Page 19 of Here in Your Arms
“Jesu, the very likeness...”
“...returned to us...”
“It canna be...”
Thankfully, Brody returned at that moment, looking no more or less grim than he usually did, so that Rose didn’t know what to expect.
Emmy hounded her husband with questions, before he’d even reached them. “What did you tell him? What did he say? Did he look shocked?”
Her husband didn’t answer even one of her questions, but announced, “He will receive us.”
Rose Followed Brody and Emmy into the great hall of Druimlach, and the sheer scale of it gave her pause. The high,vaulted ceiling loomed above, its wooden beams dark and heavy, stretching the length of the massive chamber. The thick stone walls, bare in some places and draped with banners in others, absorbed golden light from the massive central hearth. Narrow windows, little more than arrow slits, allowed thin shafts of pale daylight to pierce the gloom that even the fire’s light could not douse.
Beneath her sneakers, the flagstone floor was level and worn, the stones dark and dull. Near the hearth, a pair of hounds lounged in complete ease, their ears twitching at the sounds of movement but otherwise unbothered by the presence of strangers. Overhead, an iron chandelier, thick with wax drippings, hung suspended from the beams, holding a cluster of tallow candles that sputtered weakly against the dimness.
Along the walls, shields and banners marked with the MacRae crest hung in displays of power and loyalty, their colors dulled with time but still commanding attention. Long trestle tables, most now empty, stretched down the length of the room, though one servant remained, wiping down the scarred wood with a damp cloth. Near the raised wooden dais at the far end of the hall, a small group of soldiers stood in low conversation, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons as they cast brief, assessing glances toward the newcomers.
And there, seated in a high-backed chair at the head of the room, was the MacRae himself.
He stood as they walked toward him.
At first, it was only his size that registered, the sheer breadth of him, the imposing stature that made the air seem heavier just by his presence alone. He stood tall, broad shoulders squared, arms resting loosely at his sides, though there was nothing relaxed about his stance. Dark hair, streaked through with hints of gray, fell loosely to his shoulders, the strands gleaming slightly as they caught the firelight. But it was his facethat stopped Rose’s breath, chiseled like granite, his short close beard unable to conceal the squareness of his jaw. His neck was clean-shaven, and corded with veins, one of which throbbed menacingly. His expression was unreadable at first, just sharp, piercing observation, but his eyes—glacial blue eyes—locked onto hers, and everything in the room seemed to still.
He stepped out from behind the table and off the dais as they approached.
Rose’s step faltered.
Emmy came to her rescue, sliding her arm into the crook of Rose’s elbow, gently urging her forward.
Rose could not help but stare at the imposing figure of the MacRae.
Beneath the breacan draped over one shoulder and belted at his waist that bore the weight of a sheathed dagger, he wore a long-sleeved léine of dark linen, the fabric slightly rumpled, the perfect fit only emphasizing the solid bulk of his chest. Over it, a fitted leather jerkin, well-worn and scarred from years of use, stretched taut across his broad torso. His lower half was clad in trews of dark wool, laced at the calves and tucked into sturdy leather boots, scuffed from age or perhaps long hours in the saddle.
A heavy sword hung at his hip from a second belt, the silver hilt worn smooth from years of use, the weapon seeming to be an extension of the man himself rather than mere decoration. His hands, resting lightly at his sides, were large, battle-worn, with roughened knuckles and scarred backs that spoke of both violence and skill.
Everything about him—his bearing, his dress, the sheer weight of his presence—exuded command, control, and raw, merciless strength. And yet, it was his expression that sent a prickle of unease down Rose’s spine. His features, carved in hard lines, were merciless, his icy blue gaze fixed solely upon her.
His nostrils flared and his hands fisted at his side as he returned her stare, unmoving, unblinking, as if he had been struck by something far beyond his understanding. His breath left him for a moment, his body tensed in a way that made her stomach turn. Then he took a step forward, neither rushed nor hesitant, but as if pulled toward her by something outside of his control. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if his mind was fighting against the impossibility of what stood before him.
Rose’s heart pounded.
The world narrowed to just the space between them, his stunned gaze locked onto hers.
Suddenly the air felt thin, and Rose held her breath. She took a half-step back, instinctively, and the movement shattered whatever spell had momentarily overtaken him.
The MacRae chief’s entire demeanor changed in an instant. His face hardened even more, his gaze sharpening into something cold and dangerous. His lips curled slightly in a snarl. He turned sharply to Brody, his voice a low, thunderous growl. “What foul deception is this?”
The words rippled through the room.
Brody didn’t flinch, though Emmy stiffened at Rose’s side, while the raw force of the accusation sank into Rose’s skin.
“Tis nae deception,” Brody said evenly, his voice calm, steady.
Tiernan’s gaze snapped back to her, his jaw clenching so tightly she could see the muscle twitch in his cheek. He was scrutinizing her now, taking in every detail, dissecting her presence with the careful precision of a man who had no tolerance for uncertainty.
Rose opened her mouth to speak, to say something—anything—to break the suffocating weight of the moment.
“I’m sorry to cause you any—"
