Page 7 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)
The food was very good, but Rose could hardly enjoy it for all the wary and watchful gazes attuned to her.
She had been stared at before—she had gone to a high school with over a thousand students, where the halls were crowded with some really mean kids, whose eyes lingered unabashed on her face, on the jagged scar running from the edge of her nose to her ear. She had known the weight of scrutiny, of whispers behind cupped hands, of eyes darting away just a second too late. She had endured the awkward, lingering glances from teachers and students alike trying not to look at her scar, their expressions often twisted not with sympathy, but with discomfort. Disgust, even.
But this? This was something else entirely.
This wasn’t pity or fleeting curiosity.
These people weren’t merely curious—they were unnerved . As if her very presence unsettled the natural order of things. As if she was wrong , an eerie distortion of someone they had lost.
Rose swallowed hard, shifting in her seat, resisting the urge to lift a hand and cover the mark. She had long since stopped caring about her scar—or so she’d thought. But there was something about the way they looked at her now, something about the silent, creeping revulsion in their stares, that made her stomach twist.
Like she was something broken—or dangerous.
Something unnatural .
She saw distrust and unease in their gazes, maybe even superstitious worry—a dangerous thing in this century, she knew well enough.
The great hall of Druimlach—far larger than Dunmara—was crowded, filled to capacity with men, women, and children— people who all, in some way, belonged to clan MacRae. Unlike Brody’s estate, which had felt more like a tightly knit stronghold, Druimlach was a dominion, a force unto itself.
Rose sat beside Emmy at the end of the long head table, as far from the laird as possible, who occupied the high-backed chair at the center. Thankfully, Margaret’s mother, Leana, was seated on the opposite side of the table, giving Rose a much-needed respite from her cloying, wishful attention. The woman had come to her chamber earlier, as promised, her arms laden with gowns that had belonged to her dead daughter. Rose had been taken aback, unnerved by the offering, and for the briefest moment, a macabre thought had struck her— were they still warm? Before she could decide how to respond, Emmy had arrived—thank God for Emmy—intercepting the awkward moment with her usual ease. She had waved off Leana’s insistence, declaring that Rose’s léine and kirtle were fine for supper.
“My lady, I presume you want to keep and cherish those things for yourself,” Emmy had said pointedly, beginning her campaign to dissuade the woman from believing Rose was Margaret, “and not give them away to a perfect stranger.”
Awkward, but effective, Rose had decided at the moment.
Now, however, she wondered briefly if her placement so far from the laird was deliberate. Likely, she presumed, but could hardly blame him.
Still, she could feel him from here, could sense the presence of him without needing to look—though she did, hardly able to help herself. She was as intrigued by the man as she was intimidated, and had a suspicion of her own, that if she so much as breathed wrong, he would hear it.
The laird of Druimlach sat at the center of the table, slightly turned in profile, the sharp lines of his face captured in shifting light and shadows from the dozens of candles overhead. His jaw was set, his expression dark as he listened to Margaret’s father, who sat beside him and bent his ear now.
Her gaze drifted to his hand. His right arm was extended out onto the table, his fingers wrapped around an ornate silver chalice. Furtively, she studied his hand, which was large and strong and seemed highly capable of wielding a sword with devastating efficiency.
For a moment, the historian in her took over, concentrating on the chalice itself. The craftsmanship was exquisite—old, very old. Even from this distance, she could see the intricate Celtic knotwork engraved along the base, the polished gleam of well-worn silver. A piece like that wouldn’t have been common among Highland lairds. Was it an heirloom? Had it belonged to his father, his grandfather before him? She found herself wondering how many men before Laird MacRae had sat in this hall, drinking from that same cup, their fates woven into the threads of history, having no idea that centuries later, someone like her would be studying this era, this castle perhaps, this moment.
Her gaze and her attention shifted back to his hand—the way his fingers flexed, tightening slightly around the chalice’s thick stem. Outwardly, he seemed at ease, listening intently to Margaret’s father, offering the occasional nod or murmured response. But his grip told a different story. The subtle clench of his fingers, the way they curled and uncurled around the polished silver, betrayed something simmering beneath the surface. Agitation or restraint, Rose guessed, deciding whatever it was, it was held in check by sheer will, a formidable control.
“You’re staring,” Emmy murmured, nudging her lightly.
Rose blinked, snapping her gaze away from his hand. “I wasn’t staring.”
Emmy smirked. “You were.”
Rose sighed, her cheeks heating with a guilty flush, and shifted in her seat as she picked up her wooden spoon. The food was simple but filling—roasted lamb, barley bread, poached salmon with leeks, onions, and herbs, soft cheeses, all laid out on heavy wooden platters.
“I still can’t believe it,” she reflected to Emmy.
Emmy arched a brow, tearing a piece of bread in half. “Which part?”
Rose exhaled, picking up a piece of soft cheese. “This, everything” she said finally. “That I’m here. That I’m sitting in a medieval hall, eating a meal prepared in a medieval kitchen, surrounded by people who—” She lowered her voice, shaking her head slightly “who aren’t just people in history books.”
Emmy nodded immediately. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s surreal.”
Rose glanced at her. “It’s incredible,” she corrected. “
“I feel like you have a leg up on me,” Emmy said, “being that you are a budding historian. I had no clue about...well, about anything in this time. The adjustment curve was long and harsh. I grew up in New York City, Rose—in the twenty-first century. New York City,” she repeated. “I had air-conditioning, television, a blow-dryer, instant everything —a toilet and shower!” She shook her head. “I was horrified to find myself in a time where chamber pots were still a thing.”
Rose let out a short laugh, though it faded quickly as she looked back out over the hall, catching yet more gazes aimed her way. She tried to ignore them.
“I studied this,” she said quietly. “I spent years buried in textbooks, and recently, in old texts, piecing together what life might have been like.” She shook her head, almost in disbelief. “But living it? Wow. It’s different. So much more than I ever imagined.”
Emmy nodded knowingly. “Aye, lass.”
Rose shot her a look.
Emmy grinned, breaking off another piece of bread. “What? When in Rome...”
Rose grinned and was about to make a reply when a voice—loud and bold—cut through the din of the hall.
“If she’s nae a ghost, then what is she?”
Rose jerked her eyes up, scanning over the hall until she found the speaker, a man standing at one of the farthest tables, a rough-looking peasant with broad shoulders and a large nose bent so awkwardly that Rose had to imagine it had been broken more than once. The tone of his voice perfectly reflected everything she’d seen in the hall this evening, fear, suspicion, and accusation.
A new wave of louder whispers rippled outward, as if his words had given voice to the thoughts of many.
Rose’s fingers tightened around the bread she’d just picked up, her appetite entirely gone. She felt all the blood leave her face with a hundred stares now aimed at her all at once.
The man who’d voiced the question, however, wasn’t looking at her, but at the center of the table.
Rose followed his gaze, her heart banging, to where the MacRae sat.
She watched as slowly, deliberately, he set his goblet down with a muted thud.
The hall hushed completely as he pushed back his chair, rising to his full height. The weight of his gaze moved over the gathered clans folk, lingering on no one and yet cutting through them all.
When he spoke, his voice was not loud, but it did not need to be.
“I ken there are questions,” he said, his voice even but edged with authority. “I ken there are whispers.” His eyes flashed briefly to Margaret’s father, before sweeping the hall once more. “I will tell ye this once, and I expect it to be heeded. She is a woman—naught more,” he continued, his words carefully measured, though his irritation was undeniable. “And any fool who speaks otherwise may take their leave of Druimlach this very night, never to return.” Without once glancing at Rose, he went on, “The woman who arrived today is nae Margaret,” he said bluntly, “she simply happens to... bear a striking resemblance to her. She is a guest, under my protection, and will be treated as such.” His gaze hardened, daring anyone to challenge him. “I dinna pretend to ken why she resembles my late betrothed, nor do I care for foolish talk of omens or spirits.”
A murmur rippled through the hall, uneasy but subdued beneath his glacial stare.
“She is flesh and blood, nae some specter returned,” he continued, his voice cutting through the murmurs like steel. “And I’ll hear nae more of it. She will stay for a time, and in that time, she is to be given the same courtesy afforded any guest beneath this roof.” His jaw tightened as he let that settle. “I trust I will nae need to repeat myself.”
The weight of the warning hung heavily in the air.
A long pause followed, the crowd shifting uneasily under his scrutiny.
And then, as if satisfied that his word would be obeyed, he sat down once more, reaching for his goblet as though the matter were settled.
The room exhaled, a return to forced normalcy, conversations now made in cautious tones.
Rose, however, felt her stomach twist. That had been no defense of her —it had been a dismissal, a rejection of the very idea of her significance. She was nothing. And yet, even as she told herself she shouldn’t care, even as she forced herself to take another bite of her meal while the heat in her chest threatened to consume her, she felt as if more stares were fixed on her than before.
While she agreed it definitely had been needed to be addressed, she wasn’t certain his cold, hard executive order had done much to quell the unease in the room. If anything, his forceful declaration had only deepened the whispers, shifting their tone from awed speculation further toward wary uncertainty.
She swallowed down another bite, though it suddenly felt like sawdust in her mouth. The MacRae had not spoken for her sake—he had spoken to dispel her. She felt as if he’d only intended to make it clear that she was nothing more than an oddity, an inconvenience, a thing that had to be tolerated until it could be explained.
She lowered her gaze to her trencher, focusing on her meal with forced determination, reminding herself that it didn’t matter what the MacRae thought of her—it didn’t matter what anyone here thought of her.
She just had to survive this night.
***
When supper was finally done, the murmurs of conversation dwindling and the hall clearing—the laird himself had departed nearly a quarter hour ago—Emmy stood and waited for Rose, no doubt intending to escort her to her chamber.
Rose stood but hesitated. “Would you mind if I stepped outside for a moment?” she asked, keeping her voice low. “Before I retire?”
“Sure, I’ll come with you,” Emmy offered politely.
Rose shook her head. “No, I just need a few minutes alone.” She allowed her gaze to be a bit pleading.
Emmy nodded reluctantly, though with understanding. “All right. But don’t stay out too long—and don’t go outside the gates”
With that, Emmy gave her a parting squeeze on the arm and turned toward the stairs, leaving Rose to slip quietly out of the hall.
The air outside Druimlach’s hall was crisp, the last remnants of daylight clinging to the sky in streaks of pale gray and muted gold. Rose exhaled, wrapping her arms around herself as she stepped into the courtyard, wishing almost immediately that she’d fetched her borrowed cloak.
She had no intention of wandering far. She only wanted a few minutes of solitude, a brief escape from the watchful eyes and the suffocating tension of the keep. She also needed air—fresh air, not the stale, smoke-tinged, grease-laden air of the hall, thick with the unwashed bodies of men who had spent the day training or working. She needed to fill her lungs with something clean.
She needed just a moment to breathe.
The courtyard was still active despite the creeping twilight, the last of the evening’s movement winding down. A handful of people, villagers who had lingered over their meal, filtered out through the gates, heading back to their homes beyond the castle walls. A group of soldiers stood near the entrance to the barracks, speaking in low voices. Above, along the curtain wall, more men paced slowly, silhouetted against the dusky sky, their movements steady and practiced as they kept watch over the land beyond Druimlach’s borders.
Trying determinedly to push away the lingering unease from supper, Rose focused on something Emmy had said, almost when she first arrived. She’d told her she’d gone back to her own time, proving that it was possible to go back. It hadn’t registered immediately with Rose, but she’d thought about it since, and it had subsequently offered her some relief, and admittedly, some expectation. At the time, she had been too overwhelmed to fully process the meaning behind Emmy’s words, but now, the thought brought a sliver of relief, a spark of hope.
She still strove to believe any of this was real—the impossible shift through time, the medieval world in which she was now immersed, and the wary stares and hushed whispers that followed her through Druimlach’s halls that she fervently wished were not part of this most incredible...adventure.
Of course, she wanted to go home—her life was in 1978. Her studies, her ambitions, the world she understood—it was all waiting for her. If Emmy had gone back, then surely, Rose could, too.
And yet...
A small voice whispered in the back of her mind. How could you walk away from this?
For all the terror, the disorientation, the aching need for something familiar, there was another feeling, one that had been growing steadily beneath the fear—fascination.
She had spent years studying this world, piecing it together through manuscripts, artifacts, the pages of history books written by scholars who had only ever imagined what it was like to live in this time.
And now, she was here.
This was history, living and breathing all around her. The sights, the sounds—the way the air smelled of peat smoke and damp earth, the rough-hewn stone of the castle walls, always cool beneath her fingertips, the shift of heavy woolen fabric against her skin, the fluid blend of Gaelic and Scots slipping from the tongues of those around her when they’re heavily accented English wasn’t being spoken. These were the details books could never fully capture, the things historians could only guess at. The scholar in her thrummed with something dangerously close to hunger.
If she stayed—just for a little while, just long enough to understand—what could it mean for her studies? For the study of history as a whole? If she could record this, if she could document what life had actually been like, down to the smallest, most personal detail, it would change everything.
Her future, the one waiting for her back in 1978, could be forever altered by what she learned here.
The thought had niggled at the back of her mind for days.
She understood that she had no safety net, no guarantee that she would find a way back, and no certainty that what had worked for Emmy would work for her. But she wondered if—for now—she should embrace what had been given to her.
A man departing the yard waved and called something to the soldiers standing near the barracks, breaking through Rose’s thoughts, and pulling the gazes of those soldiers outside their circle. Something was called out in return, and then one of the soldiers noticed Rose meandering aimlessly around the yard.
There were four of them, all clad in the plaids and tunics of MacRae’s men, their builds sturdy, their faces lined with the roughness of hard labor and war. One leaned lazily against the wooden door of the barracks, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he took her in, the interest in his gaze making Rose instantly uneasy. Another, a younger man with a sharp jaw and an even sharper grin, nudged his companion and murmured something under his breath, which earned a quiet chuckle.
Rose slowed her steps. Instinct told her to turn back toward the keep, to remove herself from their scrutiny. She began to move toward the entrance to the hall.
The man pushed away from the barracks’ door and began walking toward her, his narrowed gaze shifting over her in a way that made her stomach tighten. His companions trailed in his shadow, moving beyond the keep’s door, cutting off Rose’s escape.
Rose took a breath, steeled herself, and inclined her head politely. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Well now,” said the man who led the advance, so to speak, “Ye’ve an accent I’ve nae heard before.”
Rose forced a small, pleasant smile. “I imagine not.”
His gaze swept over her, assessing, neither kind or unkind. “Ye’re the one, then. The lass who shouldnae be here.”
Rose stiffened. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Geez, hadn’t the MacRae just said at dinner he didn’t want this?
The younger soldier took a step forward, his grin widening. “Aye, ye ken what Malcolm means. They say ye walked out o’ the grave and into the hall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said evenly.
The one called Malcolm shrugged. “Aye, maybe. But my mam used to tell me a thing or two about spirits, about women who could slip into a body that wasnae their own. She said if there was ever a question of whether a woman was a ghost or a witch, there were ways to be sure.”
Rose’s fingers curled into the fabric of Emmy’s cloak. “Did she?”
Malcolm’s grin didn’t waver. “Some say ye can drown a witch, but if she lives, she’s a spirit.” His bully’s grin turned up a notch. “And then, o’ course, she’d need to be... put down.”
Another soldier, broader in the chest and with pocked cheeks, cut in, rubbing his chin. “I’ve heard ye can burn the tip of a dagger and press it deep into her flesh. If she feels it, she’s flesh and blood. If she doesnae...” His gaze flicked over her, his meaning clear.
Rose stiffened. “That’s barbaric.”
The youngest soldier, the one with the sharp jaw and crooked smirk, snickered. “Oh, aye? Some say witches canna say the Lord’s Prayer. Shall we test ye, lass? Have ye recite it for us?”
A ripple of amusement passed between the men.
Rose’s pulse picked up speed. “I don’t owe you any kind of proof.” She moved, stepping sideways, meaning to move around them, get away. They weren’t just being superstitious. They were toying with her. It was bullying, plain and simple. And she felt it had begun to take on a serious, dangerous undertone.
Malcolm shook his head and side-stepped, cutting off her retreat. “The way I see it, if ye’re truly nae a ghost, and nae a witch, ye do need to prove it.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but then the youngest soldier’s gaze flicked to her cheek. His expression darkened, his smirk turning ugly.
“What about that mark of yers?” he asked coldly. “Ye get that from yer last witch trial?”
The others chuckled, the sounds mean, reminding her of high school.
Rose’s stomach turned, her breath unsteady despite her best efforts to pretend she was unaffected. Her fingers clenched at her sides, but she forced herself to stand taller. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Once again, she tried to skirt around them, only to have them shift—all of them this time—preventing her from leaving.
“That’s enough.”
The voice came from behind them, near the shadows of the open gate, low and edged with unmistakable authority.
The men stiffened. Rose turned.
The MacRae laird stomped toward them, his heavy cloak shifting slightly in the wind. He called out loudly, “James!” The sound echoed through the bailey.
For all his size, he moved with the deliberate, effortless grace of a predator—a wolf among lesser creatures, seeming to know exactly how much strength to use at all times.
His piercing blue gaze locked onto the men, angry, unforgiving.
“I believe I made myself clear at supper,” he growled before he reached them. “Lady Rose is a guest of this house, and she is to be treated as such.” His gaze swept over the group as he stopped directly next to Rose, facing his men. “And yet, here I find ye, flouting my word, subjecting our guest to intimidation.”
The youngest soldier blanched, shifting uncomfortably. “We meant nae harm, Laird.”
Tiernan didn’t so much as blink. “Did ye nae?”
The biggest bully, Malcolm, unsurprisingly, remained silent, averting his gaze from the man far more powerful, stronger than he.
Another of the bullies attempted to appease his laird, stumbling through some outright lie about “trying to get to know their guest.”
The barracks door swung open, and a man—James, Rose presumed—stepped outside, dressed only in his tunic, trews, and unlaced boots, his belt and the attached sword in his hand.
“Laird?” He questioned, taking in the frozen scene as he reached them, his gaze sweeping over Rose just as it had the four young soldiers.
Tiernan’s gaze never left the men before him. “It seems there’s been a lapse in discipline.”
James made an angry face and cuffed Malcolm on the side of the head. “What’d ye do now?”
Malcolm ducked and winced at the blow but said nothing.
“Captain, see that they’re punished,” Tiernan stated flatly. “Something severe, befitting the crime—direct disobedience of an order given. If it happens again, we’ll revisit the matter.”
Malcolm’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. The others stood rigid, their backs stiff with tension.
Looking more animatedly annoyed than his laird, James latched his meaty fist onto Malcolm’s arm and dragged him away. The other three scurried to follow, their boots crunching against the dirt as they went quickly toward the barracks.
Only when they were gone did Rose exhale.
She turned to the Macrae, about to thank him for his intervention.
But he spoke first, his voice low, edged with frustration. “Do ye not have enough sense to keep from wanderin’ alone? At night?”
Rose stiffened, heat flaring in her chest. As if this was her fault!
She shot back, “Maybe you should concern yourself less with where I go and more with what your men are doing. Clearly, heeding their commander’s directive is not what they’re doing.”
“I will handle my men,” he clipped. “But if ye ken ye can walk unguarded without consequence, ye’re a fool. Do I now have to be watchful of ye as well?”
Her pulse, annoyingly, skipped. Christ, that was the last thing she needed or wanted. “I didn’t ask for your protection.”
Tiernan’s jaw flexed, but his voice was softer than she expected when he replied. “Ye have it all the same.” He hooked his thumb toward the keep. “Go on inside ere ye attract any more unwanted attention.”
With a quiet, controlled huff, and then thinning her lips, Rose marched around him and did as he ordered.
What a jerk!