Page 25 of Here in Your Arms
Rose was certain only the heated, angry gaze of the MacRae could have been felt on her back as she moved up the stairs, buthe was nowhere in sight. Still, she shuddered at the thought of him.
Leana, Margaret’s mother, led them deeper into the keep, turning around one corner and then another on the second floor before she stopped at a door.
"This was her chamber before she left us," she said softly, pausing before a heavy wooden door, stroking the iron handle with a reverence that sent another wave of unease through Rose.
Wonderful.
The woman pushed the door open, stepping aside for Rose to enter.
The chamber was small, modest in its furnishings—stone walls, a heavy wooden bed covered in thick woolen blankets, a small table near the hearth, and a single window that presently let in only a sliver of pale light. A washbasin sat nearby though no water sat in either ewer or basin. The only sign of luxury were the embroidered tapestries hanging near the bed, no doubt to help ward off the cold.
Just as at Dunmara, it was nothing like the world she had come from, but it wasn’t terrible.
Emmy and Leana stepped inside after her, the latter pausing beside Rose with a tender smile, one that made Rose want to step back.
"Ye must be exhausted," Leana said kindly, reaching up before Rose could react, touching a strand of her hair with delicate fingers. “We canna have ye become sick again.”
Rose tried not to flinch, not to betray her discomfort in her expression.
Emmy must have noticed, because she quickly stepped in, her voice kind but firm. "Lady Leana, why don’t we let Rose rest for now? She’s been through a great deal today.”
Leana hesitated, her fingers still lingering near Rose’s hair, looking as if she would argue, though she did not.
"I will return to help ye dress for supper," she said at last, smiling gently. "There are gowns still here,” she said, inclining her head toward a trunk at the end of the bed.
Rose had no response for that. She barely managed a nod before Leana touched her cheek once more, then—finally—left the room.
The door had barely shut before Rose turned on Emmy.
"You could havewarned me," she hissed, hands clenched at her sides.
Emmy sighed, rubbing at her temple, but defended, “I did warn you—I told you that you resembled Maragaret—”
“Not that,” Rose said urgently, waving off that oddity. “You could have warned me that the MacRae laird was so scary. Christ, Emmy, I thought he was going to chew me up and spit me out.”
Emmy winced, showing her teeth. “He is frightening, isn’t he? Honestly, maybe I would have thought better against coming here if I knew him better. I met him for the first time days ago and then...well, it was Margaret’s funeral and he was silent, morose, so overcome with grief...” she hesitated, shrugging. “I offered perfunctory condolences and moved on.” Emmy’s eyes brightened and she held up her finger to make a point. “But, I will say this: Brody speaks very highly of him, has known him apparently forever, and would never do anything that would put me in danger, so I assure you, the man may look pretty brutal—he really does—but he is not dangerous.”
This brought Rose only a small measure of comfort, not enough to override every other twisting, negative emotion. She exhaled sharply, pacing the small room as frustration coiled tighter and tighter inside her chest. "Christ, Emmy, do you have any idea howinsanethis is?"
Emmy’s gaze was steady, but full of sympathy. "I do," she said simply. “Now.”
Rose let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Do you? BecauseIdon’t. None of this makes sense. None of it."
She ran her hand through her tangled hair, and then dropped onto the edge of the bed, pressing the heels of her hands against her forehead. "This was a bad idea, coming here."
Emmy was quiet for a moment before she winced and said, “I think you’re right—looking at it now, in hindsight. I’m not sure what I expected, but...yeah, we shouldn’t have come.”
Rose let out a slow breath. “We’re not helping Margaret’s mother, by letting her think I’m her daughter.”
"I agree," Emmy continued, stepping closer, her voice softer now. "I’ll work harder at supper to purge those ideas from her head.”
Rose scoffed, finding it highly unlikely that Emmy would know any success in that endeavor. Nervously, she traced her forefinger over her scar.
“But Rose,” Emmy said next, “don’t you find it...odd? The reaction in the hall was enough to suggest to me that the resemblanceisremarkable. The fact that you arrived—from another century!—on the very day Maragaret was buried...?”
“Yeah, it’s mindboggling,” Rose agreed. “But... I don’t know what to make of it, or what to do with it, or what it means. I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that I’ve moved through time so I’m not sure I’m in any shape to tackle this...this problem.”
Emmy bit her lip, considering her, and then wondered, “Do you believe in fate? Though I don’t know for sure, I still contend that I was brought here to be with Brody.”
