Page 22 of Here in Your Arms
Domnall’s gaze snapped toward her, as furious as Tiernan’s.
“She speaks nonsense,” he snarled. “There is nae such thing. What manner of person are ye to toy with another’s grief? To expect that I or he—or anyone—would believe such madness?”
“It’s the truth,” Emmy said firmly, her gaze dancing between Domnall and Tiernan. “I know how it sounds, I know it’s difficult to understand—I still don’t know how it happened, but it’s true. Rose and I weren’t...haven’t even been born yet, not for hundreds of years.”
Tiernan’s fury swelled. This woman—Brody’s wife—spoke as if she knew things beyond mortal understanding, as if her words were meant to settle the matter. Instead, they enraged him.
“Ye lie,” he accused ruthlessly.
Brody took a single step forward, closer to his wife, his stance becoming rigid. A warning. “Watch your tone, MacRae.” His voice was low, measured, but no less dangerous.
The tension between them crackled like kindling catching fire, but Tiernan did not back down.
Brody held his ground, returning Tiernan’s glare.
Silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
Margaret’s mother broke the tension, rising to her feet, lifting her hands to cup the girl’s face. She smiled joyfully while tears shimmered in her eyes.
“My child,” she whispered.
Rose twitched when the woman began to stroke her hair, smoothing it away from her face in slow, reverent motions. Rose shifted, clearing her throat awkwardly, subtly trying to lean away. Leana did not stop. Instead, her hands slid along Rose’s cheek, over her hair, down her arm, as if trying to commit every inch of her to memory.
Rose visibly tensed.
Tiernan watched the entire thing, watched as the girl began to seriously fidget, to shift slightly, her discomfort growing. Finally, after enduring far more than even a reasonable person should, she took hold of Leana’s hands, dragging them away from her face. “Please stop petting me. I’m not a dog.”
Margaret’s mother blinked, startled.
Domnall let out a scoff of irritation.
And Emmy muffled a laugh.
Tiernan felt his rage coil tighter. He faced Brody again, repeating his earlier question. “Why did ye bring her here?”
His old friend did not flinch, though the weight of Tiernan’s rage pressed heavy upon the hall. Brody exhaled, shifting slightly, his stance steady but guarded, his expression unreadable.
“It seemed too... obvious to ignore,” he said at last, a slight lift of his shoulders giving away the faintest trace of reluctance. “And based on what I ken—what I believe—of Emmy’s own circumstance, it had me wondering.” He drew in a slow, measured breath. “I kent ye should be made aware, MacRae.”
Tiernan’s jaw clenched. The room felt smaller, the air pressing thick and suffocating around him. He had no patience for riddles, no stomach for impossible truths.
“Laird MacRae,” Emmy MacIntyre spoke up again, “we meant no disrespect. We absolutely did not want to cause you grief—or you, Lord de Moubray, Lady de Moubray. We merely thought—given that Rose arrived on the very day youlaid Margaret to rest—that it... wasn’t something that should be ignored. We thought you should see her.”
His voice came low and dark, cold as the loch in winter. “Aye. And now I’ve been made aware.” He flicked a hand toward the door, his eyes narrowing as he fixed Brody with an unrelenting stare. “Take her out of my sight.”
A sudden cry broke the heavy silence.
“Nae! Ye mustn’t send her away!”
Margaret’s mother lurched forward, her hands trembling as she clutched at Rose’s arm, her face twisted with anguish. Her voice wavered, thick with tears as she lifted her gaze to Tiernan, her lips trembling with raw emotion.
“Do ye nae see? God has returned her to us! My child—” Her voice cracked, the sob catching in her throat. “Margaret has come home!”
Rose stiffened under the woman’s grasp, but she did not push her away, but stared at her with an expression that could only be described as horrified pity. The older woman was blind to it, though.
Leana turned desperately to her husband, pleading. “Domnall, say something! Dinna let them send her away!”
Domnall de Moubray stood stiff as a board, his lips pressed into a hard, thin line, his expression dark and roiling with anger. His sharp eyes fixed on Rose, his gaze shifting, calculating, suspicion etched deep into the furrow of his brow. He was not a man prone to weeping. He did not kneel at the feet of ghosts.
