Page 20 of Here in Your Arms
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, somethingwrong.
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 verybones—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 Latinwith 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.
