Page 23 of Here in Your Arms
When he finally spoke, his voice was steel and stone.
“This is nae Margaret.”
At the same time, the woman’s small voice asserted, “I am not Margaret.”
The words hung heavy in the air, the silence that followed brittle as glass.
Leana’s hands faltered, her grip on Rose weakening as her lips parted, as if she could not comprehend such a statement. She turned to her husband, her voice breaking. “What are ye saying? Look at her!Lookat her! How can ye nae see yer own daughter—yer own bluid? She has returned to us, by God’s grace—”
“I buried our daughter three days past,” he said, his voice hollow, though firm. “Whatever she is, she isnaeher.”
The room stood in eerie stillness.
Margaret’s mother let out a wounded sob, shaking her head in desperate denial, her fingers reaching again for Rose as if afraid she might disappear if she did not hold onto her.
Tiernan felt his own unease clawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Aye, the resemblance was uncanny, but Domnall was right.
This was not Margaret, was no miracle.
This was something far darker.
Tiernan kept his expression unreadable, his mind working beneath the surface of his icy composure. He knew—knew!—this woman was not Margaret. His betrothed had been laid in the earth only days ago, her body wrapped in a shroud, her face still and lifeless beneath the weight of death. This woman before him was not her.
And yet, something was at play here, something he could not yet name. Perhaps something dark and dangerous, indeed. The resemblance was too uncanny, too precise to be dismissed as mere coincidence. And coincidence itself was a fool’s excuse for failing to see what was right before one’s eyes.
His eyes swept over the young woman again, sharp as a blade’s edge, neither immune to nor swayed by the veil of innocence enveloping her. He transferred his furious regard to Leana de Moubray, his jaw flexing. He was not a man movedby sentiment. But he was not blind to the grief before him, nor could he ignore thepeculiarityof the situation entirely.
Something was afoot. Whether trickery, sorcery, or the workings of some unknown enemy, he debated his own decision to send her away. Mayhap it would be unwise to let her out of his sight until he uncovered the actual truth.
Chapter Six
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.
