange and unfamiliar—almost like an old-fashioned nightgown, but thicker, heavier. The color of the fabric was muted, earthy browns and grays, as if they had been dyed with something natural, not synthetic. And then, there were the stockings—if they were stockings. Not the smooth, elastic kind she was used to seeing, but thick, knitted things that looked more like something out of a history book than a laundry pile.
Her confusion deepened.
Who the hell still wore clothes like this? She’d seen plenty of reenactments, studied medieval garments in books, but these were different. These didn’t seem to be costumes, hadn’t been designed for a play or a museum exhibit. They looked... lived in. Sturdy. Functional.
Her gaze fell on a separate patch of bramble where a woolen shawl lay spread over the thorny branches, woven thick and solid. It was easily the most modern-looking piece here, yet still oddly old-fashioned. She hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides.
The wind howled, slashing at her exposed neck, prompting her to consider larceny.
Rose stepped forward quickly, fingers trembling as she plucked the shawl from its perch. It was heavier than it looked, the wool coarse beneath her fingertips. She hesitated just long enough for guilt to gnaw at her again. It’s not like I have a choice, she reasoned. She was freezing, alone, and at this point, her dignity and morals took a backseat to survival.
Still, she whispered an apology to the unseen owner as she wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, over her own thin wool coat, burying her hands in the folds of the thick material. The shawl was chilled and offered no immediate warmth, but it did prevent the icy wind from rattling her further.
It smelled of woodsmoke and the faintest hint of something herbal—lavender, maybe. That was almost comforting.
Almost.
Rose moved on, stumbling through the countryside. She did her best to avoid the dense clusters of trees, but they were everywhere, hemming her in. The land felt vast, untouched, as though she’d stepped into a world that had never known pavement or power lines.
The hours stretched endlessly as she walked, and her mind churned through every possible explanation. At times, she convinced herself this was nothing more than an incredibly vivid dream, and any moment now, she’d wake up, warm in her own bed, with the memory of it fading like mist. But as her feet ached and the cold once again seeped through the layers of her clothing, that theory lost its appeal.
She considered that she might be the victim of a prank, but almost immediately dismissed the idea. Who would do something so elaborate? It made no sense—there was no one in her life who would go to such lengths, and certainly not for something so cruel as to leave her lost and freezing in the middle of nowhere.
Sadly, the only explanation that held any weight was the most unsettling one of all: she must have fainted, somehow wandered outside in a daze, and was now well and truly lost. She had no recollection of leaving the archives, no memory of walking out into the night, but what else could it be? That was something that could actually happen, she reasoned.
She still felt disoriented and, in truth, was at times panicked.
She was, all in all, utterly miserable, and the eerie silence all around her, broken only occasionally by her own sharp breaths or quiet sounds of nature, was not helping.
The first real, different sound that cut through the creepy stillness was a rhythmic pounding, distant but steady. Rose froze, her pulse jumping as she strained to understand what it was. A car? It grew louder, the ground beneath her seeming to tremble in time with the noise. A moment later, she recognized it—not the mechanical hum of a car engine, not the distant churn of a plane overhead, but something far heavier, something she’d only ever heard in movies.
Horses. A group of them, by the sound of it, their hooves drumming against the earth in a measured, fairly quick rhythm. She hesitated at the edge of the trees, pressing herself against the rough bark of a nearby trunk, uncertain if she should make herself known. The wind carried the sound of voices—deep and masculine—though she couldn’t make out the words. The riders were close now, and though her first instinct was to remain hidden, her desperation for answers and the need for help warred against it.
She took a cautious step forward, peering through the thinning branches, realizing just then that a road—of sorts—was straight ahead of her. A short column of mounted figures came into view, dark cloaks rippling with the motion of their powerful, very large horses.
Rose adjusted the shawl so that it covered her head, though she wasn’t sure why she took such a precaution.
I need help , she reminded herself, forcing her feet to move, stepping out from the trees into their path.
The party slowed and then stopped all at once, maybe thirty or more feet from Rose. She stood, waiting, holding her breath, part of her thinking, What now?
One of the men came forward and two more fell into step with him, only a horse length behind him on either side. The man at the forefront looked like he had stepped out of a medieval tapestry—broad-shouldered, wrapped in layers of wool and leather, his face all sharp angles, his mouth twisted with what Rose decided looked like suspicion.
Her stomach clenched. There was something inherently commanding about him, something dangerous. He held himself like a warlord, his gaze scanning the landscape with unnerving precision, as if to be sure she was alone.
When he was within twenty feet of her, he swung his gaze back to her, a harsh and unnerving, brown-eyed stare.
She shrank back instinctively, her breath catching.
And then the man spoke, his voice like distant thunder, rough and unmistakably Scottish.
Rose could read the Scots language well enough, though not with ease, but she rarely heard it spoken aloud, let alone with such raw intensity. His words—low, clipped, commanding —rolled over her in a cadence both foreign and intimidating. A question, she thought she discerned, though the meaning was completely lost on her.
Her stomach tightened. Whatever he had said, it wasn’t meant to comfort.
And then, to her surprise, he spoke English, thick and heavily accented, but clearly English. His voice now lacked the bark, was gentler by degrees.
“Emmy, come on up.”
Rose barely had time to register what he’d said before a woman separated from the group, guiding her horse forward while several men—who seriously looked like armed guards—moved close with her.
Rose blinked, her confusion mounting. The woman was breathtaking—blonde-haired and elegant in a way that looked effortless, dressed in what seemed to be period clothing but wearing it as if it were as natural to her as jeans and a t-shirt. She was out of place in the strangest way, and yet the most jarring thing wasn’t her beauty or the unfamiliar attire.
It was her voice.
“Hello,” the woman said cautiously, sliding down from her saddle with surprising grace, approaching with slow, careful steps.
American. Unmistakably, casually American.
Rose’s heart lurched at the sound. She hadn’t heard another American accent in months—aside from one other student back at the archives, her world had been nothing but the clipped, rolling Scottish dialect of the locals. But here, in the middle of this bizarre scene, in the midst of these men who looked like they’d walked straight out of a history book, was a woman who sounded like she could have been one of Rose’s classmates back home.
Happily stunned, though she was still too confused to show it, Rose met the woman’s gaze.
“What has you out—” the woman began as she lowered her gaze, her green eyes traveling downward, over the stolen shawl and Rose’s coat and her jeans. The green eyes jerked back to Rose’s face, and suddenly the gorgeous woman didn’t seem so composed, but appeared as confused and shaken as Rose felt. “Oh, shit,” the woman murmured—which was nearly fatal to Rose’s perilous grip on her own composure.
Rose’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Where—what is happening?”
Just as quickly, the woman’s expression changed again, softening dramatically.
“Okay, everything is all right,” the woman assured her. “I know it’s scary. It’s confusing, but I promise you—you’re safe now. That’s all that matters right now.” She turned to the brown eyed man, who came protectively closer to her, and told him, “She’s from... where I came from.”
The angry man nodded tightly. “Aye.”
Facing Rose again, the woman reached out her hand but was too far away to have touched her. “I’m Emmy Carter—er MacIntyre,” she said. “I know exactly what you’re going through.” She stepped closer to the woman. “Please, come with us. Let’s get you out of the cold, someplace warm.”
“I don’t...” Rose said, shaking her head, not any less confused, not any less frightened. “I don’t understand what happened.” She choked back a sob and then grimaced, trying to pull herself together. Suddenly, she felt overheated, all these stares pressing down on her. She lowered the shawl from around her head, leaving it draped over her shoulders.
“ Jesu ,” the brown-eyed man seethed.
Rose turned three different shades of red. It had been a while since anyone had reacted so dramatically—so rudely—to the scar that disfigured one side of her face.
She ignored him, looking to the woman who looked like a blonde angel. Almost instantly, something in her chest unraveled—just a little. There was kindness in the woman’s gaze, warmth, and a familiarity that somehow briefly stalled Rose’s growing panic.
“It’s confusing, but I promise you—you’re safe now,” the woman—Emmy—had said.
“You’re all right now. You’re safe.”
Rose took a step back, glancing between the woman and the looming warrior, his icy brown gaze locked on her like a predator sizing up prey. Just now, she noticed for the first time that a long sheath, topped with the shiny metal hilt of a sword, was attached to his hip.
No. No, she did not feel safe at all.
“We can help you,” Emmy promised her. “What is your name?”
“R-rose. Rose Carlisle,” she said, shivering violently.
“Come,” Emmy prompted, stepping closer, slowly lifting her arm until it circled Rose’s shoulder. “Let’s get you out of the cold. You can ride with me. We don’t live far. Truly, I vow to you, you are safe.”
Only what seemed a genuine compassion in the woman, allowed Rose to be moved. Emmy Carter MacIntyre guided her away from the brown-eyed man and through the hovering men and horses.
One of the armed guards walked forward, holding the reins of a pretty black horse.
“Will, can you see her settled?” Emmy asked of the young man.
A bit of panic returned as Emmy turned and left Rose in the young man’s care. Emmy stomped over to the brown-eyed man, who at the moment was paler than death though still very menacing looking.
Nervously, Rose considered the guard, Will, again.
The young soldier nodded once, his expression neither unkind nor impatient, but steady and expectant.
Unsure what he was waiting for, Rose didn’t move.
“Come on, then, lass,” he said, offering his hand to help her up.
Rose stared at the horse, then at him, and then back at the horse. She had never ridden a horse in her life. The sheer size of the animal, its powerful frame shifting beneath its glossy black coat, sent a ripple of unease through her. The saddle was high, very high off the ground, far out of her reach, and the thought of getting up there—much less staying upright once she was—seemed impossible.
“I, uh... I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, glancing uncertainly at Will.
The young soldier’s lips twitched, almost in amusement, but he quickly schooled his expression. “Nae worries, lass. She’s gentle as they come.” He patted the mare’s neck affectionately. “She belongs to Lady MacIntyre, and she’ll treat ye well enough.”
That wasn’t exactly reassuring, but in truth Will’s slight amusement over her confession actually was. It humanized him.
He pointed toward the horse’s side and a small leather loop hanging from the saddle. “Step into the stirrup with yer left foot,” he instructed, holding out his hand to assist her.
Rose hesitated, and then placed her foot into the stirrup, gripping the saddle for dear life. Will released her hand then and she secured that one around the pommel.
“Now push up,” Will directed.
It was easier said than done. Her legs wobbled, her arms strained, and just as she thought she might slide right back down, Will gave a firm boost from below—his hand jarringly familiar on her backside. Rose gasped, lurching upward with an awkward jolt, nearly losing her balance before managing to swing her leg over the saddle in an ungraceful arc.
The instant she was seated, she gripped the pommel tightly, her fingers digging into the smooth leather. The mare shifted beneath her, muscles rippling, and Rose swallowed hard. Her body felt too high, too unstable. The animal breathed—she could feel it move under her—and the sensation was unnerving.
Will stayed close, glancing up at her. “Ye’re set now,” he assured her, as if this was the simplest thing in the world.
Rose didn’t feel set at all. She felt precarious, one wrong move away from toppling straight to the ground.
Across the small barely marked road, Emmy was speaking with the brown-eyed man. Whatever was being said, it was hushed and urgent, Rose deduced, another prickling of unease traveling down her spine.
Emmy returned a moment later, moving toward Rose with an easy confidence that made Rose feel even more ridiculous atop the unfamiliar horse. She nodded at Will, which sent him away, back to his own horse, and then said to Rose, “Scooch back a little. I’ll need to ride in front.”
Rose, still gripping the saddle for dear life, forced herself to loosen her fingers and do as she was instructed, hastily shifting backward, which was not so easy as scooch back sounded.
Emmy then gripped the pommel, planting a foot in the stirrup, and swung herself up with enviable ease. She settled in front of her and gathered the reins. As she was taller in general than Rose, Emmy sat much taller in the saddle. She turned her head on her shoulder and glanced down at Rose, “I’ve asked my husband—that’s my husband, Brody MacIntyre,” she said, pointing vaguely toward the brown-eyed man, “I’ve asked him to give us a little bit of space so that we can talk, so that I can explain to you what I believe—what I’m almost certain—has happened to you. But we have to move now. It’s never safe to sit too long in one place.”
Ignoring what should have been an obvious question—why it was unsafe to remain in one spot— Rose struggled to comprehend how the stunning, kindhearted woman in front of her could possibly be married to that grim, intimidating man.
“Hold on,” Emmy instructed.
Hold on? To what? Rose barely had time to process that question before the mare began to move. Instinctively, she reached for Emmy’s waist, curling her fingers into Emmy’s wool cloak.
“I don’t understand how you know what’s happened to me ,” Rose said after a moment. “I don’t even know you.”
“I know, I get it,” Emmy was quick to acknowledge, then added, almost to herself, “God, I don’t miss this part—the confusion, my brain feeling like it’s tangled in knots.” She turned her head slightly, offering Rose a glimpse of her profile. “I know you’re scared. I remember the fear, the panic, when I first came here—”
“Where is here ? I don’t...”
“Rose, you have to be brave,” Emmy interrupted gently. “Let me ask you something. You were born in the twentieth century, right?”
“What?” Rose blinked. What kind of question was that?
“Please,” Emmy urged, “just bear with me. Everything will make sense in a minute—well, actually, I’m sorry to say, nothing will make sense for a long time. Maybe never. You’ll just... learn to live with it. Okay, before I assume anything, what year were you born?”
Still bewildered, Rose answered automatically. “Nineteen fifty-seven.”
Emmy whipped her head around. “Wait. What?”
Rose stared at her, uncertain why that answer had elicited such a reaction. She repeated it.
“Oh, shit,” Emmy murmured. “Well... what year is it now?”
Rose’s alarm spiked. This conversation was growing more surreal by the second. Still, she answered mechanically, desperate to get to the part where things started making sense. “Nineteen seventy-eight.”
Emmy let out a slow breath. “Okay. Well... that’s unexpected.” She hesitated before shrugging. “I guess this isn’t exclusive to only 2019.”
Twenty-nineteen?
Rose’s grip on Emmy’s cloak tightened. “Please tell me what’s happening,” she pleaded. “I was reading a journal in the archives at the university, and then suddenly... I wasn’t. I don’t remember leaving, don’t remember walking outside. But then I was in the woods, in the middle of the night. I found a pub, but it was closed, and after that... I don’t know. Maybe the cold has messed with my head.”
“It’s not the cold, Rose.” Emmy inhaled deeply, as if bracing herself. “All right. There’s no easy way to say this, and it’s going to be very hard to believe. But just listen with an open mind. What I’m about to tell you is true—as far as I understand it—even though it’ll sound like the most impossible thing you’ve ever heard.”
Rose’s stomach twisted.
Then Emmy spoke the words that shattered what little remained of her grip on reality.
“Rose, I’m pretty sure you’ve traveled through time.”