Page 34 of Here in Your Arms
Rose’s Gaelic was not very good, but she could understand some of it and filled in the rest by context.
Looks just like her.
A trick of the Devil, sure as I’m sitting here.
Rose clenched her jaw and forced herself to move, and that’s when she noticed the postern gate, standing slightly ajar, revealing the world beyond the walls. A breath of wind curled through, crisp with the scent of the forest.
Taking that as a much-needed invitation, she ignored the silent women completely and slipped through without another thought.
A narrow, well-worn path stretched ahead, just beyond the gate, leading toward what appeared to be another, smaller village below. She hesitated, considering it, but even from here, she could see and hear the distant sounds of daily life—cart wheels clattering over stone, a burst of shrill laughter of children, a group of men out in the fields, laboring over a medieval plough. Reluctant to invite yet more scrutiny by people who hadn’t yet been very kind, Rose turned her gaze to the right, catching sight of something at the base of a distant slope.
A wide, trampled stretch of land teemed with movement. Helmeted and armed men moved in groups, some sparring, others drilling in formation. Swords clashed, shields met with resounding force, the rhythm of discipline and combat filling the air. The MacRae army, sharpening their skills upon a training field, apparently.
Her eyes instinctively searched the ranks for him.
But the MacRae laird wasn’t there.
But she knew she didn’t want to head in that direction, either. The energy there was raw, brimming with purpose, a reminder that this was not some peaceful keep tucked away in the Highlands—this was a stronghold preparing for the next phase of war.
On her second night at Dunmara, Emmy had filled her in on where things stood. Rose had, of course, known about the war, but not how it affected the Highlands, not the details of this particular year, this particular season. Emmy had admitted that, early on in her time here, she’d decided she had no business telling Brody what lay ahead—what he should expect, what he should fear. The only thing she’d ever told him was that, in the end, Scotland would win its freedom.
Emmy hadn’t told her husband—or anyone—that four hundred years later, Scotland and England would reunite under one crown, becoming part of Great Britain. That the wars fought now, the sacrifices made, the blood spilled, would one day be folded into the pages of history as a prelude to an eventual union. And maybe that was for the best. What good would it do to tell them that freedom wouldn’t last? That their descendants, after generations of fighting to break free from England, would one day choose to join with it? Some truths were too cruel, too far away to mean anything in a world where war was not history, but reality.
Turning away from the field, she scanned the landscape for another option. To her left, the land sloped and turned gently down toward the other village. To her right, a narrower path curled toward a small stand of trees, just thick enough to promise cover, just empty enough to be pleasantly unpeopled.
She chose the trees.
The moment she stepped beneath the canopy, almost all outside man-made noise faded. She walked aimlessly, simply relishing the freedom. She made note of the sun, how it filtered through the branches, dappling the forest floor in shifting patches of gold. The trees here were tall and straight, their lowest branches well above her head, creating an open, airy expanse rather than a dense thicket. She could see far between the trunks, where the land sloped gently downward, the earth soft and rich with the scent of new growth.
The woodland, unfortunately, was interrupted far too often by open fields, some meant for grazing cattle and sheep, and many for crops, a few of them having been ploughed already for spring planting.
When she found a stretch of open land that seemed to belong to neither animals or crops, she headed in that direction, eventually meandering over one hill and then another, each of which rolled in undisturbed waves beneath the cool blue of the spring sky. It was breathtaking, the kind of landscape that belonged in oil paintings and storybooks.
She walked for what felt like an hour, though she had no real way of telling. The countryside was endless, stretching beyond her vision, the sky wide and bright above her. Inside the trees, she’d lamented that she’d not thought to grab her cloak before departing the keep, but out here, under a wide open sky and gentle sun, she didn’t feel so cold, even as a slight breeze regularly lifted her hair off her shoulders or blew it straight across her face.
She stopped at one point and planted her hands on her hips, glancing around, grinning at the urge to break into song, ala Julie Andrews inThe Sound of Music. However, there was no music here.
But there was, suddenly, another noise.
A sharp neigh tore through the silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the ground with force.
Rose froze, her eyes searching the horizon in every direction. A massive horse came galloping into view, emerging from another grove of trees. The animal wore a saddle but had no rider. She froze as the huge beast barreled straight at her, and then flinched when it whizzed by, within only a few feet.
A ripple of concern swept over her, wondering if someone had been thrown, and might be in need of assistance.
Truth be told, she did hesitate for a moment before searching to see if this might be true, considering the very distinct unwelcome she’d received at Druimlach. Seriously, would anyone here truly want her—the ghost, the witch— to witness their humiliation, being thrown from a horse? And if they were hurt, would they even accept her help?
Setting aside her own personal frustration with Druimlach and nearly everyone she’d met here, Rose picked up her skirts and hurried toward the trees.
If there is someone injured, she thought,I hope he or she is at least a nice person.
She hadn’t gone far into the trees when she came to a sudden halt.
It was the MacRae laird himself. She found him sprawled across the damp ground, one arm braced beneath him as he slowly pushed himself upright, wincing as he did so. His hair was tousled, the elbow of his tunic streaked with dirt. His heavy plaidlay rumpled around his broad frame, and yet, even disheveled and sitting in the mud, he looked no less imposing.
Possibly, he hadn’t heard her approach. In the midst of another grimace—his face twisted briefly in pain—he happened to catch sight of her. Surprise flashed across his features.
Rose inhaled sharply and took a few hurried steps forward. “Are you—” she began, then stopped short, her gaze catching on the stain of blood seeping through the sleeve of his tunic. Her eyes widened.
