Page 6 of Here in Your Arms
She was, all in all, utterly miserable, and the eerie silence all around her, broken only occasionally by her own sharp breaths or quiet sounds of nature, was not helping.
The first real, different sound that cut through the creepy stillness was a rhythmic pounding, distant but steady. Rose froze, her pulse jumping as she strained to understand what it was. A car? It grew louder, the ground beneath her seeming to tremble in time with the noise. A moment later, she recognized it—not the mechanical hum of a car engine, not the distant churn of a plane overhead, but something far heavier, something she’d only ever heard in movies.
Horses. A group of them, by the sound of it, their hooves drumming against the earth in a measured, fairly quick rhythm. She hesitated at the edge of the trees, pressing herself against the rough bark of a nearby trunk, uncertain if she should make herself known. The wind carried the sound of voices—deep and masculine—though she couldn’t make out the words. The riderswere close now, and though her first instinct was to remain hidden, her desperation for answers and the need for help warred against it.
She took a cautious step forward, peering through the thinning branches, realizing just then that a road—of sorts—was straight ahead of her. A short column of mounted figures came into view, dark cloaks rippling with the motion of their powerful, very large horses.
Rose adjusted the shawl so that it covered her head, though she wasn’t sure why she took such a precaution.
I need help, she reminded herself, forcing her feet to move, stepping out from the trees into their path.
The party slowed and then stopped all at once, maybe thirty or more feet from Rose. She stood, waiting, holding her breath, part of her thinking,What now?
One of the men came forward and two more fell into step with him, only a horse length behind him on either side. The man at the forefront looked like he had stepped out of a medieval tapestry—broad-shouldered, wrapped in layers of wool and leather, his face all sharp angles, his mouth twisted with what Rose decided looked like suspicion.
Her stomach clenched. There was something inherently commanding about him, something dangerous. He held himself like a warlord, his gaze scanning the landscape with unnerving precision, as if to be sure she was alone.
When he was within twenty feet of her, he swung his gaze back to her, a harsh and unnerving, brown-eyed stare.
She shrank back instinctively, her breath catching.
And then the man spoke, his voice like distant thunder, rough and unmistakably Scottish.
Rose could read the Scots language well enough, though not with ease, but she rarely heard it spoken aloud, let alone with such raw intensity. His words—low, clipped, commanding—rolled over her in a cadence both foreign and intimidating. A question, she thought she discerned, though the meaning was completely lost on her.
Her stomach tightened. Whatever he had said, it wasn’t meant to comfort.
And then, to her surprise, he spoke English, thick and heavily accented, but clearly English. His voice now lacked the bark, was gentler by degrees.
“Emmy, come on up.”
Rose barely had time to register what he’d said before a woman separated from the group, guiding her horse forward while several men—who seriously looked like armed guards—moved close with her.
Rose blinked, her confusion mounting. The woman was breathtaking—blonde-haired and elegant in a way that looked effortless, dressed in what seemed to be period clothing but wearing it as if it were as natural to her as jeans and a t-shirt. She was out of place in the strangest way, and yet the most jarring thing wasn’t her beauty or the unfamiliar attire.
It was her voice.
“Hello,” the woman said cautiously, sliding down from her saddle with surprising grace, approaching with slow, careful steps.
American. Unmistakably, casually American.
Rose’s heart lurched at the sound. She hadn’t heard another American accent in months—aside from one other student back at the archives, her world had been nothing but the clipped, rolling Scottish dialect of the locals. But here, in the middle of this bizarre scene, in the midst of these men who looked like they’d walked straight out of a history book, was a woman who sounded like she could have been one of Rose’s classmates back home.
Happily stunned, though she was still too confused to show it, Rose met the woman’s gaze.
“What has you out—” the woman began as she lowered her gaze, her green eyes traveling downward, over the stolen shawl and Rose’s coat and her jeans. The green eyes jerked back to Rose’s face, and suddenly the gorgeous woman didn’t seem so composed, but appeared as confused and shaken as Rose felt. “Oh, shit,” the woman murmured—which was nearly fatal to Rose’s perilous grip on her own composure.
Rose’s eyes widened and she gasped. “Where—what is happening?”
Just as quickly, the woman’s expression changed again, softening dramatically.
“Okay, everything is all right,” the woman assured her. “I know it’s scary. It’s confusing, but I promise you—you’re safe now. That’s all that matters right now.” She turned to the brown eyed man, who came protectively closer to her, and told him, “She’s from... where I came from.”
The angry man nodded tightly. “Aye.”
Facing Rose again, the woman reached out her hand but was too far away to have touched her. “I’m Emmy Carter—er MacIntyre,” she said. “I know exactly what you’re going through.” She stepped closer to the woman. “Please, come with us. Let’s get you out of the cold, someplace warm.”
“I don’t...” Rose said, shaking her head, not any less confused, not any less frightened. “I don’t understand what happened.” She choked back a sob and then grimaced, trying to pull herself together. Suddenly, she felt overheated, all these stares pressing down on her. She lowered the shawl from around her head, leaving it draped over her shoulders.
