Page 40 of Here in Your Arms
Having heard the plaintive rise of Leana de Moubray’s voice, though not the words she had spoken, Tiernan turned his attention toward the end of the table. His brow furrowed deeply as he watched Rose react—her expression shifting from confusion to outright horror at whatever had just been said.
A moment later, she pushed back from the table. Pale and stricken, she fled, stumbling through the crowded hall, pushing past those in her way in her desperate attempt to reach the door.
The scowling crease in Tiernan’s forehead deepened.
His gaze snapped down the table to where Emmy MacIntyre sat, her face drawn with concern, her body tense. As she made to rise, Leana de Moubray’s fingers curled firmly around her shoulder, holding her in place. Emmy balked at the pressureon her shoulder, turning angry eyes onto the older woman, but Leana’s grip held, her knuckles white as she shook her head.
What the devil?
At that moment, Brody, apparently having witnessed Rose’s flight as well, rose to his feet, watching Rose disappear through the door, out into the night, before sending a questioning glance toward his wife. Emmy met Brody’s gaze, her expression bewildered, shrugging as if to say she had no idea what had just happened.
Tiernan waited, assuming Brody would give chase, bring the woman back inside.
Yet Brody remained standing but a moment before sitting back down again.
Incensed, Tiernan shoved away from the table, nearly upending his chair, and followed the woman himself. He ignored the startled looks from those seated nearby, his gaze already fixed on the doors Rose had disappeared through.
Dammit, but he’d told her not to wander—numerous times now!
He had little patience for any woman flouting his orders, but for Rose Carlisle, it was different. More than any other, she had reason to heed him. The rumors, the whispers—the danger. He could not force fools to hold their tongues, but she should at least have the sense not to fuel the talk. Wandering alone at night, unescorted, in a place where too many still thought her somethingother... it was reckless.
And now this. What had been said? What had sent her running this time?
His jaw clenched as he strode into the night, the crisp air biting at his cheeks and hands. The gates were closed, meaning she was still within the walls. He cut through the courtyard, his sharp gaze sweeping the keep’s grounds, his anger flaring hotter with every empty shadow.
Where in God’s name had she gone?
He checked the stables—nothing. The kitchen door was shut tight. The bailey was empty, save for a few passing guards who watched their laird but said nothing.
He scanned the battlements above, circling his gaze over the top of the wall, passing over one and then another familiar figure, the wall guards on duty. And then he saw her, a smaller, more slender figure, framed against the deepening twilight while she tugged at her loose hair.
His scowl deepened as he took the stairs two at a time, the chill in the air forgotten beneath the heat of his irritation.
She didn’t turn as he approached, didn’t acknowledge his presence even as his boots struck the stone beside her. She stood with her back to him, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the darkening hills beyond the walls.
As he neared, he realized she was shivering.
Tiernan exhaled sharply, some of his anger bleeding away—but only some.
“What in God’s name are ye doing out here, Rose?” His voice was rough, edged with the frustration. “And what the devil was said back there that sent ye running like a frightened hare?”
She turned then, her eyes wide and wild, her breath uneven as if she’d been running much farther than only the distance from the hall to here.
“I didn’t know your name,” she said abruptly. “Your given name.”
Tiernan frowned, taken aback. “What?”
She swallowed hard, her lips trembling. “You’re Tiernan.”
He stared at her, waiting for more, some greater explanation. But whatever storm raged inside her had left her unsteady, her words tumbling out in disjointed, breathless fragments.
“The journal,” she rushed on. “I—I didn’t—” She paused, too scattered to form a clear thought. “Margaret—your betrothed, she—”
Her voice broke.
Christ, she was shivering so hard now he could see it, the nearly violent tremors wracking her petite frame. Without thinking, he pulled his plaid free and whipped it around her shoulders, draping it over her trembling form.
She didn’t seem to notice.
