Page 13 of Here in Your Arms
Rose squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling a shaky breath. She wanted to believe her, wanted to hold onto that promise. But deep down, a gnawing fear curled in her stomach, whispering that she might never truly understand what had happened to her... or worse, that she might never be returned home.
Chapter Four
The hall of Druimlach Castle lay in near silence, save for the occasional crack of thunder as an early spring storm rolled through. The thunder followed fairly close on the heels of the more frequent flashes of lightning. 'Twas naught but that, the pointless commotion of thunder and lightning at the moment, but he supposed rain would come and thought that was good, that it might or should erase the last stubborn bits of winter’s snow.
He sat alone at the long table, his broad hands resting against the rough grain of the wood, the flickering light of a nearby candle casting sharp angles across his face. The weight of the day hung heavily in the air, pressing against the stone walls, settling deep into Tiernan MacRae’s bones.
Before him, Brody MacIntyre’s letter lay unfolded. It had come by messenger this morn.
Tiernan’s eyes narrowed and moved over the words again, though he’d read them three times already.
There is someone you must meet. It is not something I can explain in writing, only that you must see her for yourself.
There was no further clarification, no name, no indication of who this mysterious person was—only a strange urgency that Brody rarely possessed outside of battles and skirmishes, chasing down the enemy.
Buther? Tiernan mused once again. A woman?
In truth, it should have agitated Tiernan more than it did.
But Tiernan’s mind was already occupied.
It had been only a few days since they lowered his betrothed’s body into the earth, wrapped in fine cloth and marked with her family’s crest. A few days since he had stood at her grave, staring down at the fresh mound of dirt, feeling nothing but the hollowcertainty that the future would now shift, one path closing, another unfolding.
She had been young. Too young to die, he reasoned, despite a war that had taught him that there should no longer be an expectation of a full, long life. Still, 'twas a sorrow no man could ignore.
And yet, for all the world’s expectations that he should be broken by grief, Tiernan had found himself... not empty, exactly, but not undone either. Margaret had been good. A woman of gentle nature, raised to fulfill the duties of wife and mother, a fine lady in every way that mattered. Her death was a loss to his household, to his clan, to her family.
He would mourn her, as any man would mourn a good woman taken too soon. And yet, the weight in his chest was not one of a man robbed of love, but of something else.
Something quieter. Sadly, less poetic.
He exhaled slowly, rolling the tension from his shoulders, but his body remained stiff.
He had known Margaret since they were both young. Not quite children, but before the burdens of war and expectation had settled upon their shoulders. Their fathers had been allies, had arranged the match when she was scarcely more than a girl, when he had still been more concerned with his swordplay than his future. He had never questioned the decision. It had been a safe choice.
Margaret had been meant to be his future. But war had delayed it. Again and again. He had put off marriage for duty, for battle, for the needs of his people. It had been easy—necessary—to do. She had been in the convent, tucked away safely, waiting. And he had been at war, doing his part to ensure there would be a future for them at all.
Duty had dictated their match. Duty had ensured he would have wed her, given her children, and secured the future of his bloodline. And now that future was different.
Not tragic. Not devastating. Just...changed. He would have to start all over. And he was already well past the age he should have wed, and with the current climate of war in Scotland, he was forced to wonder how much time remained for him. The next call to arms might well be his last. He feared he might go and never return to Druimlach, leaving the clan in turmoil, vulnerable without a chief.
Would he have loved her, had she lived? Would time have softened his edges, allowed him to know her beyond the quiet, serene woman she had become, the one he’d met again only three weeks ago, eleven years after the last time he’d seen her?
He supposed it didn’t matter now. It was not something he deemed important.
With a quiet sigh, Tiernan reached for his cup, the mead inside long since become lukewarm. He barely noticed, emptying the cup. His gaze drifted once more to the letter, to Brody’s cryptic words.
A woman.
What in God’s name was MacIntyre playing at?
He was about to rise, to find his bed finally, when a shuffling at the landing above the hall drew his attention.
The figure moved down the stairs, coming into the light of the hearth’s fire, and Tiernan’s sharp gaze met the weary, lined face of Margaret’s father, Domnall de Moubray.
The older man hesitated upon seeing him, but only for a breath. Then he came forward, his gait stiff, one hand resting lightly on the cane he’d employed since Stirling Bridge.
De Moubray stepped closer to the table. The low candlelight illuminated his face, casting deep shadows across his grizzled beard and the permanent furrow between his brows.
