Page 47 of Here in Your Arms
The man snorted, amused. “Those ones—Malcolm, mostly—make their own trouble.”
She shifted her weight, torn between wanting to step forward and holding herself back. “It’s not just that,” she admitted. “People are unnerved by me... because of her, Margaret.”
“The resemblance,” he guessed, nodding.
Rose nodded in turn.
“They’ll get used to it.” He said it simply, without much concern. “Likely, ousting the whispers will help with that. Let 'em see ye, lass.”
Rose frowned, unsure if that was the direction she should take.
“Ican plainly see ye’re nae her. Lady Margaret was kind, they said, but she’d never have deigned to speak to a lowly soldier as ye have.” His mouth quirked slightly. “Spent a lot of time with a kerchief pressed to her nose, she did, couldnae stand the foulness here, it seemed.”
Rose showed a small grin, confessing, “I don’t even have a kerchief of my own.”
He chuckled. “All the better.” Then he leveled her with a look, amused yet, and patient. “Seems ye’ve exhausted all the reasons why ye should nae—unless ye’ve more?”
She hesitated for only a moment longer before sticking out her hand. “I’m Rose, by the way.”
He looked at it, clearly startled by the gesture, before tentatively grasping her hand in his. The shake was awkward at best, more of a light grasp than anything. Rose had to do the pumping herself, guiding their hands up and down before letting go.
He considered his hand and then hers for a moment, as if unfamiliar with the gesture, before dropping his hand back to his side. “Gregor,” he offered.
She smiled. “Well, Gregor, if you’re sure I won’t get in the way...”
He lifted a brow. “Ye may. But that’s nae calamity either.”
She glanced once more toward the field, then back at him. “Is the laird down there?”
Gregor’s brow lifted slightly. “Worried he’ll send ye away?”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“Aye, he might.” He smirked slightly, then added, “But he’s nae here—out with a scouting party, looking for miscreants said to be in the area.”
Rose glanced toward the training field once more. “Then maybe I’ll take my chances.”
Gregor motioned ahead, a silentc’mon then, before heading toward the men himself.
A bit nervous still, Rose followed, falling into step beside him, walking down the path.
“That’s a lot of hesitation, lass, simply to walk out here,” Gregor commented dryly. “Might as well have been debating whether to step off a cliff, with all the reasons ye had against it.”
Rose grinned. “I’m not normally so skittish. Or, I didn’t used to be,” she reckoned, her eyes on the business at hand ahead of her.
She watched as the warriors of Clan MacRae in one group loosed arrows toward distant targets, their powerful arms drawing back bowstrings with fluid ease, the twang of release followed by the satisfying thunk of arrows finding their mark. She’d long been fascinated by it in theory, had studied battle tactics, had read about the training of medieval warriors, but standing here, watching it unfold before her, it was something else entirely. These were not like the flimsy wooden bows she’d once used in physical education class in high school. These were weapons of war.
Another group, broken off into pairs, sparred with swords, thrusting and parrying with more menace than Rose would have expected to see in training. They wore snarling battle-ready faces as they lunged and struck. Even the faces of those side-stepping and countering an attack were twisted with determined rage, it seemed.
At the opposite end of the long barren field, more men trained on horseback, galloping swiftly toward a wooden pole struck in the ground, from which flapped a series of linen flags. The highest flags snapped and fluttered, caught on the wind, but the lowest pieces of ragged linen hung limp and stubborn near the base. One by one, the riders thundered past, leaning dangerously off their saddles, fingertips outstretched, straining to catch hold of the lowest cloth. Some managed the higher ones with ease, snatching them mid-stride to a cheer or a barked command. The lowest flags demanded not just daring but balance, precision, and a fearless trust in their horse. A few slipped, nearly unseated, their mounts veering as the men fought to stay upright. Others slowed, gauging the distance, choosing technique over speed. One man lost his seatcompletely, tumbling and rolling on the ground, his hand empty, the flag he’d meant to snatch still attached to the pole. This was greeted by laughing and good-natured jeering.
As she came closer to the archers, they paused, one after another, lowering their bows as they noticed her approach. Her cheeks pinkened even as she smiled silent greetings, acknowledging their curious stares.
“Lass only wants a closer look,” Gregor said, having paused, facing her now. “Has a keen interest, she says.”
Rose swung her gaze to Gregor, wondering if she only imagined or had actually heard some mockery or doubt in his tone now. But then he took the bow from a young man’s hand and held it up toward Rose.
“As close as it gets, lass,” he challenged mildly.
