Page 29 of Here in Your Arms
Like she was something broken—or dangerous.
Somethingunnatural.
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 thepresenceof 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 jawwas 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,veryold. 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 likeherwould 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’mhere.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, instanteverything—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 lifemighthave 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?”
