Page 31 of Here in Your Arms
The courtyard was still active despite the creeping twilight, the last of the evening’s movement winding down. A handful of people, villagers who had lingered over their meal, filtered out through the gates, heading back to their homes beyond the castle walls. A group of soldiers stood near the entrance to the barracks, speaking in low voices. Above, along the curtain wall, more men paced slowly, silhouetted against the dusky sky, their movements steady and practiced as they kept watch over the land beyond Druimlach’s borders.
Trying determinedly to push away the lingering unease from supper, Rose focused on something Emmy had said, almost when she first arrived. She’d told her she’d gone back to her own time, proving that it was possible to go back. It hadn’t registered immediately with Rose, but she’d thought about it since, and ithad subsequently offered her some relief, and admittedly, some expectation. At the time, she had been too overwhelmed to fully process the meaning behind Emmy’s words, but now, the thought brought a sliver of relief, a spark of hope.
She still strove to believe any of this was real—the impossible shift through time, the medieval world in which she was now immersed, and the wary stares and hushed whispers that followed her through Druimlach’s halls that she fervently wished were not part of this most incredible...adventure.
Of course, she wanted to go home—her life was in 1978. Her studies, her ambitions, the world she understood—it was all waiting for her. If Emmy had gone back, then surely, Rose could, too.
And yet...
A small voice whispered in the back of her mind.How could you walk away from this?
For all the terror, the disorientation, the aching need for something familiar, there was another feeling, one that had been growing steadily beneath the fear—fascination.
She had spent years studying this world, piecing it together through manuscripts, artifacts, the pages of history books written by scholars who had only ever imagined what it was like to live in this time.
And now, she was here.
This was history, living and breathing all around her. The sights, the sounds—the way the air smelled of peat smoke and damp earth, the rough-hewn stone of the castle walls, always cool beneath her fingertips, the shift of heavy woolen fabric against her skin, the fluid blend of Gaelic and Scots slipping from the tongues of those around her when they’re heavily accented English wasn’t being spoken. These were the details books could never fully capture, the things historians couldonly guess at. The scholar in her thrummed with something dangerously close to hunger.
If she stayed—just for a little while, just long enough to understand—what could it mean for her studies? For the study of history as a whole? If she could record this, if she could document what life had actually been like, down to the smallest, most personal detail, it would change everything.
Her future, the one waiting for her back in 1978, could be forever altered by what she learned here.
The thought had niggled at the back of her mind for days.
She understood that she had no safety net, no guarantee that shewouldfind a way back, and no certainty that what had worked for Emmy would work for her. But she wondered if—for now—she should embrace what had been given to her.
A man departing the yard waved and called something to the soldiers standing near the barracks, breaking through Rose’s thoughts, and pulling the gazes of those soldiers outside their circle. Something was called out in return, and then one of the soldiers noticed Rose meandering aimlessly around the yard.
There were four of them, all clad in the plaids and tunics of MacRae’s men, their builds sturdy, their faces lined with the roughness of hard labor and war. One leaned lazily against the wooden door of the barracks, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he took her in, the interest in his gaze making Rose instantly uneasy. Another, a younger man with a sharp jaw and an even sharper grin, nudged his companion and murmured something under his breath, which earned a quiet chuckle.
Rose slowed her steps. Instinct told her to turn back toward the keep, to remove herself from their scrutiny. She began to move toward the entrance to the hall.
The man pushed away from the barracks’ door and began walking toward her, his narrowed gaze shifting over her in a way that made her stomach tighten. His companions trailed inhis shadow, moving beyond the keep’s door, cutting off Rose’s escape.
Rose took a breath, steeled herself, and inclined her head politely. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Well now,” said the man who led the advance, so to speak, “Ye’ve an accent I’ve nae heard before.”
Rose forced a small, pleasant smile. “I imagine not.”
His gaze swept over her, assessing, neither kind or unkind. “Ye’re the one, then. The lass who shouldnae be here.”
Rose stiffened. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Geez, hadn’t the MacRae just said at dinner he didn’t want this?
The younger soldier took a step forward, his grin widening. “Aye, ye ken what Malcolm means. They say ye walked out o’ the grave and into the hall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said evenly.
The one called Malcolm shrugged. “Aye, maybe. But my mam used to tell me a thing or two about spirits, about women who could slip into a body that wasnae their own. She said if there was ever a question of whether a woman was a ghost or a witch, there were ways to be sure.”
Rose’s fingers curled into the fabric of Emmy’s cloak. “Did she?”
Malcolm’s grin didn’t waver. “Some say ye can drown a witch, but if she lives, she’s a spirit.” His bully’s grin turned up a notch. “And then, o’ course, she’d need to be... put down.”
Another soldier, broader in the chest and with pocked cheeks, cut in, rubbing his chin. “I’ve heard ye can burn the tip of a dagger and press it deep into her flesh. If she feels it, she’s flesh and blood. If she doesnae...” His gaze flicked over her, his meaning clear.
Rose stiffened. “That’s barbaric.”
