Page 5 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

The journey to Druimlach was cold, the kind of sharp, biting chill that seeped into Rose’s bones no matter how tightly she pulled her borrowed cloak around her. The landscape stretched endlessly in every direction, rolling hills fading into thick patches of forest, the earth damp with the lingering grip of winter despite the rain of the last two days. She had spent months in Scotland before all of this—before the impossible had happened—but she had barely seen anything of the country beyond the university, the archives, and the occasional sightseeing trip to castles and historic landmarks. Now, here she was, not in 1978 but in 1304, and seeing Scotland in its truest, wildest form. No modern roads. No streetlights. Just endless land stretching before her, untamed and breathtaking.

She didn’t know what to think or expect of this visit to someplace called Druimlach, but she was nervous all the same. Truthfully, however, she might have been filled with more dread if not for Emmy’s company.

Emmy chattered almost non-stop—pointedly, purposefully, Rose was sure—about everything but their destination and what they might expect to encounter. And honestly, it was fine. At this point, Rose was sick and tired of being anxious.

At one point, Brody sidled up next to Emmy and Rose on the sleek black mare.

“Go on,” Emmy said with mock severity to her husband, striking a rigid pose. “Rose is not talking to you at the moment—you are persona non grata for dragging her out into the cold for...for whatever this is going to be.”

Brody actually grinned at this, a rare expression that softened the harshness of his features.

It was fleeting, but Rose caught sight of it.

“Ye’ve a sharp tongue, wife,” Brody remarked, his tone dry, but there was no heat behind it.

Emmy smirked, dropping the stern facade. “It’s why you love me.”

Rose was still getting used to the dynamic between these two, how easily Emmy seemed to handle Brody—this big, intimidating man—as if he were just any other person rather than the formidable medieval laird that he was or seemed to be to Rose. She found their dynamic fascinating.

Brody turned his gaze toward Rose then, his expression serious. “I owe ye an apology, lass. I ken this is nae to yer liking, that ye were, more or less, compelled to go to Druimlach. But it is needed. Had the MacRae come to Dunmara and seen ye himself, I’d have made an enemy for nae having brought this—ye—to his attention sooner.”

There was something sincere about his words, no arrogance or forcefulness, just the truth as he saw it. He might have strong-armed her into this journey—via his wife—but at least he was acknowledging it.

Rose nodded, feeling compelled to acknowledge the apology, if only for Emmy’s sake. “It’s fine... sir,” she added awkwardly, unsure of how to address him. Was he a knight? A lord? She had no idea.

“Oh, just call him Brody,” Emmy cut in. “There’s no need for titles among friends.”

Brody frowned—barely, but noticeably—at his wife, as if her casual approach to rank was mildly exasperating.

Rose gripped Emmy’s waist a little tighter, daring to assert herself a little bit. “It’s fine so long as you promise me I won’t be forced into some medieval proxy marriage, and that I can return to Dunmara with you—that is, if you don’t mind me staying—oh god, possibly for the rest of my life—with you.”

Emmy waved a hand. “Stop. We can only contemplate one odd circumstance at a time. Today is not time-travel’s day.” She shot Rose a reassuring smile over her shoulder. “And yes, you can stay with us, for as long as you need, forever if that’s how it works out. And no, no one is going to force you to wed anyone. And by the way, ew! Imagine seeing someone who resembled your dead fiancé, like only days later, and you’re like, Hey, we should get married. ”

Rose snorted before she could stop herself, a reluctant laugh bubbling up.

With that, Brody nodded and moved forward to ride with a few lengths ahead of them with the men at the front of their party.

“While your husband’s explanation does make a little sense,” Rose allowed, “I still don’t understand the need to show a man that a woman exists who looks like his dead fiancé.”

“Frankly,” Emmy replied, “neither do I, not entirely anyway. But let’s see how it plays out.”

After more than an hour, Druimlach came into view, its weathered gray walls rising from the crest of a rocky hill, bordered by a thick timber palisade on one side while the rest of the perimeter wall appeared to be freshly built stone wall, in varying stages of completion. The keep itself was formidable, a fortress more than a home, larger than Dunmara, with high battlements and a square tower that stood sentinel over the land. Beneath the protective shadow of the keep, the surrounding village sprawled in uneven clusters, lanes flanked by cottages and small workshops, some with thin trails of smoke curling out from thatched roofs. A few scattered animals roamed the muddy lanes—pigs rooting near wooden pens, geese waddling across the dirt road—while villagers paused in their daily work to watch the approaching party.

Rose’s stomach twisted as she caught the first astonished stare, having not considered that possibly everyone at Druimlach, from the laird to the lowest peasant, might think she looked like or was Margaret. She ducked her head against Emmy’s back. The last thing she wanted was to lock eyes with someone convinced they were looking at a ghost.

The party rode through the village and toward the imposing gate. Brody announced their arrival to helmeted men atop the battlements and only moments later, the gate was pulled open from within.

Beside them, Brody reined in his horse, glancing toward Rose before turning his attention to Emmy. “Mayhap it’s best I go ahead and announce our arrival first.”

“What, like warn him?” Emmy questioned.

“Aye,” Brody replied, looking at Rose again. “Best prepare the MacRae before he lays eyes on ye.”

Emmy nodded and Brody nudged his horse forward, breaking away from the party and toward the keep.

Rose exhaled slowly, her pulse quickening as she watched Brody disappear beyond the heavy wooden doors of Druimlach’s hall.

“Well, now I’m a jumble of nerves,” Rose announced quietly.

“We’re just going to take it one step at a time,” Emmy tried to console her. “We’ll be back home in a few hours, and we can move on, or rather put it behind us.”

Rose glanced around the bailey, momentarily distracted by the sights and sounds of Druimlach. Though anxiety still coiled in her stomach, curiosity took hold, and she found herself studying the world around her, same as she had so eagerly at Dunmara, as a student of history.

A young boy, no older than ten, darted past, carrying an armful of firewood, his soft leather-soled shoes splattering mud as he went. Nearby, a group of men gathered around a wooden frame where a fletcher was carefully binding goose-feathers to arrow shafts. Another man, taller than the rest, leaned over the frame, inspecting the work with a critical eye before giving a nod of approval.

Across the yard in a low-roofed shed, a blacksmith hammered steadily at a glowing piece of iron, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal ringing through the air. Sparks danced as he worked, shaping the red-hot steel.

The details fascinated her. She had spent years studying medieval Scotland, had poured over texts and illustrations, but this was so...real. This was history, alive and breathing around her, and not something that could be captured in a textbook.

Glancing around, her gaze collided with a cluster of soldiers gathered atop the wall, now staring down and inside the bailey rather than outward at any potential threat.

Her cheeks heated with color when she realized they were all staring at her.

They were as shocked as she was suddenly flustered under their dazed and shaken stares.

Across the distance, she caught bits of their remarks.

“ Jesu , the very likeness...”

“...returned to us...”

“It canna be...”

Thankfully, Brody returned at that moment, looking no more or less grim than he usually did, so that Rose didn’t know what to expect.

Emmy hounded her husband with questions, before he’d even reached them. “What did you tell him? What did he say? Did he look shocked?”

Her husband didn’t answer even one of her questions, but announced, “He will receive us.”

Rose Followed Brody and Emmy into the great hall of Druimlach, and the sheer scale of it gave her pause. The high, vaulted ceiling loomed above, its wooden beams dark and heavy, stretching the length of the massive chamber. The thick stone walls, bare in some places and draped with banners in others, absorbed golden light from the massive central hearth. Narrow windows, little more than arrow slits, allowed thin shafts of pale daylight to pierce the gloom that even the fire’s light could not douse.

Beneath her sneakers, the flagstone floor was level and worn, the stones dark and dull. Near the hearth, a pair of hounds lounged in complete ease, their ears twitching at the sounds of movement but otherwise unbothered by the presence of strangers. Overhead, an iron chandelier, thick with wax drippings, hung suspended from the beams, holding a cluster of tallow candles that sputtered weakly against the dimness.

Along the walls, shields and banners marked with the MacRae crest hung in displays of power and loyalty, their colors dulled with time but still commanding attention. Long trestle tables, most now empty, stretched down the length of the room, though one servant remained, wiping down the scarred wood with a damp cloth. Near the raised wooden dais at the far end of the hall, a small group of soldiers stood in low conversation, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons as they cast brief, assessing glances toward the newcomers.

And there, seated in a high-backed chair at the head of the room, was the MacRae himself.

He stood as they walked toward him.

At first, it was only his size that registered, the sheer breadth of him, the imposing stature that made the air seem heavier just by his presence alone. He stood tall, broad shoulders squared, arms resting loosely at his sides, though there was nothing relaxed about his stance. Dark hair, streaked through with hints of gray, fell loosely to his shoulders, the strands gleaming slightly as they caught the firelight. But it was his face that stopped Rose’s breath, chiseled like granite, his short close beard unable to conceal the squareness of his jaw. His neck was clean-shaven, and corded with veins, one of which throbbed menacingly. His expression was unreadable at first, just sharp, piercing observation, but his eyes—glacial blue eyes—locked onto hers, and everything in the room seemed to still.

He stepped out from behind the table and off the dais as they approached.

Rose’s step faltered.

Emmy came to her rescue, sliding her arm into the crook of Rose’s elbow, gently urging her forward.

Rose could not help but stare at the imposing figure of the MacRae.

Beneath the breacan draped over one shoulder and belted at his waist that bore the weight of a sheathed dagger, he wore a long-sleeved léine of dark linen, the fabric slightly rumpled, the perfect fit only emphasizing the solid bulk of his chest. Over it, a fitted leather jerkin, well-worn and scarred from years of use, stretched taut across his broad torso. His lower half was clad in trews of dark wool, laced at the calves and tucked into sturdy leather boots, scuffed from age or perhaps long hours in the saddle.

A heavy sword hung at his hip from a second belt, the silver hilt worn smooth from years of use, the weapon seeming to be an extension of the man himself rather than mere decoration. His hands, resting lightly at his sides, were large, battle-worn, with roughened knuckles and scarred backs that spoke of both violence and skill.

Everything about him—his bearing, his dress, the sheer weight of his presence—exuded command, control, and raw, merciless strength. And yet, it was his expression that sent a prickle of unease down Rose’s spine. His features, carved in hard lines, were merciless, his icy blue gaze fixed solely upon her.

His nostrils flared and his hands fisted at his side as he returned her stare, unmoving, unblinking, as if he had been struck by something far beyond his understanding. His breath left him for a moment, his body tensed in a way that made her stomach turn. Then he took a step forward, neither rushed nor hesitant, but as if pulled toward her by something outside of his control. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if his mind was fighting against the impossibility of what stood before him.

Rose’s heart pounded.

The world narrowed to just the space between them, his stunned gaze locked onto hers.

Suddenly the air felt thin, and Rose held her breath. She took a half-step back, instinctively, and the movement shattered whatever spell had momentarily overtaken him.

The MacRae chief’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. His face hardened even more, his gaze sharpening into something cold and dangerous. His lips curled slightly in a snarl. He turned sharply to Brody, his voice a low, thunderous growl. “What foul deception is this?”

The words rippled through the room.

Brody didn’t flinch, though Emmy stiffened at Rose’s side, while the raw force of the accusation sank into Rose’s skin.

“Tis nae deception,” Brody said evenly, his voice calm, steady.

Tiernan’s gaze snapped back to her, his jaw clenching so tightly she could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. He was scrutinizing her now, taking in every detail, dissecting her presence with the careful precision of a man who had no tolerance for uncertainty.

Rose opened her mouth to speak, to say something—anything—to break the suffocating weight of the moment.

“I’m sorry to cause you any—"

The moment her voice filled the hall, something inside him snapped. His entire body tensed, the fists at his side tightening until he lifted one and laid it over the hilt of his sword. Whatever fragile hold he had on his emotions shattered, and the full force of his fury slammed into the space between them.

“Ye dare mock me with this sorcery?”

Rose took another step back, shaking her head, her breath caught in her throat, while Emmy was forced to retreat with her.

“She’s nae a witch,” Brody interjected quickly.

Tiernan ignored him completely, his searing gaze still locked onto Rose. His voice was deeper now, rougher, something primal and furious. “What trickery is this?”

Her throat was dry. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t even think past the storm brewing in his gaze.

He towered before her, large and frightening, looking at her like she was something he wanted to destroy.

***

Tiernan’s breath stalled in his chest as he stared at the woman before him. His world narrowed, vision tunneling, a strange sensation gripping him—something visceral, something wrong .

Margaret.

It was Margaret.

Except for the scar running down her face, an old but unsightly jagged line that was raised still, dark pink, and inescapable. His mind fought against it, but his eyes could not deny what they saw. The onyx-black waves of her hair, thick and rich, spilling over her shoulders as she’d been only weeks ago. The shape of her face, the delicate cut of her features, the graceful slope of her neck. And those eyes—a deep blue, like the evening sky when the last light of day faded into dusk.

For a moment, his entire body went rigid, his breath frozen in his throat.

Then she moved.

Her stance was wrong. Too tense, too full of wariness. Her lips parted, just slightly, and he saw the sharp intake of breath, the squeezing of her fingers where they gripped the edges of her cloak. Margaret had never looked like that. This woman was skittish, unguarded. She wore her emotions plainly, shifting from wariness to discomfort to outright fear in the space of a heartbeat. Margaret had been still. Serene. By the time she reached womanhood, after years in the convent, Margaret had carried herself with a quiet solemnity, a graceful reserve. She had been soft-spoken, composed, never giving away what she thought or felt unless she intended to. The girl before him— this woman —could not hide a thing.

Her unease was painted across her face like a brand, raw and exposed, her agitation clear in the stiffness of her shoulders, in the way her gaze blinked between him and Brody, uncertain, fearful even.

The longer he looked at her, the more the illusion cracked. She had Margaret’s hair, Margaret’s face, mayhap Margaret’s very bones —but she was not Margaret.

No—this was something else.

Something unnatural.

A foul trick, a deception, some twisted magic beyond his understanding. His stomach turned, rage coiling like a snake in his gut. He barely heard Brody’s voice, barely registered the sound of the hall falling into silence, the weight of the moment pressing down upon them all. His vision tunneled to the stranger who should not exist.

Her voice! Those stammering sounds, hesitant, uncertain. But the sound of it—the cadence, the strangeness of her tongue—it was wrong. Margaret had spoken Gaelic, French, and Latin with the polished elegance of a noblewoman. This woman’s words were unnatural, foreign, distorted.

“Who are ye? Why have ye come?” He snapped at her.

She recoiled slightly, her breath shallow and quick.

“I don’t kn—I am Rose, that is all I know.”

“MacRae,” Brody’s voice cut in, measured but firm.

Tiernan ignored him.

His gaze never left the woman.

“What trickery is this?” His voice was steel on stone, the weight of it filling the empty air.

She stared back at him, her lip quivering. “I don’t know. I don’t...practice trickery or...sorcery. I didn’t want to come. I’m not pretending or trying to be—”

A desperate gasp filled the hall, cutting her off.

Tiernan whipped around, his scowl lethal, just in time to see Margaret’s mother at the edge of the hall, staring at the imposter. The woman fell to her knees, her trembling arms lifting toward the fake Margaret as if she had just witnessed a miracle. “Margaret,” she breathed, her voice cracking with emotion.

The word sent a ripple through the hall, a shudder of disbelief running down Tiernan’s spine. He did not move, his body locked in place, every muscle wound tight beneath the weight of too many conflicting thoughts.

This was madness. He turned sharply toward Brody, barely containing his fury.

“We should take this discussion somewhere private,” Brody said evenly, firmly.

Somewhere private? A bitter laugh nearly escaped him. As if the dozen occupants of the hall had not also seen the ghost, as if they’d not just witnessed Margaret’s mother crumpling to the floor and calling a stranger by her dead daughter’s name.

“Out!” Tiernan growled. He didn’t wait for anyone to react. He turned, his voice rising in a furious bellow. “All of ye—out! Now.”

A flurry of movement followed. The few clansmen, servants, warriors—they scrambled at the force of his order, filing out quickly, though not without backward glances of confusion and unease. The hall emptied within moments, the heavy doors slamming shut behind the last onlookers, leaving only the five of them behind.

His pulse was a pounding drum of thunder in his ears. This was not possible. But Margaret’s mother had risen, had rushed forward, had fallen to her knees again, this time at the feet of the woman, her hands shaking, her lips trembling as she reached for the girl’s skirt, as if afraid she would disappear if she did not touch her.

“My sweet girl,” wept Leana de Moubray, eyes glassy with tears. “My beautiful Margaret.”

Rose stiffened beneath the touch, clearly uncomfortable, though she did not back away further, did not yank her skirt out of the older woman’s grasp.

Tiernan barely had time to process that before footsteps rang sharply against the stone—another figure stepping into the hall. Domnall de Moubray, Margaret’s father, stopped dead in his tracks. Tiernan turned his gaze to him, watching the man’s face shift from shock to raw disbelief. The older man braced a hand against the cane at his side, staring as though he could not trust his own eyes.

“What trickery is this?” Domnall demanded, his voice hard, suspicious.

Like Tiernan, Domnall saw what stood before him and sensed nothing good in it.

He did not rush forward. Did not fall to his knees in worship or relief. Instead, his sharp, calculating eyes scanned Rose carefully, seeking the lie in what he was seeing. His face, which had first gone pale with shock, now twisted in something closer to disgusted comprehension. “This is nae blessing,” he muttered darkly. “This is foul magic.”

His words struck like a blade, because they were so similar to Tiernan’s own thoughts, to the only thing that could explain this unholy resemblance.

“But ye canna deny,” Brody interjected cautiously, “that Rose—for whatever reason, by whoever’s design—looks exactly like Margaret.”

Tiernan’s jaw tightened further. He could not deny it. “Margaret bore no disfiguring scar,” he said with contempt.

The blue eyes of the false Margaret widened at his cruelty.

Tiernan glowered at her in return, even while he barked at MacIntyre. “Why did ye bring her here?”

He heard rather than saw Brody’s heavy sigh.

“Because she comes from where my wife, Emmy, does,” he answered, sounding weary, “and it’s nae something...that can—or should—be dismissed outright.”

“Hails from where?” Tiernan clipped, his eyes never leaving the woman, Rose.

Brody did not answer immediately. His wife did after a bit of silence.

“From another time.”

Tiernan frowned over the words and finally wrenched his gaze from the mysterious woman with Margaret’s blue eyes. He pivoted abruptly and pinned his gaze on Emmy MacIntyre. “What say ye?”

“Neither Rose nor I were...born in this time. We lived—live!” she correctly anxiously, “in another century entirely.”

For a moment, above and beyond the eerie advent of this strange woman who looked so much like Maragaret, above even Emmy MacIntyre’s fantastic statement, a flash of disbelief surged in his brain. ?Twas all a ruse. A jest. A cruel one—but why?

As if she read his thoughts, Brody’s wife took a hasty step forward. “There’s no trickery,” she said. “There’s no magic—not on our part—and no deception. But I think you deserve the truth.”

“Truth?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low.

Emmy took a slow breath. “Rose... traveled here—just as I did two years ago—from another time.”

Domnall’s gaze snapped toward her, as furious as Tiernan’s.

“She speaks nonsense,” he snarled. “There is nae such thing. What manner of person are ye to toy with another’s grief? To expect that I or he—or anyone—would believe such madness?”

“It’s the truth,” Emmy said firmly, her gaze dancing between Domnall and Tiernan. “I know how it sounds, I know it’s difficult to understand—I still don’t know how it happened, but it’s true. Rose and I weren’t...haven’t even been born yet, not for hundreds of years.”

Tiernan’s fury swelled. This woman—Brody’s wife—spoke as if she knew things beyond mortal understanding, as if her words were meant to settle the matter. Instead, they enraged him.

“Ye lie,” he accused ruthlessly.

Brody took a single step forward, closer to his wife, his stance becoming rigid. A warning. “Watch your tone, MacRae.” His voice was low, measured, but no less dangerous.

The tension between them crackled like kindling catching fire, but Tiernan did not back down.

Brody held his ground, returning Tiernan’s glare.

Silence stretched, thick and dangerous.

Margaret’s mother broke the tension, rising to her feet, lifting her hands to cup the girl’s face. She smiled joyfully while tears shimmered in her eyes.

“My child,” she whispered.

Rose twitched when the woman began to stroke her hair, smoothing it away from her face in slow, reverent motions. Rose shifted, clearing her throat awkwardly, subtly trying to lean away. Leana did not stop. Instead, her hands slid along Rose’s cheek, over her hair, down her arm, as if trying to commit every inch of her to memory.

Rose visibly tensed.

Tiernan watched the entire thing, watched as the girl began to seriously fidget, to shift slightly, her discomfort growing. Finally, after enduring far more than even a reasonable person should, she took hold of Leana’s hands, dragging them away from her face. “Please stop petting me. I’m not a dog.”

Margaret’s mother blinked, startled.

Domnall let out a scoff of irritation.

And Emmy muffled a laugh.

Tiernan felt his rage coil tighter. He faced Brody again, repeating his earlier question. “Why did ye bring her here?”

His old friend did not flinch, though the weight of Tiernan’s rage pressed heavy upon the hall. Brody exhaled, shifting slightly, his stance steady but guarded, his expression unreadable.

“It seemed too... obvious to ignore,” he said at last, a slight lift of his shoulders giving away the faintest trace of reluctance. “And based on what I ken—what I believe—of Emmy’s own circumstance, it had me wondering.” He drew in a slow, measured breath. “I kent ye should be made aware, MacRae.”

Tiernan’s jaw clenched. The room felt smaller, the air pressing thick and suffocating around him. He had no patience for riddles, no stomach for impossible truths.

“Laird MacRae,” Emmy MacIntyre spoke up again, “we meant no disrespect. We absolutely did not want to cause you grief—or you, Lord de Moubray, Lady de Moubray. We merely thought—given that Rose arrived on the very day you laid Margaret to rest—that it... wasn’t something that should be ignored. We thought you should see her.”

His voice came low and dark, cold as the loch in winter. “Aye. And now I’ve been made aware.” He flicked a hand toward the door, his eyes narrowing as he fixed Brody with an unrelenting stare. “Take her out of my sight.”

A sudden cry broke the heavy silence.

“Nae! Ye mustn’t send her away!”

Margaret’s mother lurched forward, her hands trembling as she clutched at Rose’s arm, her face twisted with anguish. Her voice wavered, thick with tears as she lifted her gaze to Tiernan, her lips trembling with raw emotion.

“Do ye nae see? God has returned her to us! My child—” Her voice cracked, the sob catching in her throat. “Margaret has come home!”

Rose stiffened under the woman’s grasp, but she did not push her away, but stared at her with an expression that could only be described as horrified pity. The older woman was blind to it, though.

Leana turned desperately to her husband, pleading. “Domnall, say something! Dinna let them send her away!”

Domnall de Moubray stood stiff as a board, his lips pressed into a hard, thin line, his expression dark and roiling with anger. His sharp eyes fixed on Rose, his gaze shifting, calculating, suspicion etched deep into the furrow of his brow. He was not a man prone to weeping. He did not kneel at the feet of ghosts.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steel and stone.

“This is nae Margaret.”

At the same time, the woman’s small voice asserted, “I am not Margaret.”

The words hung heavy in the air, the silence that followed brittle as glass.

Leana’s hands faltered, her grip on Rose weakening as her lips parted, as if she could not comprehend such a statement. She turned to her husband, her voice breaking. “What are ye saying? Look at her! Look at her! How can ye nae see yer own daughter—yer own bluid? She has returned to us, by God’s grace—”

“I buried our daughter three days past,” he said, his voice hollow, though firm. “Whatever she is, she is nae her.”

The room stood in eerie stillness.

Margaret’s mother let out a wounded sob, shaking her head in desperate denial, her fingers reaching again for Rose as if afraid she might disappear if she did not hold onto her.

Tiernan felt his own unease clawing at the edges of his thoughts.

Aye, the resemblance was uncanny, but Domnall was right.

This was not Margaret, was no miracle.

This was something far darker.

Tiernan kept his expression unreadable, his mind working beneath the surface of his icy composure. He knew— knew! —this woman was not Margaret. His betrothed had been laid in the earth only days ago, her body wrapped in a shroud, her face still and lifeless beneath the weight of death. This woman before him was not her.

And yet, something was at play here, something he could not yet name. Perhaps something dark and dangerous, indeed. The resemblance was too uncanny, too precise to be dismissed as mere coincidence. And coincidence itself was a fool’s excuse for failing to see what was right before one’s eyes.

His eyes swept over the young woman again, sharp as a blade’s edge, neither immune to nor swayed by the veil of innocence enveloping her. He transferred his furious regard to Leana de Moubray, his jaw flexing. He was not a man moved by sentiment. But he was not blind to the grief before him, nor could he ignore the peculiarity of the situation entirely.

Something was afoot. Whether trickery, sorcery, or the workings of some unknown enemy, he debated his own decision to send her away. Mayhap it would be unwise to let her out of his sight until he uncovered the actual truth.