Page 21 of Here in Your Arms
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 Rosecarefully, 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—looksexactlylike 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 disbeliefsurged 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.”
