Page 51 of Here in Your Arms
Gathering her resolve, she stepped forward. “Lady Leana?”
The woman turned, a smile coming instantly at the sight of Rose. “Aye, my love?”
Rose stepped fully into the chamber. “I am not Margaret. I am Rose,” she said, her voice even but firm. She’d made herself a promise that every time Leana called her Margaret, every time she addressed her with familiarity, she would remind her that she was not her daughter. She was not Margaret. She was Rose. And maybe one day, Leana would come to accept the truth, giving up the happy illusion.
Leana’s expression scarcely changed. “Of course,” she murmured, but there was no conviction in it, maybe only a quiet,unshaken certainty that the moment would pass, and that Rose would stop fighting the truthshebelieved in.
Rose exhaled through her nose but did not correct her again. Not yet. This would be a slow campaign, a steady chipping away at the illusion. Instead, she sat carefully on the wooden bench opposite her, smoothing her hands over the folds of her skirt.
“I was hoping you might help me,” she said slowly. “If you would.”
Leana tilted her head. “Help you?”
“Yes.” Rose forced herself to sound casual. “Emmy has taught me a great deal, but there is so much I still don’t understand about this... time. I don’t always know what’s expected of me or how to conduct myself properly in certain situations.” She hesitated, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment. “I’m not even certain about how to dress properly. I would like to learn from you.”
Though a delighted expression flittered across Leana’s face, there was something else beneath it, a faint crease between her brows. “Learn?” she repeated, her voice soft with confusion. “But, my love, ye have always kent—”
“I am not Margaret,” Rose said again, her tone patient. “I am Rose. And I would like you to teach me.”
Leana studied her for a long moment, something shifting in her expression. But whatever trace of uncertainty had appeared vanished as quickly as it had come. She smiled mildly, as if indulging a child’s fantasy. “Aye, then,” she murmured, a small, pleased smile returning. “Aye, I will teach ye.”
Rose nodded, pleased for this small boon. If she could guide Leana toward seeing her as someone new, someone unfamiliar, perhapseventuallyshe would begin to accept that Rose was not Margaret at all. Maybe others would follow suit.
Leana set aside her embroidery and flattened her palms on her thighs. “We shall start with what is most important,then,” she said, her voice warm with sudden purpose. “A lady’s presence is her greatest strength. There is power in how she moves, in how she speaks, in how she is perceived.”
Rose nodded, listening intently, even as she knew this was more for Leana’s benefit than hers.
And yet....
She had come here with a purpose, had toyed with the ideabeforeTiernan had kissed her. But now, she had to wonder if the reasons behind her objective had changed. Had she truly asked Leana for this instruction for Leana’s sake... or for her own?
I am not Margaret.
Tiernan’s words echoed back to her. “Aye, and dinna I bluidy well ken it.”
A declaration meant to sever any tie between her and Margaret. A warning, even. She wasn’t Margaret, wasn’t even close.
So why pursue something she’d only vaguely considered before he’d kissed her?
Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if she had a sudden need to fit into a mold of a woman now deceased simply to... what? Appease him? Entice him?
Good God, she thought, worrying her bottom lip as Leana went on, but did some part of her—some small, foolish, aching part—wantto be... closer to whatever Margaret had been?
Damn, I’ve lost my mind now for sure.
***
Rose lay atop the bed, limbs sprawled across the furs, staring up at the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling. The midday stillness felt unnatural, suffocating, a forced idleness that set her teeth on edge. She’d left the door ajar on purpose, hoping a stray breeze might slip through the shuttered window and breathe somelife into the stifling chamber. Outside the chamber, the keep hummed with life, including the distant clang of metal from the blacksmith with whom she still wanted to visit and pester with questions, maybe ask for a demonstration, and the muffled voices of people calling to one another in the yard. But here, in the dim hush of her chamber, she was expected to rest. Leana had insisted that a fine lady of good breeding would withdraw from the burdens of the household in the middle of the day, “preserving her delicate constitution with quiet and repose”, she’d said. Rose had bit her tongue against the urge to argue—or laugh outright—at such a silly idea, and now she prickled with impatience.
With a sigh, she pushed herself upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, the wooden boards pale and gray. She padded toward the window, debating whether to throw open the shutters just to feel a rush of fresh air, something to shake off the restless energy coiling inside her. But before she reached them, her foot caught on something, sending her stumbling forward.
She put her hands out, preventing herself from banging into the wall, her heart giving a startled lurch as she scowled down at the floor and then considered her stubbed toe. One of the planks’ edges was uneven with the rest, she noticed. She crouched, pressing her palm against it, trying to push it back into place, but it wouldn’t budge. Frowning, she pressed harder, shifting her weight onto it, yet still, it refused to lay flat. Hooking her nails beneath the loosened edge, she worked her fingers under the board and wiggled it side to side, feeling the resistance of something lodged beneath it.
It took only a moment to tug the board free. The plank came up with a soft groan of old wood, revealing a narrow gap beneath the floor. Rose’s brow lifted with anticipation as she peered down into the darkened hole. Something was there,carefully tucked away, hidden from view for who knew how long. She reached into the space, her fingertips brushing against worn leather, and pulled out a small, time-darkened book. Dust clung to its cover, the edges softened with age, but as she traced her fingers over its surface, she knew exactly what it was. A journal.
Her pulse pounded as she turned it over in her hands, barely breathing as she flipped open the cover. The old binding was cracked faintly in places, the pages stiff beneath her fingers. And there, in a startlingly familiar, small but heavy script, was a name.
Margaret de Moubray.
