Page 8 of Here in Your Arms (Far From Home: A Scottish Time-Travel Romance #10)

“You have to get me out of here,” Rose whispered furiously, gripping Emmy’s arm as she found her in the corridor near their chambers. “I can’t take another second of Leana’s—her hovering, her fussing—she just tried to comb my hair, Emmy. With Margaret’s comb .”

Emmy barely stifled a laugh, her lips twitching. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry, Rose.”

“I can’t take it,” Rose muttered. “She barely left my side all morning. She watched me eat like I might choke. And then the questions—God, the questions. Asking me if I remember things from my youth—Margaret’s youth. If I recall the old willow that used to stand near the river, the one she swears I used to play beneath. If I still favor sweet oatcakes over honeyed ones. If I remember the summer spent on Skye, the year before I— Margaret ,” she growled, “was sent away—wherever. She asked about the locket I used to wear,” she continued, “and when I told her I didn’t know what she was talking about, that I wasn’t Margaret, she just smiled like she was humoring a child and said, ‘It will come back to you in time.’”

“She means well,” Emmy said, but her expression suggested even she didn’t believe that.

“She means to drive me insane.”

“She’s obviously struggling with her daughter’s death.”

As if Rose needed to be reminded. “I understand that. But beyond annoying and really sad, it’s beginning to get creepy.”

Emmy made a face that clearly sympathized with Rose’s circumstance regarding Leana. “Go. Get lost somewhere. I’ll run interference.”

“Thank you.”

Emmy nodded and motioned toward the far side of the corridor. “Use the back stairs to the back door near the kitchen. But don’t go beyond the gates.”

Rose made a vague sound of agreement, already slipping away, her heart lightening with every step. She just needed air, needed space, needed a moment where no one looked at her like a ghost or an omen—something she’d tried to have last night, without success.

She wouldn’t go far. Just enough to breathe.

The corridor was dim, the uneven stone beneath her feet cool as she hurried toward the rear stairs. She rounded a corner, flattening herself against the wall as two servants passed, their chatter easy and unburdened—so unlike the hushed, heavy silences that fell whenever she entered a room. She pressed on, descending the stairs quickly, her skirts catching on the steps until she remembered to lift them out of the way. A single twist through another passage, and she’d reached the small back door leading to the bailey.

The moment she stepped outside, the steady, rhythmic thudding of fabric against wood filled the air, accompanied by a beat-driven chant.

Instantly, Rose recognized the sound as a waulking song.

Rose had read an entire book on the practice once—some deep dive during a college seminar on Scottish traditions. She remembered the descriptions of the long wooden tables, the thick, damp wool being passed between many hands, the rhythmic beating to shrink and soften the fibers. The songs, always sung in call-and-response, helped the women keep time, making the labor easier.

And here it was, happening before her, as she’d never seen but exactly as she had imagined.

A dozen women sat at a long table, their sleeves rolled high, hands striking the cloth in unison. The lead singer’s voice rang out, rich and sure, calling the first line in old Gaelic. The others answered in harmony, the melody rising and falling like the sea, the thud of fabric against wood keeping perfect rhythm.

For a moment, Rose almost forgot herself, hypnotized by the music, sounds from another world.

Then the song faltered.

Not all at once, but unevenly, one faltering and dropping out and then another. Some of the women kept singing, some kept working, their hands never pausing. But some, several older ones with sharp eyes, went still.

Rose felt their gazes like pinpricks on her skin. The singing thinned further, voices hesitating, until, finally, it faded entirely. Then the whispering began.

Rose’s Gaelic was not very good, but she could understand some of it and filled in the rest by context.

Looks just like her.

A trick of the Devil, sure as I’m sitting here.

Rose clenched her jaw and forced herself to move, and that’s when she noticed the postern gate, standing slightly ajar, revealing the world beyond the walls. A breath of wind curled through, crisp with the scent of the forest.

Taking that as a much-needed invitation, she ignored the silent women completely and slipped through without another thought.

A narrow, well-worn path stretched ahead, just beyond the gate, leading toward what appeared to be another, smaller village below. She hesitated, considering it, but even from here, she could see and hear the distant sounds of daily life—cart wheels clattering over stone, a burst of shrill laughter of children, a group of men out in the fields, laboring over a medieval plough. Reluctant to invite yet more scrutiny by people who hadn’t yet been very kind, Rose turned her gaze to the right, catching sight of something at the base of a distant slope.

A wide, trampled stretch of land teemed with movement. Helmeted and armed men moved in groups, some sparring, others drilling in formation. Swords clashed, shields met with resounding force, the rhythm of discipline and combat filling the air. The MacRae army, sharpening their skills upon a training field, apparently.

Her eyes instinctively searched the ranks for him.

But the MacRae laird wasn’t there.

But she knew she didn’t want to head in that direction, either. The energy there was raw, brimming with purpose, a reminder that this was not some peaceful keep tucked away in the Highlands—this was a stronghold preparing for the next phase of war.

On her second night at Dunmara, Emmy had filled her in on where things stood. Rose had, of course, known about the war, but not how it affected the Highlands, not the details of this particular year, this particular season. Emmy had admitted that, early on in her time here, she’d decided she had no business telling Brody what lay ahead—what he should expect, what he should fear. The only thing she’d ever told him was that, in the end, Scotland would win its freedom.

Emmy hadn’t told her husband—or anyone—that four hundred years later, Scotland and England would reunite under one crown, becoming part of Great Britain. That the wars fought now, the sacrifices made, the blood spilled, would one day be folded into the pages of history as a prelude to an eventual union. And maybe that was for the best. What good would it do to tell them that freedom wouldn’t last? That their descendants, after generations of fighting to break free from England, would one day choose to join with it? Some truths were too cruel, too far away to mean anything in a world where war was not history, but reality.

Turning away from the field, she scanned the landscape for another option. To her left, the land sloped and turned gently down toward the other village. To her right, a narrower path curled toward a small stand of trees, just thick enough to promise cover, just empty enough to be pleasantly unpeopled.

She chose the trees.

The moment she stepped beneath the canopy, almost all outside man-made noise faded. She walked aimlessly, simply relishing the freedom. She made note of the sun, how it filtered through the branches, dappling the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. The trees here were tall and straight, their lowest branches well above her head, creating an open, airy expanse rather than a dense thicket. She could see far between the trunks, where the land sloped gently downward, the earth soft and rich with the scent of new growth.

The woodland, unfortunately, was interrupted far too often by open fields, some meant for grazing cattle and sheep, and many for crops, a few of them having been ploughed already for spring planting.

When she found a stretch of open land that seemed to belong to neither animals or crops, she headed in that direction, eventually meandering over one hill and then another, each of which rolled in undisturbed waves beneath the cool blue of the spring sky. It was breathtaking, the kind of landscape that belonged in oil paintings and storybooks.

She walked for what felt like an hour, though she had no real way of telling. The countryside was endless, stretching beyond her vision, the sky wide and bright above her. Inside the trees, she’d lamented that she’d not thought to grab her cloak before departing the keep, but out here, under a wide open sky and gentle sun, she didn’t feel so cold, even as a slight breeze regularly lifted her hair off her shoulders or blew it straight across her face.

She stopped at one point and planted her hands on her hips, glancing around, grinning at the urge to break into song, ala Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music . However, there was no music here.

But there was, suddenly, another noise.

A sharp neigh tore through the silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the ground with force.

Rose froze, her eyes searching the horizon in every direction. A massive horse came galloping into view, emerging from another grove of trees. The animal wore a saddle but had no rider. She froze as the huge beast barreled straight at her, and then flinched when it whizzed by, within only a few feet.

A ripple of concern swept over her, wondering if someone had been thrown, and might be in need of assistance.

Truth be told, she did hesitate for a moment before searching to see if this might be true, considering the very distinct unwelcome she’d received at Druimlach. Seriously, would anyone here truly want her—the ghost, the witch— to witness their humiliation, being thrown from a horse? And if they were hurt, would they even accept her help?

Setting aside her own personal frustration with Druimlach and nearly everyone she’d met here, Rose picked up her skirts and hurried toward the trees.

If there is someone injured , she thought, I hope he or she is at least a nice person.

She hadn’t gone far into the trees when she came to a sudden halt.

It was the MacRae laird himself. She found him sprawled across the damp ground, one arm braced beneath him as he slowly pushed himself upright, wincing as he did so. His hair was tousled, the elbow of his tunic streaked with dirt. His heavy plaid lay rumpled around his broad frame, and yet, even disheveled and sitting in the mud, he looked no less imposing.

Possibly, he hadn’t heard her approach. In the midst of another grimace—his face twisted briefly in pain—he happened to catch sight of her. Surprise flashed across his features.

Rose inhaled sharply and took a few hurried steps forward. “Are you—” she began, then stopped short, her gaze catching on the stain of blood seeping through the sleeve of his tunic. Her eyes widened.

He shifted, moving to stand, rising slowly to his feet. The muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed with the effort, his broad frame coiling with tension. And yet now, his face showed no hint of either pain or discomfort.

A moment ago, when he’d thought himself alone, she’d watched a raw wince overtake his features. Now, under her gaze, he locked it away, his expression carefully controlled, his jaw set.

Very curious, she thought.

“You’re hurt,” she said, a bit concerned by what had seemed a large pool of blood on his sleeve. But now, as he stood and nearly faced her, she had no clear view to the back of his arm.

He barely spared her a glance. “Tis naught.”

Rose frowned. “It’s bleeding.”

“Aye, and I’ve bled before.”

She let out a slow, disbelieving breath. She might have admired the sheer, unshakable strength of him if he weren’t also so unbearably impossible—and if she’d not been witness to his earlier, unguarded grimacing.

He took a step forward and faltered slightly.

A sharp inhale escaped her. “You’re limping.”

He exhaled, long and slow, as though she were testing every last shred of patience he had. “I am aware of that as well, but I appreciate you chronicling the trouble that has befallen me.”

Now, she gasped not in concern but in outright offense. Her mouth snapped shut, her spine stiffening.

Well! That was unnecessary.

As quickly as it had surfaced, her indignation cooled. She wondered if his sharpness had nothing to do with her at all. Perhaps it was embarrassment that soured his tone, the sting of wounded pride more painful than the injuries he refused to acknowledge. Here he was, thrown from his horse and struggling to walk, with her of all people as witness.

She hesitated, walking as he limped awkwardly several more steps, grimacing for him since he refused to now.

A jangling noise drew her attention and she pivoted, spotting his horse, returned to the woods but dozens of yards away, though moving closer, ambling slowly as if he had nowhere to be. Maybe he was afraid now to approach, suspecting his master’s wrath?

I don’t blame you , she thought.

“Should I... try to catch it?” Rose ventured.

“Leave him.”

But she had already begun moving toward the horse, stepping carefully over exposed roots and rocks half-buried in the earth. When she got closer, she extended her arms and clicked her tongue, hoping the big horse would prove a gentle and accommodating beast.

The MacRae laird hollered her name at that moment. “Rose! He’ll nae—"

The horse snorted loudly and bolted.

Rose let out a frustrated sound, and sighed, returning to the laird, who—rudely, she thought—had continued limping forward, making his way out of the trees.

She moved after him, quickening her steps to catch up. And she saw now, for the first time, the source of the blood on his sleeve. Her breath caught, the sight horrific to her mind.

Jutting through the back of his sleeve, on the back of his arm, was a broken branch, nearly half an inch thick and at least three inches long. The end of it was jagged, freshly snapped, the raw wood stark against the dark fabric of his tunic. Rose guessed that it wasn’t just tangled in the cloth, but that it was embedded in him.

A sharp gasp tore from her lips. Good God. The damn thing had driven straight into his arm!

“Stop,” she blurted, her voice higher than she intended. “MacRae—stop. Is that...attached to you?”

He didn’t stop of course, but threw casually over his shoulder, “Aye.”

Great balls of fire, the man was stubborn!

Rose rushed ahead and stood in his path, facing him, forcing him to stop—or mow her down.

He paused and rolled his head and neck, his mouth compressing into harsh lines as he lowered his face and glared at her impatiently.

“Shouldn’t we do something? Should I go for help?” She asked, brushing her windblown hair from her face.

“Lass, I am going for help,” he growled. “Go on, run ahead if ye must. I’ll be right behind ye.”

Stricken once again by his harshness, Rose gaped wordlessly at him and took a step back.

He raised one brow, as if to ask, Well, what are you going to do? Or maybe he simply wanted her out of his way completely.

Rose stepped aside, lifting her chin. “Very well. Good luck with that, sir.” And she took one step—in the opposite direction he was going.

His gaze sharpened instantly. “Nae ye dinna.”

Directly at his side, she lifted a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Already ye are too far from the keep. Ye’ll return with me.” His voice was sharp, edged with quiet warning.

Her blood boiling—he seemed to do that to her, with relative ease and annoying frequency—she shifted her gaze to the grotesque wound in his arm. “I think I’ll be fine. I seem to have fared better than you, so...”

His expression darkened. “And I ken ye dinna listen to a word I said yesterday, wandering unescorted as ye apparently are.”

Another frown knitted her brow. “What? Am I a prisoner? To be jailed inside your house?”

To her chagrin, he rolled his eyes at this, and his expression, when he fastened it on her, could have easily been interpreted as a man annoyed by a woman’s ‘drama’.

“I just needed to...escape,” she said after a moment, hoping it would put the matter to rest, and allow her to carry on as she’d been—alone.

“Escape? From what?” He questioned, his countenance darkening again.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, knowing he did need to return to the keep and have the frightening wound tended. “You should get—”

“Escape from what?” He persisted.

Annoyed at his perseverance, she huffed vocally. “From Margaret’s mother, if you must know.”

Tiernan’s jaw flexed slightly. His response was slow in coming, following that same cool, assessing stare she’d met before. “She overwhelms ye,” he said at last, more a statement than a question.

Rose sighed, shifting on her feet, giving a brief nod of her head. She lifted her face and met his perpetually stormy blue eyes. “I just... I don’t want to...to encourage her, thinking I’m someone I’m not.”

He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice, though it was still tinged with his own version of distrust. “And who are ye, Rose Carlisle?”

Rose paused and stared at him, at the severe, brutally handsome man before her, recalling his words of last night, the ones given to the crowd in the hall.

She wet her lips and pulled more of her hair away from her face. “I’m no one. Just a girl...lost in time.”

He inclined his head a bit, considering this, and then, saying nothing, turned, walking with a slow, measured stride, his limp still pronounced but ignored. “C’mon, then. Back to the keep.”

Rose sighed, falling into step beside him, feeling as if she had little choice. If he didn’t stand and argue about it now, she’d likely hear about it later.

The walk back to the keep would be long, she knew, the rolling hills once again stretching before her them in an endless expanse of green and gold. They walked in silence, the only sounds the very distant bleating of sheep and the rhythmic swish of her skirts through the grass and the stomp of his feet.

Rose stole a glance at the MacRae laird, who strode beside her with steady purpose, his limp noticeable but not debilitating. He moved as though he refused to acknowledge the pain, shoulders squared, mouth pressed in its usual firm, disgruntled line. If the silence was uncomfortable, he didn’t seem to notice.

Then again, maybe it was only uncomfortable for her.

Her hand moved to her cheek, idly following the line of her scar, nervously debating whether to break the silence or let it stretch on indefinitely, or until they reached the keep. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who indulged in idle conversation.

But then, to her surprise, he spoke first.

“The United States,” he said, his voice cutting through the still air. “Ye said ye were born there.”

Rose blinked, caught off guard, focusing briefly on the way he pronounced ‘united’. He pronounced it oddly, hitting the ‘U’ hard— U-nited .

Of all the things he could have asked or said, she hadn’t expected that. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “It’s... far from here. Across the ocean.”

Tiernan’s gaze flicked toward her, skeptical. “There is naught but water across the sea.”

She exhaled, already sensing how this was going to go. “That’s what people here believe, but it isn’t true. There’s an entire continent—an entire world—that hasn’t been discovered yet. At least... not by anyone in this...time.”

He cast her a sideways glance, and though his expression barely changed, she could see the doubt in his eyes.

“Ye would have me believe there are lands beyond the sea, filled with people nae man here has ever laid eyes upon?”

“Well, frankly, you can believe whatever you want,” she said simply. “I’m simply telling you what the truth is.”

He made a short, incredulous sound, not quite a scoff but close. “And how is it ye know this?”

“Because—as I just said—that’s where I...came from. That’s where I live. Hundreds of years from now, people will have sailed there, across the ocean. Colonized it. Built cities on it.”

Rose wasn’t sure if or why she cared whether or not he believed her. It wasn’t like she could prove it. And honestly, what did it even matter?

Silence fell between them again, filled only by the sounds of the world around them.

Then, just when she thought they might speak no more, he asked, “How did ye come by yer scar?”

Her steps faltered for half a second before she forced herself to keep walking. It wasn’t the first time someone had brought it up—how could it be, when it was so visible? But most people had the courtesy to pretend they didn’t see it, to let their gaze pass over it without remark.

He had done so up until now. She wasn’t sure what had changed.

His tone was too direct, too blunt. Of course, it was foolish to expect him to tiptoe around the subject—he was the sort of man who spoke plainly, without concern for how his words landed. Still, it felt oddly rude, as though he had simply decided that whatever sense of decorum kept others from asking was of no consequence to him.

She turned her cheek away, staring at the horizon. “A car accident,” she said simply, but then realized he would have no idea what a car was. Rose exhaled, adjusting her pace to keep up with him. “It’s... a kind of carriage, but without horses. It moves by itself, with an engine. My mother was driving the car. There was ice on the road. We crashed.”

The words came out heavier than she expected. She had told the story before, had lived with the memory for so long that it should have been numb by now. And yet, it still sat like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

“She died,” she added quietly. “I lived.”

She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see whatever expression he might be wearing—whether it was disinterest, discomfort, or something else entirely. But then she couldn’t help herself and she shifted her gaze sideways to him.

He was watching her.

Not with pity, nor with the vague politeness most people offered when they heard something tragic. His eyes were sharp, steady—assessing in a way that made her stomach twist. He wasn’t looking at her as if she were fragile. He wasn’t looking at her like she was broken. It seemed he was merely trying to figure her out...or make some judgment about her scar.

Butterflies flittered in her stomach, unnerved by his prolonged scrutiny, and before she could stop herself, words spilled out, too fast, too eager, trying to fill the space between them.

“It’s ugly. I know that,” she said, making her voice light, dismissive. She forced a small, humorless chuckle. “People try to be polite about it, but I know what they’re thinking. It’s obvious. And I hate it. Not just because of how it looks, but because every time I see it, I remember—like this is the last thing I remember of my mother, or the only thing she left me,”

For a long moment, he said nothing. So long, in fact, that she assumed he had decided not to respond at all. That was fine. She didn’t know why she had said so much to him in the first place.

But then, after possibly an entire minute had passed, his voice came, low and gruff, as though he was reluctant to have the words leave his mouth. “It dinna distract from ye.” He hesitated, then added, almost begrudgingly, “It dinna make ye uncomely. Nae at all.”

Rose jerked her head toward him so fast she nearly stumbled. He wasn’t looking at her. His eyes now were locked on the path ahead, his jaw locked as well it seemed, as though he regretted saying it the moment the words left his lips.

She stared at him, completely thrown. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do with it. Her heart gave an odd little thump against her ribs, and she quickly turned her gaze back to the road ahead, searching for something, anything, to fill the sudden tension between them. Just as quickly, she swung her gaze back to his arm, having caught sight of the continued bleeding in her periphery a moment ago. Blood now stained the sleeve of his tunic past his elbow.

“I should... um...” She swallowed. “Should we do something about the bleeding?”

He let out a slow breath, almost as if relieved to have a change in subject. “It’ll be fine.”

She was hardly surprised by this response.

Then, after several minutes, another thought nagged at her, one she just recalled, one that had kept her awake for part of the night—or rather it had been one of the thoughts that had made sleep hard to come by.

“The men from last night,” she ventured. “The ones who...” She trailed off, not wanting to put words to the bullying she’d been subjected to. “Their punishment... it wasn’t too severe, was it?”

The laird’s gaze flicked toward her, his brow furrowing slightly, as though surprised she even cared.

“They were dealt with,” he said simply.

Rose sighed. That wasn’t an answer.

He must have sensed her dissatisfaction, because after another pause, he added, “They’ll live. They’ll heal. And they’ll ken twice before disobeying an order again.”

That, at least, was a little more reassuring.

Strangely, as they walked on, the wind cooler against her face as the sun ducked behind scattered hazy clouds, the silence between them no longer felt quite so awkward.