Page 64 of Here in Your Arms
“What if they don’t?”
“They will.”
She clenched her jaw, biting back the urge to argue. Stubborn man. With a sigh of frustration, she released him and straightened, glancing around the dense woods. Nothing moved. There was no noise at all but the wind through the branches and Tiernan’s unsteady breathing.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Ruairidh?”
Before the echo faded, Tiernan’s hand tugged at her skirt.
She turned, startled.
“Ye could be calling more than just my men,” he said gruffly, despite his growing weakness.
She went still, her pulse quickening. He was right. If others were nearby, they'd hear her too. She lowered her hands, folding her arms tight across her chest inside the plaid.
The minutes dragged.
She looked at him again and again. His face was grayer now, shoulders slack, breaths coming slower.
“Which way is Dunmara? How far now?”
“Mayhap a few miles yet,” he informed her. “Just give me another minute or two, and I’ll rise—”
“You’re going to sit right here,” Rose decided, “and I’m going to Dunmara. Just...point—where is it?”
“Bluidy hell ye will,” he said
"You can’t go any further,” she said, stating what was patently obvious to her.
His glare snapped to her, sharp as flint. "I can," he growled, nostrils flaring, his jaw clenched so tightly she thought his teeth might crack.
Rose exhaled slowly, softening her voice. “I can do this,” she said, holding his gaze, willing him to see reason. “Let me do this. Just point me in the right direction.”
Tiernan’s entire body stiffened. She could see how much he hated the idea, the way his fingers twitched, his mouth pressing into a hard, thin line. He was a man who commanded, he was the protector, the man who took action without hesitation. The thought of relinquishing control—even when it was his only option—was anathema to him.
But he was weakening.
And she was done arguing with him. “I’m going—I’ll go faster and safely if you simply point me in the right direction. I’ll come straight back with Brody and as many men as he can spare.”
His eyes met hers, sharp and blue and full of reluctant fury. They stared at each other for a long beat—her resolve against his pride. And slowly, the tension bled from his shoulders.
With visible effort, he lifted one hand and pointed, vaguely in the direction they’d been heading.
“Take my dagger,” he muttered, voice thick.
A pained expression crossed her face. “I don’t need it—I wouldn’t be able to use it anyway.” The thought of striking the long knife into someone’s flesh brought up a reflexive gag.
The corners of his mouth twitched, but not in amusement. “Bluidy hell, Rose,” he rasped. “Ye’lltakethe damn dagger, andye’lluseit if ye must. Plunge it into the gut of any bastard who so much as looks at ye wrong.”
“Fine,” she snapped, thrusting out her hand. “Christ, you’re stubborn.”
“As are ye,” he said without missing a beat, though it came out hoarse.
He reached for the sheath at his side, pulled it free from his belt, and held it out to her.
She stepped closer, dropping to her haunches in front of him, and took it from his hand. She waited until he looked up again, waited for his eyes to meet hers.
“Do not die,” she told him, steady and sure. “I’ll be pissed—seriously pissed—if you do. And I swear to God, if I come back and find you’ve yanked that arrow out of your body, I promise I’ll shove it back in there myself.”
