Page 6 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

The oppressive silence of the hall in the wake of Domnall’s declaration was deafening.

The only sound was Margaret’s mother, soft, broken sobs escaping her lips as she clutched at the sleeve of Rose’s cloak, unwilling to let go. Rose stood rigid beneath the weight of so many gazes, her muscles locked in tense stillness, feeling as if she’d been holding her breath for hours. She could feel the woman’s fingers tightening against her arm, the tremor in her touch unmistakable. The grief was real. That much, at least, was undeniable.

For the most fleeting of moments, she actually felt bad that she was not Margaret, and that it was too late to undo the wound that had been torn open by her arrival.

Brody’s voice, steady and measured, broke through the suffocating quiet.

"We will take our leave," He shifted his stance, glancing at Domnall and then at MacRae. "I’ve made ye aware. The... unusual circumstances have been explained. That was all I intended—that ye be made aware. As my wife said, we dinna mean to cause distress.” He stepped closer to the MacRae and lowered his voice, but Rose heard him still. “I dinna ken or expect that the de Moubrays were yet in residence.”

Rose opened her mouth and silently exhaled her relief. It was nearly over. Good Lord, but this had been a bad idea.

MacRae, still and stone for long seconds by now, turned the withering blue of his gaze once again onto Rose with relentless scrutiny. His jaw twitched once, but otherwise, he betrayed no emotion other than fury.

Rose dared to meet his eyes, watching as something unfathomable passed behind his gaze. It was not uncertainty. No, this man did not seem the type to second-guess himself. But there was something else lurking beneath his rigid exterior—some battle waging just beneath the surface.

It was Domnall who spoke next, shaking his head. “It would be folly to entertain this madness further. She is nae my daughter.” He turned, striking his cane firmly against the stone floor as he strode away.

His wife turned to him, anguish creasing her face. "But—"

"Enough, Leana,” her husband called over his shoulder.

The sharpness of his tone caused both Rose and Margaret’s mother to flinch.

MacRae exhaled gruffly, swiping a hand over his face and jaw, as if weighing something in his mind. His gaze fixed on Margaret’s mother, and the way she still clung to Rose, her fingers trembling as though she feared letting go would mean losing her daughter all over again.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, though no less resolute.

"Stay the night," he said to Brody, his words slow, deliberate.

Rose’s eyes widened. No! Hell, no!

Brody, thankfully, declined the invitation. “Nae, MacRae, we’ve intruded enough. Again, I only intended—”

MacRae seethed at him. “Ye can stay one goddamn night. Now that ye’ve introduced the specter, ye can damn well give me time to ken what to make of it.”

Rose stiffened. It took her a moment—longer than it should have—to fully absorb the insult, the sheer audacity of being referred to as though she were some thing instead of a flesh-and-blood woman standing right in front of him.

Specter?

She wasn’t sure which was worse: that he had called her that, or that he had then reduced her further to an it .

Her pulse spiked, indignation rising fast and hot in her chest. How dare he?

She turned sharply to Brody, ready to demand that they leave immediately, but the MacIntyre laird’s posture tensed, caught between diplomacy and whatever silent war he and MacRae were waging with their locked gazes.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Meanwhile, Margaret’s mother let out a quiet sob of relief, only to draw in a sharp breath when MacRae spoke next.

He said sharply to Brody. "But make nae mistake—I am nae deceived. This woman is nae Margaret.”

His glare fell on Rose again, colder than the Highland winds outside, before he, too, departed the hall.

When he had gone far enough that Rose thought he might not be able to overhear—though part of her didn’t care if he did, rude man!—Rose pleaded, “Let’s not stay. Can we go, please?” She glanced between Emmy and Brody.

Leana stiffened, as though bracing for a blow. Her fingers, which had been resting lightly against Rose’s sleeve, clenched involuntarily into the fabric. She turned abruptly toward Brody, her voice unsteady but fierce.

“Nae,” she said, shaking her head, as if sheer denial could make it so. “Ye canna take her from me.” Her breathing was uneven now, her composure fracturing with every word. “I lost my daughter once. I canna—” Her voice broke. “I canna do it again.”

Rose flinched. She wanted—needed—to leave, to be as far away from this place, from that grim, glacial-eyed man, from all of it. But Leana’s pleading cut deep, dragging guilt into the mix of her already tangled emotions.

She turned to Emmy, hoping for support, for a firm and resounding Yes, let’s go , but Emmy wasn’t looking at her. She was watching Leana, her gaze full of quiet sympathy. Then, slowly, she glanced at Rose, her expression shifting to something closer to an unspoken question: How can you leave her like this?

Rose’s stomach sank. God. This wasn’t fair.

“Brody,” Emmy finally said, her voice softer now, but just as firm. “Maybe we should—” she began and then faltered and Rose didn’t know which she was asking for, to stay or to go.

After a long, measured pause, he exhaled and said, “Aye, we’ll stay the night.”

Rose’s shoulders tensed, every part of her recoiling. “But—”

“Just one night,” Brody said in a voice that left no room for argument. “We’ll take our supper and rest, and come morning, we’ll see where matters stand.”

It was cautious. Maybe even wise, given what he’d said about not wanting to make an enemy of MacRae, but it still felt like a betrayal.

Leana let out a breath—less a gasp and more a slow, trembling exhale, as though she had been holding it in anticipation of this decision.

Emmy shot Rose a small, apologetic look, as if to say, I’m sorry, but...

Rose pressed her lips together and looked away. Fine. One night. Then she was gone.

Leana, suddenly standing taller and now gracious, offered to show them to chambers that they might rest before supper.

Rose and Emmy followed in silence as Margaret’s mother led them up the stone steps that sat adjacent to an outside wall of Druimlach. Near the top, she jerked her gaze back down into the hall, having been overcome with a sense of being watched. The hall was empty, Brody having gone outside to advise his soldiers they would stay the night.

Rose was certain only the heated, angry gaze of the MacRae could have been felt on her back as she moved up the stairs, but he was nowhere in sight. Still, she shuddered at the thought of him.

Leana, Margaret’s mother, led them deeper into the keep, turning around one corner and then another on the second floor before she stopped at a door.

"This was her chamber before she left us," she said softly, pausing before a heavy wooden door, stroking the iron handle with a reverence that sent another wave of unease through Rose.

Wonderful.

The woman pushed the door open, stepping aside for Rose to enter.

The chamber was small, modest in its furnishings—stone walls, a heavy wooden bed covered in thick woolen blankets, a small table near the hearth, and a single window that presently let in only a sliver of pale light. A washbasin sat nearby though no water sat in either ewer or basin. The only sign of luxury were the embroidered tapestries hanging near the bed, no doubt to help ward off the cold.

Just as at Dunmara, it was nothing like the world she had come from, but it wasn’t terrible.

Emmy and Leana stepped inside after her, the latter pausing beside Rose with a tender smile, one that made Rose want to step back.

"Ye must be exhausted," Leana said kindly, reaching up before Rose could react, touching a strand of her hair with delicate fingers. “We canna have ye become sick again.”

Rose tried not to flinch, not to betray her discomfort in her expression.

Emmy must have noticed, because she quickly stepped in, her voice kind but firm. "Lady Leana, why don’t we let Rose rest for now? She’s been through a great deal today.”

Leana hesitated, her fingers still lingering near Rose’s hair, looking as if she would argue, though she did not.

"I will return to help ye dress for supper," she said at last, smiling gently. "There are gowns still here,” she said, inclining her head toward a trunk at the end of the bed.

Rose had no response for that. She barely managed a nod before Leana touched her cheek once more, then—finally—left the room.

The door had barely shut before Rose turned on Emmy.

"You could have warned me, " she hissed, hands clenched at her sides.

Emmy sighed, rubbing at her temple, but defended, “I did warn you—I told you that you resembled Maragaret—”

“Not that,” Rose said urgently, waving off that oddity. “You could have warned me that the MacRae laird was so scary. Christ, Emmy, I thought he was going to chew me up and spit me out.”

Emmy winced, showing her teeth. “He is frightening, isn’t he? Honestly, maybe I would have thought better against coming here if I knew him better. I met him for the first time days ago and then...well, it was Margaret’s funeral and he was silent, morose, so overcome with grief...” she hesitated, shrugging. “I offered perfunctory condolences and moved on.” Emmy’s eyes brightened and she held up her finger to make a point. “But, I will say this: Brody speaks very highly of him, has known him apparently forever, and would never do anything that would put me in danger, so I assure you, the man may look pretty brutal—he really does—but he is not dangerous.”

This brought Rose only a small measure of comfort, not enough to override every other twisting, negative emotion. She exhaled sharply, pacing the small room as frustration coiled tighter and tighter inside her chest. "Christ, Emmy, do you have any idea how insane this is?"

Emmy’s gaze was steady, but full of sympathy. "I do," she said simply. “Now.”

Rose let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do you? Because I don’t. None of this makes sense. None of it."

She ran her hand through her tangled hair, and then dropped onto the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her hands against her forehead. "This was a bad idea, coming here."

Emmy was quiet for a moment before she winced and said, “I think you’re right—looking at it now, in hindsight. I’m not sure what I expected, but...yeah, we shouldn’t have come.”

Rose let out a slow breath. “We’re not helping Margaret’s mother, by letting her think I’m her daughter.”

"I agree," Emmy continued, stepping closer, her voice softer now. "I’ll work harder at supper to purge those ideas from her head.”

Rose scoffed, finding it highly unlikely that Emmy would know any success in that endeavor. Nervously, she traced her forefinger over her scar.

“But Rose,” Emmy said next, “don’t you find it...odd? The reaction in the hall was enough to suggest to me that the resemblance is remarkable. The fact that you arrived—from another century!—on the very day Maragaret was buried...?”

“Yeah, it’s mindboggling,” Rose agreed. “But... I don’t know what to make of it, or what to do with it, or what it means. I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I’ve moved through time so I’m not sure I’m in any shape to tackle this...this problem.”

Emmy bit her lip, considering her, and then wondered, “Do you believe in fate? Though I don’t know for sure, I still contend that I was brought here to be with Brody.”

Of all the outlandish, implausible things...

"Oh, sure. Maybe I was sent here to fix something. That’s always how these stories go, right?"

"Maybe," Emmy said. "Or maybe you were sent here to find something. Or some one ."

Rose shot her a sharp look, unwilling to even give a moment’s thought to what Emmy was suggesting. " Oh, for the love of—just don’t. Please.”

Emmy gave a small, knowing smile but said nothing. She simply moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the latch. "Try to relax, rest if you can," she said gently. “I’ll make sure I return before supper, in case you need me to provide interference with Leana. But be patient with her, Rose. She is grieving.”

Rose nodded.

With that, Emmy left the chamber, closing the door softly behind her.

Alone now, Rose exhaled and let her shoulders slump, exhaustion sinking into her bones.

She wasn’t Margaret, she reminded herself.

And yet...

What did she know at this point? Nothing, it seemed.

Emotionally drained, Rose collapsed back onto the bed, staring at the uneven wooden beams above her, trying to quiet the storm in her head.

A knock came quickly, too quickly for Emmy to have gone far, so that Rose supposed it was her.

“Come in,” she called wearily, closing her eyes.

The door creaked open, but Emmy didn’t say anything immediately.

“I’m just closing my eyes for a minute,” Rose said, “trying to get rid of the image of MacRae’s scowl before it’s permanently burned in my brain.”

When Emmy made no reply, Rose knew an instant panic. She opened her eyes and tilted her head toward the entry and then gasped when she saw the MacRae himself filling the doorway. She sat up too quickly, the room briefly spinning before she forced herself steady. Her heart lurched, a sense of dread settling low in her stomach.

“I...I thought you were Emmy—Lady MacIntyre,” she said, her voice incredibly small.

The MacRae filled the doorframe, his broad shoulders nearly blocking out the dim light of the corridor beyond. He stepped inside without waiting for permission, his piercing blue gaze cutting straight to her, the door closing behind him with a dull thud.

“Clearly,” he said.

Rose gulped down a swallow and forced herself to stand, hoping her legs supported her. A wicked, wayward thought entered her head with an agonizing hopefulness. Now that she’d just insulted the hell out of him, would he banish her from Druimlach? Could she be that lucky?

He was as close as he’d been belowstairs, six feet away, but somehow, in the tiny chamber, he seemed even larger. She had known he was tall, but standing before him now, in the small confines of the chamber, she truly felt it—the sheer presence of him, and the unnerving weight of his severe scrutiny.

He did not speak right away.

For a long, unbearable moment, he only looked at her.

Rose forced herself to meet his gaze, though every nerve in her body screamed for her to lower her eyes, to fold inward, to make herself small beneath his stare. She didn’t, though. She wouldn’t. Still, she self-consciously ran her fingers through the hair falling over her chest, imagining her bed-flopping had done her no favors.

“I would have words with ye,” he finally said.

Rose nodded and lowered her hands. “I figured that much.”

Though he remained near the door, Rose had to fight the urge to retreat.

He studied her for another moment before speaking again, his voice rough, edged with warning.

"Who are ye truly?” He asked.

Actually, it was not so much a question as a demand for the truth.

Rose straightened her shoulders. “I told you—my name is Rose Carlisle.”

His jaw flexed. "And yet ye bear the face of a woman recently buried. Tell me, how does that come to be?"

Rose exhaled slowly, trying to control the frustration bubbling beneath her skin. “I don’t know, ” she admitted.

“Either ye lie or ye have...powers—ye are a witch. A sorceress?” He guessed.

Rose frowned now. “What? No, I’m not a witch.” She thrust her forefinger into her chest. “ I didn’t do this—move me through time. I didn’t...” she paused, waving her hand, searching, “ create me in the likeness of Margaret. I don’t even want to be here. I want to go home.” She watched his gaze narrow, making the ice-blue of his eyes more cutting. “Can I just tell you what happened to me?” She asked, again pointing to her chest. “What happened to bring me here—as much as I know, which isn’t... Can I just tell you and then maybe you’ll understand that I’m as confused as you are?”

Tiernan studied her for a long, suffocating moment before nodding.

But now with his permission—which implied his willingness to listen—Rose wasn’t quite sure how to begin. She actually had to explain two things, both of which were not going to be easy for this medieval man to believe: the future and time-travel.

His expectant stare, cool and seemingly unreceptive, didn’t make it any easier.

“Okay,” she said, lifting her hands as if to steady herself, her palms facing him. “Let’s start with the obvious. I’m not from here. And when I say here, I don’t just mean Druimlach. I mean Scotland. I mean this country, this century.”

She paused, watching for a reaction, but Tiernan simply tipped his head almost imperceptibly to the left, his gaze pinning her in place. That was not encouraging.

“I’m American,” she continued quickly, before he could interrupt. “The United States of America. It won’t exist for—God, I don’t even know how long—hundreds of years. That’s where I was born, that’s where I live. Or lived. It’s 1978 where I come from.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

Rose took that as a sign to barrel forward. “I was in Glasgow, at the university, working in the archives—studying history, your history, actually. That’s why I came to Scotland in the first place. I was just doing my job, minding my own business, going through some old documents, and then...” She hesitated, searching for words, struggling against the absurdity of it all. “Then something happened. I don’t know what. I was reading a journal, a woman’s journal, actually—oh, and her name, curiously was Margaret as well.”

His face darkened instantly.

Rose swallowed, pushing on. “And I don’t know how, or why, but suddenly everything around me changed. The lights sputtered, the pages shimmered, and then I—well, actually, I don’t know what happened. I think—or thought for a while—that I had blacked out. Only, I didn’t just lose consciousness, because when I came to, I wasn’t in the archive building anymore. I was outside. In the woods. In the middle of the night. Freezing.”

She took a steadying breath, watching as Tiernan’s jaw flexed. His expression was carved from stone, but his eyes were fierce, sharp, as if he was scrutinizing every word, every spark of emotion on her face.

A bit intimidated by his silence, by his devouring stare, Rose unconsciously lifted her finger and traced the familiar line of the scar on her cheek. “I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t even realize what had happened. I thought I’d passed out, maybe had some kind of episode, wandered off in a daze. It wasn’t until Emmy found me that I even knew—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Well, I didn’t know, I don’t know anything but what she told me must have happened. She said—as she mentioned earlier—that the same thing happened to her.” Lowering her hand, she fisted both her hands in the folds of her skirts. “It couldn’t have escaped your notice that Emmy and I sound a lot alike—the way we speak, I mean. We don’t sound like anyone here.”

His eyes narrowed again—it was very intimidating.

“And what did she tell ye?”

“That I had traveled through time.” Rose let out a breathless, humorless laugh. The unrelenting brutality of his stare was starting to wear on her. Her nerves were already shot, and the frostiness of his constant stare wasn’t helping. “I didn’t believe it either. It sounds insane! But then I started looking around—no cars, no roads, no electric lights. No modern anything.”

He stiffened, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Rose huffed. “And believe me, I’m only more confused now, after today, knowing that I look like some poor woman who just...died.” She winced, feeling awful for having mentioned that. She lifted her hand in appeal. “I’m very sorry, though, for your loss—obviously you loved her very much. And I’m very sorry for this intrusion, for doing this to you when your grief is obviously so fresh.” She shrugged weakly, feeling smaller and smaller with every moment.

For the first time, something flashed and shifted in his expression. But Rose could not say what it was.

“I didn’t want to come.” She didn’t want to blame Brody for their coming, but she thought it safe, reasonable even, to explain what he had said to her. “Mr. Mac—I mean Laird MacIntyre—said that it would be more...problematic if you maybe came to Dunmara sometime in the future and saw me, and then...well, I don’t know what now since you don’t believe I’m Margaret.” Quickly, she lifted both her hands, reminding him, “Not that I am Maragaret, or pretending to be.” Her shoulders sagged again. The whole thing was simply too impossible, either to explain or to understand. Rose rubbed the knuckle of her forefinger over her left eye. With a sigh, she reiterated, “I don’t know what happened or how it happened, sir. I don’t know why. I don’t know if it was something I did, or something that was done to me, or if it was just some cosmic accident. But I do know that I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. I was fine where I was.”

Tiernan’s gaze was still severe, but Rose could see something simmering beneath the surface. She thought—hoped, really—that his grip on implacable skepticism wasn’t quite as ironclad as it had been a few minutes ago.

Rose swallowed, her voice quieter now. “I just want to go home.”

Silence settled between them, heavy, tense.

“I dinna believe ye,” he said at length.

Later, she would think the low growl of his statement should have terrified her, but now, in the moment, she responded with what was instinctive and true. “I don’t blame you. Three days in, and I’m still struggling to believe it myself.” A bit annoyed now with...everything, Rose flapped her arms out, lifting them to chest height before dropping them back to her sides, all while saying, “Well, I’m not sure what more I can tell you, since that’s all I know anyway.” When he said nothing, she lost a little more of her patience—she was a victim here, too, as much as him, and what she now considered his purposeful intimidation of her was actually starting to piss her off more than it was frightening her.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she snapped, throwing up her hands again. “Do you enjoy this? The whole brooding, silent intimidation act? Because I have to say, it’s getting old.” She planted her hands on her hips, shifting her weight. “I get it—you don’t believe me, you’ve made that abundantly clear. But do you really think sitting there glowering at me is going to change anything? I told you the truth. You don’t have to like it, but stop acting like I’m a villain or... like I caused all this.”

One dark slash of a brow lifted over his right eye, but he said nothing.

Though her heart hammered wildly in her chest, Rose soldiered on. “You think you’re the only victim? The only one who’s pissed off? Do you think I chose to be here? Trust me, if I had the slightest clue how to fix this, I’d already be gone. But I don’t. And I sure as hell don’t need you staring at me like I’m some kind of criminal or... or science experiment.”

For a long, agonizing moment, he didn’t respond. The silence stretched, and Rose feared she’d gone too far. This wasn’t some debate with a random person in her time—this was his world, and she was standing in his castle, talking to a man who could probably snap her in half if he felt so inclined.

She swallowed hard, her bravado faltering just as he finally spoke.

“Then what am I to do with ye?”

The question was softer than she expected, laced with something that almost sounded like resignation.

Rose let out a sharp breath, her brows knitting again. “How should I know? Maybe...maybe we just chalk it up to one big mistake, and... I don’t know, forget it ever happened, that I was ever here.” Her stomach flipped a bit, wondering if that were actually possible for the man so tortuously grieving his beloved. “Tomorrow, I’ll be gone—I can skip supper tonight if you want. I’d rather not return to the hall anyway,” she said, thinking it wise to avoid any more of his heartless scrutiny, or that of Margaret’s father, or—maybe worse—more of Leana’s wishful thinking.

To her utter shock, he replied by saying, “Ye dinna look as if ye can afford to skip a meal.”

For a moment, Rose just stared at him, unsure if she’d heard correctly.

Had he just—was that an insult?

But then, as she searched his face, she faltered. His voice—though still gruff—had been the softest she’d heard from him yet, and something in his expression had shifted. He still looked cold-blooded, every inch the harsh and imposing Highland warrior, but there was no bite to his words this time. No sharp edge.

Was he...trying to be kind?

The thought sent a sudden, unexpected ache through her chest, and before she could stop it, her throat tightened. Oh, hell no. She was not about to cry in front of this man.

Briskly, she straightened her spine, forcing a quick breath through her nose. “Well then, if you’re done interrogating me about something I had nothing to do with,” she said, lifting her chin, “then you can go. I need to lie down before supper.”

His brows lifted slightly, as if surprised by the sudden dismissal.

She waved a hand toward the door, barely holding onto her already fractured composure. “Please. Feel free to brood elsewhere.”

He nodded and subjected her to one more lingering perusal, his gaze seeming to trace specifically over her scar, before he finally gave a slow nod and turned toward the door.

“I expect to see ye at supper,” he said, turning back to her when he’d reached the door.

Rose nodded stiffly, holding her breath as he stepped out of the room, only exhaling when the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, she pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing away the stinging threat of tears.

God. What was wrong with her?

She wasn’t even sure who she was angrier with—him for suddenly seeming almost human, or herself for being moved by it.