Page 32 of Here in Your Arms
The youngest soldier, the one with the sharp jaw and crooked smirk, snickered. “Oh, aye? Some say witches canna say the Lord’s Prayer. Shall we test ye, lass? Have ye recite it for us?”
A ripple of amusement passed between the men.
Rose’s pulse picked up speed. “I don’t owe you any kind of proof.” She moved, stepping sideways, meaning to move around them, get away. They weren’t just being superstitious. They were toying with her. It was bullying, plain and simple. And she felt it had begun to take on a serious, dangerous undertone.
Malcolm shook his head and side-stepped, cutting off her retreat. “The way I see it, if ye’re truly nae a ghost, and nae a witch, yedoneed to prove it.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but then the youngest soldier’s gaze flicked to her cheek. His expression darkened, his smirk turning ugly.
“What about that mark of yers?” he asked coldly. “Ye get that from yer last witch trial?”
The others chuckled, the sounds mean, reminding her of high school.
Rose’s stomach turned, her breath unsteady despite her best efforts to pretend she was unaffected. Her fingers clenched at her sides, but she forced herself to stand taller. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” Once again, she tried to skirt around them, only to have them shift—all of them this time—preventing her from leaving.
“That’s enough.”
The voice came from behind them, near the shadows of the open gate, low and edged with unmistakable authority.
The men stiffened. Rose turned.
The MacRae laird stomped toward them, his heavy cloak shifting slightly in the wind. He called out loudly, “James!” The sound echoed through the bailey.
For all his size, he moved with the deliberate, effortless grace of a predator—a wolf among lesser creatures, seeming to know exactly how much strength to use at all times.
His piercing blue gaze locked onto the men, angry, unforgiving.
“I believe I made myself clear at supper,” he growled before he reached them. “Lady Rose is a guest of this house, and she is to be treated as such.” His gaze swept over the group as he stopped directly next to Rose, facing his men. “And yet, here I find ye, flouting my word, subjectingourguest to intimidation.”
The youngest soldier blanched, shifting uncomfortably. “We meant nae harm, Laird.”
Tiernan didn’t so much as blink. “Did ye nae?”
The biggest bully, Malcolm, unsurprisingly, remained silent, averting his gaze from the man far more powerful, stronger than he.
Another of the bullies attempted to appease his laird, stumbling through some outright lie about “trying to get to know their guest.”
The barracks door swung open, and a man—James, Rose presumed—stepped outside, dressed only in his tunic, trews, and unlaced boots, his belt and the attached sword in his hand.
“Laird?” He questioned, taking in the frozen scene as he reached them, his gaze sweeping over Rose just as it had the four young soldiers.
Tiernan’s gaze never left the men before him. “It seems there’s been a lapse in discipline.”
James made an angry face and cuffed Malcolm on the side of the head. “What’d ye do now?”
Malcolm ducked and winced at the blow but said nothing.
“Captain, see that they’re punished,” Tiernan stated flatly. “Something severe, befitting the crime—direct disobedience of an order given. If it happens again, we’ll revisit the matter.”
Malcolm’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. The others stood rigid, their backs stiff with tension.
Looking more animatedly annoyed than his laird, James latched his meaty fist onto Malcolm’s arm and dragged him away. The other three scurried to follow, their boots crunching against the dirt as they went quickly toward the barracks.
Only when they were gone did Rose exhale.
She turned to the Macrae, about to thank him for his intervention.
But he spoke first, his voice low, edged with frustration. “Do ye not have enough sense to keep from wanderin’ alone? At night?”
