Page 4 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

The hall of Druimlach Castle lay in near silence, save for the occasional crack of thunder as an early spring storm rolled through. The thunder followed fairly close on the heels of the more frequent flashes of lightning. ?Twas naught but that, the pointless commotion of thunder and lightning at the moment, but he supposed rain would come and thought that was good, that it might or should erase the last stubborn bits of winter’s snow.

He sat alone at the long table, his broad hands resting against the rough grain of the wood, the flickering light of a nearby candle casting sharp angles across his face. The weight of the day hung heavily in the air, pressing against the stone walls, settling deep into Tiernan MacRae’s bones.

Before him, Brody MacIntyre’s letter lay unfolded. It had come by messenger this morn.

Tiernan’s eyes narrowed and moved over the words again, though he’d read them three times already.

There is someone you must meet. It is not something I can explain in writing, only that you must see her for yourself.

There was no further clarification, no name, no indication of who this mysterious person was—only a strange urgency that Brody rarely possessed outside of battles and skirmishes, chasing down the enemy.

But her ? Tiernan mused once again. A woman?

In truth, it should have agitated Tiernan more than it did.

But Tiernan’s mind was already occupied.

It had been only a few days since they lowered his betrothed’s body into the earth, wrapped in fine cloth and marked with her family’s crest. A few days since he had stood at her grave, staring down at the fresh mound of dirt, feeling nothing but the hollow certainty that the future would now shift, one path closing, another unfolding.

She had been young. Too young to die, he reasoned, despite a war that had taught him that there should no longer be an expectation of a full, long life. Still, ?twas a sorrow no man could ignore.

And yet, for all the world’s expectations that he should be broken by grief, Tiernan had found himself... not empty, exactly, but not undone either. Margaret had been good. A woman of gentle nature, raised to fulfill the duties of wife and mother, a fine lady in every way that mattered. Her death was a loss to his household, to his clan, to her family.

He would mourn her, as any man would mourn a good woman taken too soon. And yet, the weight in his chest was not one of a man robbed of love, but of something else.

Something quieter. Sadly, less poetic.

He exhaled slowly, rolling the tension from his shoulders, but his body remained stiff.

He had known Margaret since they were both young. Not quite children, but before the burdens of war and expectation had settled upon their shoulders. Their fathers had been allies, had arranged the match when she was scarcely more than a girl, when he had still been more concerned with his swordplay than his future. He had never questioned the decision. It had been a safe choice.

Margaret had been meant to be his future. But war had delayed it. Again and again. He had put off marriage for duty, for battle, for the needs of his people. It had been easy—necessary—to do. She had been in the convent, tucked away safely, waiting. And he had been at war, doing his part to ensure there would be a future for them at all.

Duty had dictated their match. Duty had ensured he would have wed her, given her children, and secured the future of his bloodline. And now that future was different.

Not tragic. Not devastating. Just...changed. He would have to start all over. And he was already well past the age he should have wed, and with the current climate of war in Scotland, he was forced to wonder how much time remained for him. The next call to arms might well be his last. He feared he might go and never return to Druimlach, leaving the clan in turmoil, vulnerable without a chief.

Would he have loved her, had she lived? Would time have softened his edges, allowed him to know her beyond the quiet, serene woman she had become, the one he’d met again only three weeks ago, eleven years after the last time he’d seen her?

He supposed it didn’t matter now. It was not something he deemed important.

With a quiet sigh, Tiernan reached for his cup, the mead inside long since become lukewarm. He barely noticed, emptying the cup. His gaze drifted once more to the letter, to Brody’s cryptic words.

A woman.

What in God’s name was MacIntyre playing at?

He was about to rise, to find his bed finally, when a shuffling at the landing above the hall drew his attention.

The figure moved down the stairs, coming into the light of the hearth’s fire, and Tiernan’s sharp gaze met the weary, lined face of Margaret’s father, Domnall de Moubray.

The older man hesitated upon seeing him, but only for a breath. Then he came forward, his gait stiff, one hand resting lightly on the cane he’d employed since Stirling Bridge.

De Moubray stepped closer to the table. The low candlelight illuminated his face, casting deep shadows across his grizzled beard and the permanent furrow between his brows.

“We should nae have left Skye so early in the season,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Should nae have compelled her north from the convent. The journey weakened her. But she wanted to be here. She wanted to wed ye.”

Tiernan’s jaw tightened slightly.

“She was anxious but excited, I ken,” Domnall continued, shifting his weight slightly. “Aye, she dinna say as much, but I could see it. And aye, she was nervous—mayhap ye’d seen that—but are nae all women at the idea of their marriage?” He shrugged subtly when Tiernan said nothing. “I ken she was keen to take her place here at yer side, as eager as ye for the wedding.”

Tiernan could not give the man what he wanted. What comfort was there in lies? So instead, he offered what he could. “She would have made a fine lady of Druimlach.”

Domnall let out a rough exhale, as if that had been the one truth he needed to hear. He turned his head, his sharp, assessing gaze sweeping over Tiernan.

“And ye, lad?” he asked after a long moment. “How are ye holding up?”

Tiernan did not answer right away. It was not a question he had been asked before—not by anyone.

He knew what he was meant to say. That he was struggling. That he was drowning in grief, that his world had been shattered by the loss of his betrothed. Instead of speaking, however, he only held Domnall’s gaze, letting the silence stretch between them, letting the older man interpret it as he wished.

Domnall nodded once, as if seeing something in Tiernan’s silence that made sense to him. “Aye. I kent as much.”

He made to turn away, but paused briefly, murmuring, “Grief doesnae always look the same in every man. But it comes for us all, one way or another.”

Tiernan sat still for a long moment, watching Domnall’s tedious climb up the stairs.

He did not correct Domnall’s assumption.

A father’s love for his daughter would be greater than any feeling he could have claimed to possess.

***

Rose woke with a start, the heavy weight of thick blankets and heavy furs pinning her in place, the air cool against her cheeks. For a moment, she stared at the wooden beams above her, listening to the rain outside. The bed beneath her was lumpy, unfamiliar.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Dunmara. Right. That’s where she was.

Slowly, the haze of sleep lifted, and the events of the last two days came rushing back. Wednesday night, she had walked into the Special Collections Office, sat down at her desk, and opened a centuries-old journal of a woman living in a convent, about to depart to join her husband-to-be, dreading her life. And now, somehow, impossibly, it was Saturday morning. And Rose was waking up in a medieval castle in thirteen hundred and four, dreading her life.

She pressed her palms to her face and exhaled.

Her thoughts felt sharper today, though no less tangled. Still, she battled to make sense of the impossible.

Emmy had been patient, kind, careful not to overwhelm her. But no amount of warmth could erase the fact that Rose was living and breathing in a world she did not belong to.

Two nights ago, Emmy had eventually ushered Rose out of the kitchen and led her through the dimly lit corridors, up a narrow stone staircase, and into this very chamber.

“This is where I stayed when I first came,” Emmy had told her, brushing aside the heavy wool curtain over the small window. “Actually, it wasn’t this nice—it was pretty... barren. I made it my own after a while, after it dawned on me that I might be here forever.”

At the time, Rose had barely been able to focus on the words, too overwhelmed by everything—by what Emmy had so earnestly, so seriously explained had happened to her. The surroundings, the realization that Emmy, a woman from the future, was completely at ease in this setting. That alone had nearly broken Rose’s mind. But later, when she could think a little more clearly, it had given her hope. Emmy had adapted—more than adapted, really. She had thrived. Of course, being in love and apparently adored by Brody MacIntyre probably helped.

Still, the fact that Emmy acted so... normal had, more than anything, kept Rose from losing her mind entirely.

When Emmy had suggested she try to rest that first night, Rose had found herself suddenly needled by questions, so many questions, clawing for answers. She’d fired them rapidly at Emmy, barely giving the woman a chance to respond before launching another.

How is this even possible? How long have you been here? How do you survive in a world without modern medicine? Without technology? Without basic hygiene?

Emmy, proving that her patience was apparently endless, had answered each and every one as best she could.

That first conversation had evolved into something unexpected—an easy back-and-forth as they compared their vastly different lives in the modern world. Emmy had been born in 1993.

Nineteen ninety-three.

That alone seemed as preposterous as the fourteenth century itself. The idea made Rose’s head spin.

They had talked about their lives forty years apart—Emmy laughing over things Rose found completely unfathomable. Cordless phones. Personal computers in every home. A whole genre of music called hip-hop.

“You haven’t even hit the ’80s yet,” Emmy had teased. “Oh, you’re in for a wild ride.”

Rose had frowned. “But... what about disco?”

That had made Emmy laugh even harder, her gorgeous smile bright, her eyes sparkling. She faked a wince for Rose’s benefit. “Sorry, I think it was at its peak in ’78, but by 1980, it was pretty much done. Overtaken by... maybe punk and new wave at that time? And of course, rock has always been popular. But don’t worry,” she had added with mock seriousness, “if you’ve just learned how to do the Hustle, I can guarantee you won’t need it here, either.”

Rose had been a little surprised that Emmy even knew what the dance was. She couldn’t name a single song from forty years before her time. “Are they including disco history in music classes now?”

Emmy had grinned. “No, or at least not that I know of. But I used to go to this club in Manhattan, which styled itself as the last living discotheque. They played all that old stuff.”

Old stuff.

Rose had pouted, and Emmy had laughed before deftly changing the subject. “Damn, what I wouldn’t give to hear any music, anything modern day. Agnes’s humming and the church hymns we have now since a priest was finally found for Dunmara aren’t cutting it, I don’t mind telling you.”

And when the conversation had turned to family, their tones had softened.

Rose had spoken about her studies, her work in the archives, and how, despite enjoying her job, she had never really connected with the people around her.

Emmy, to Rose’s surprise, had understood completely.

“I had friends in my time, but...those connections were never deep, maybe not even true, if you know what I mean. And my mom was always more focused on her career than me,” Emmy had admitted, fiddling absently with the sleeve of her gown. “I grew up mostly with nannies. So yeah, I get it. I was always sort of... alone, even when I wasn’t.”

Something in Rose’s chest had tightened at that. They had come from different worlds, different times, but in a way, they had both felt the same kind of loneliness.

“My mom died when I was nine,” Rose had confessed.

Emmy’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, Rose, I’m so sorry.”

Rose had tapped the scar running along her cheek. “That’s how I got this.”

Emmy had gasped but caught herself, softening again. “Oh, gosh—I didn’t want to ask, but... what happened?”

“Car accident. It was just me and Mom. She died instantly.”

Rose had decided right then and there—as if she hadn’t been headed in that direction already—that Emmy MacIntyre was a seriously kind person. Just full of warmth, understanding. And so easy to talk to.

It was as if they’d known each other for ages.

Ages. Centuries.

That thought clung to her now, as she lay in bed, staring at the low wooden ceiling, still wishing this was all some bizarre dream. Because if it wasn’t—if this was real—then what?

A soft knock at the door startled her from her thoughts.

“Rose?” Emmy’s voice, gentle and familiar, cut through the silence. “Are you awake?”

She swallowed down the beginning of another bout of panic and sat up, brushing her hair from her face. “Yeah. C’mon in.”

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Emmy stepped inside, carrying another set of clothes over her arm. Even after two days in her company, Rose still found herself thrown by the sight of her—so familiar, yet so strangely out of place.

In the glow of morning light streaming through the narrow window, Emmy looked both regal and effortless, as if she’d always belonged here. The dark blue wool of her kirtle hugged her figure in a way that made it look tailored specifically for her, the long, fitted sleeves buttoned at the wrists, the rich color deepening the warmth of her complexion. A thin leather belt was cinched around her waist, and the ivory léine beneath had its ties fastened loosely at her throat, allowing just the faintest hint of embroidery to peek through. Her long, dark blonde hair was plaited in an intricate braid, wrapped and pinned at the crown of her head—a medieval style, if Rose had ever seen one.

“You’re awake early,” Emmy noted, stepping toward the bed, holding up the garments she carried. “I figured you might be more comfortable in this today.”

Rose eyed the offering—a crisp, ivory léine with delicate pleating at the neckline and a soft, sage-green kirtle. The fabric looked well-made, the stitching finer than even some machine-made clothing.

Wearing only the shift that Emmy had also provided her, Rose stood and donned both the items. Like yesterday’s outfit, this one was also too long for Rose—as was expected, since Emmy was at least three or four inches taller than her.

Rose ran a hand over the fabric. “Am I taking all your clothes?” she worried aloud.

Emmy waved her off with an easy shrug. “I’ve acquired, in two years, more than I need, actually.” She smiled as she set the clothes down beside Rose. “This place had been running so long before me that there’s little for me to do, which used to drive me nuts. And Brody—God love him—would prefer that I do absolutely nothing, that I not endanger myself in any way, that I not stoop so low as to perform menial labor.” She rolled her eyes at the last part, then smirked. “As if I hadn’t been doing that when I first came here.” She perched on the edge of a small wooden chest near the window, stretching out her legs. “Oh, and as if women of our time don’t do anything meaningful. Anyway, for the longest time, I had nothing to do. So, to stay sane, I spent half my time in the kitchen,” she added, shaking her head. “But it gives Brody fits, the mistress of his keep soiling her hands. Thus, to acquire more appropriate skills, and because I did need a wardrobe, Maud has since taught me how to sew, Agnes helped me make patterns for gowns, and Brody had sent for fabric from some merchant down near the border.”

Her tone was light, but there was something in the way she said Brody’s name, something that softened her even more. It was impossible to miss, or to overlook, the way Emmy spoke about her husband. It wasn’t just affection; it was deep, steadfast love.

Rose ran a hand over the fabric again, letting the smooth weave slip through her fingers. “Well, you’re an incomparable seamstress, I should say.”

Assuming that, same as yesterday, they would head downstairs and have some breakfast, Rose was a little surprised that Emmy seemed in no hurry to get going. Instead, Emmy bit her lip and glanced toward the window.

“What?” Rose asked warily. “You have that I need to say something but don’t know how look.”

Emmy winced, letting out a small laugh. She rubbed her palms and fingers down her thighs. “That obvious, huh?”

“Oh, God, what is it?” Rose asked and then held her breath.

Emmy hesitated, then took a breath. “Rose, do you... believe in reincarnation?”

Rose blinked. Of all the things she expected Emmy to say, that was not on the list. A laugh—a startled, disbelieving one—escaped her before she could stop it. But she caught herself, judging Emmy’s expression to be a wince mixed with concern. “W-why would you ask me that?”

Emmy pressed her lips together, clearly weighing her next words. “Because... well, because you look like someone.”

The way she said it made Rose’s skin prickle. She frowned. “Who?”

Emmy sighed, steeling herself. “Okay, first, just so you know— I didn’t know the woman. I never met her. But Brody had—years ago, mind you—and he’s convinced that you are...well, at the very least, apparently you could be her twin.”

The tense Emmy had used finally registered with Rose. “You didn’t know the woman. She’s...dead now?”

Emmy nodded.

“Okay... and?” Rose prompted.

Emmy made another awkward face. “She was laid to rest the day you arrived. We ah, actually were on our way from her funeral when we ran into you.”

A slow, uneasy sensation crept down Rose’s spine. However, she wasn’t sure what she should be alarmed about.

“And...? So, I resemble someone—so what?”

“Brody is...well, he’s not using the words resemble or looks like ,” Emmy explained. She cleared her throat. “He’s certain that you are her. Margaret.”

Margaret . Rose thought immediately of the journal she’d discovered in the archives. Of course, there were probably hundreds, maybe thousands of Margarets in this time, the name having been very common.

She tried to rationalize this newest absurdity. “Okay, sure, I might resemble someone, but—and you just mentioned reincarnation. I know nothing about that, I’m not even sure whether or not I believe in it. Honestly,” she laughed, “I haven’t given it much thought. But so what? I’m Rose, from 1978. Correct me if I’m wrong, but people aren’t brought back as the same person—are they? I have no idea how reincarnation works.”

“Actually, neither do I,” Emmy admitted. “I don’t know why I mentioned reincarnation. Obviously, I’m not sure that’s what this is—”

“This is nothing,” Rose insisted. “Emmy, seriously. I’m barely holding it together with what did happen to me—so far. Can we not... add to the mystery? I think I’ll go crazy if—”

“Of course, of course. I’m sorry—I didn’t even want to say anything but that Brody thinks...”

Something in Rose pulled tight. “Brody thinks... what?” she asked, her voice flat.

Emmy winced. “That we need to go to Druimlach.”

“Why? What is that? Druimlach?”

“It’s where the funeral was,” Emmy informed her, “where she was supposed to be wed to the MacRae chief.”

Rose gaped at her. “Oh, my God. Are you thinking I’ll have to take her place?” she asked frantically. “Or—or—”

Emmy jumped up, rushing toward Rose. “No. Jesus, no! No, not at all,” she assured her, taking her hand, rubbing the back of it. “No, Rose. Nothing like that. It’s just...oh, shit—there’s just so much superstition here in this time. It’s not something that can be overlooked,” she continued, looking genuinely distressed herself now. “You don’t understand. People here believe in signs, in omens, in fate. If you so much as say the wrong thing at the wrong time, someone will start whispering about curses. Some believe that the dead can return—not as ghosts, but in flesh.”

A cold chill passed through Rose that had nothing to do with the draft in the stone chamber.

“That’s ridiculous,” she whispered.

Emmy tilted her head at Rose. “Is it, though? Is it as ridiculous as time-travel?” She challenged.

Rose gasped again, but this time with some accusation, for Emmy throwing that in there.

“Fine, it’s ridiculous,” Emmy conceded. “ To us. But to them?” She sighed. “Rose, I know how crazy this all sounds. But I’m telling you now—Brody won’t rest until we go to Druimlach and get answers.”

Rose opened her mouth, then closed it while that slow, uneasy sensation that had started creeping over her a moment ago turned into full-blown dread.

Emmy let out a sharp breath. “For the record, I think it’s a bad idea as well. At the very least, it’s too soon. Christ, let the man grieve. But I do agree with Brody in that it can’t be ignored. Rose, Brody is not a fanciful person, he’s not dramatic, doesn’t go looking for trouble, or to make something out of nothing, but I’m telling you, he believes this is important.”

Rose swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “But why? What does he expect to happen? What, exactly, are we supposed to find at Druimlach?”

Emmy hesitated before answering. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I know Brody, and I know that look in his eyes when he’s certain about something. He’s convinced that you’re the key to... something. Whether it’s a warning, an omen, or just an impossible coincidence, he doesn’t think this can be ignored.”

Rose rubbed her temples. “This is insane,” she muttered. “I mean, I know this is insane, and yet....”

And yet , here she stood, listening to a beautiful woman from 2019 warn her about omens and ghosts and superstitious men who thought she was some long-dead bride returned, whilst standing in the middle of the fourteenth century. Rose exhaled sharply and met Emmy’s gaze. “And if I refuse?”

Emmy didn’t hesitate. “Then we deal with that. Ultimately, it’s your choice, Rose. But Brody’s right about one thing—this isn’t going to go away. Not for you or for us if...if there is something to it.”

Rose inhaled sharply and dragged her hands through her hair. “Shit.”

“Rose,” Emmy prodded gently, “wouldn’t you rather have answers than not?”

Rose did not hesitate. “No,” she said firmly. And then she dropped her head, jamming her fingers into the flesh between her eyebrows. “Fine, yes. I would rather have answers.”

First time travel. Now reincarnation theories. What the hell had she fallen into?

For the first time since arriving, frustration—stronger now than fear—took hold of her.

What? She was supposedly some dead woman brought back to life?

What next?