Page 52 of Here in Your Arms
Now knowing Margaret’s surname allowed her to recognize the letters of it, as she’d not been able to do when she’d first opened this very diary in 1978. A shiver ran through her as she swallowed hard and turned the page, coming upon words she’d read once before, almost seven hundred years from now.
The walls of this place are high, and though the sisters call it sanctuary, I do not feel safe within them. The air is thick with candle wax and damp stone, and the silence is heavy, pressing down on me. They say I should be grateful, that many young women would envy the chance to dwell so near to God.
Rose tightened her grip on the small tomb, her heart hammering against her ribs as she intentionally flipped forward, toward the end. She knew these words! Had read them back at the university, had pored over them in stunned fascination, but then, the journal had belonged to a nameless woman lost to time, nothing more than ink on parchment. This was different. This was real, tangible, written by a woman who had stood in this very chamber, in this very time, who’d been waiting—dreading, Rose recalled—marrying Tiernan MacRae.
February, in the Year of Our Lord, 1304. I write now, as I have written before, but no words will ease the dread that sits like a stone in my chest. I do not know if I should put thesethoughts to parchment, for I am to be wed, and I am meant to be joyful. My father says this is what I have waited for. I am to be Lady MacRae, wife to Tiernan, mistress of Druimlach. I am to be safe. I am to be secure. So why does my stomach churn when I think of it? He was my friend, once. A childhood companion for several summers. I knew his laughter, his kindness. I knew the boy he had been. But he is no longer that boy. He has become something else.
Rose frowned, hardly able to reconcile “his laughter, his kindness” with the Tiernan MacRae that she knew presently. And though seven hundred years did separate her from Margaret in some strange reality, in this ...current reality, only weeks or months stood between Rose and Margaret’s last written words. Her fingers trembled as she turned another page, her eyes devouring every word, translating the Latin at a feverish pace.
He frightens me. Not in the way of brute strength or anger, though he is stronger than any man I have ever known. It is something else. A distance. A darkness. He does not look at me with warmth, nor does he seek my company. I do not believe he resents me, nor do I think he means to be unkind... but he is cold. So very cold. And I do not know if I will be warm again.
Rose pressed her lips together, rereading the passage, searching for something else, something that made sense. She had assumed Margaret’s trepidation had been the natural nervousness of a woman about to marry a man as severe and intimidating as Tiernan MacRae. That was understandable. Hell, she understood it firsthand. But fear? That was something else entirely. Tiernan was sharp-edged, unrelenting, a man shaped by war and duty, but had Margaret truly feared him? Margaret had known him for decades. How could she fear someone she had grown up alongside? It didn’t make sense.
She turned another page, skimming through more entries, searching for answers.
I dream of the convent sometimes. I dream of its quiet halls, of the sisters and their voices in song. I should not wish for it, but I do. I miss the stillness. I miss knowing my place. I do not know if I am ready. But I know this—I must be strong. I must be the wife he expects, the lady of his keep, the mother of his sons. And I must not let him see how afraid I am.
Rose frowned, her fingers tightening around the book. She hadn’t remembered Margaret expressing such extreme dread, or what now struck Rose as a plaintive unease, and which was so at odds with the impression she’d formed of Margaret from those who mourned her.
She flipped forward, seeking something, anything, that might explain more. Had Margaret beentoosheltered,toosoftened by her time in the convent that Tiernan MacRae really frightened her so much?
Rose’s anxiety heightened—did Tiernan know that the woman he was clearly, wildly in love with was afraid of him? Would it break his heart again, to learn as much?
As she sometimes read the last few pages of a particularly gripping book, Rose now flipped ahead to find the last entries, holding her breath as she read.
The time is near. How wretched a thing, that I do not fear death half so much as I fear the life that awaits me. Not life itself—but life here, as his wife.
Rose gasped without sound. Poor Margaret! She knew she was dying, that she would not recover from whatever medieval fever had taken hold of her. The handwriting had changed here, the once-steady script growing more uneven, pressed harder against the parchment, as if her hand had trembled.
And yet... how could Margaret have feared him so deeply, when Rose—only hours ago—had felt safer in his arms than anywhere since arriving here?
Rose touched her fingers to her lips, stunned by another thought. Had Tiernan kissed Margaret? Had he ever touched her with the same fierce, consuming passion he’d just shown Rose? Margaret had been quiet, devout, shaped by the stillness of a convent. Would such a kiss have terrified her? Had the strength in him—the sheer force of his presence—been too much for a woman who prized peace over passion, duty over desire?
Or... had it not been passion at all, but domination? Control?
Rose’s stomach twisted as she reconsidered the kiss Tiernan had given her. She’d told herself it was desire—unrestrained and overwhelming desire—born of simmering tension and his unaccountable anger at the moment. But now... now she wasn’t sure. Had he kissed her because he wanted to—or because he needed to silence her, to reassert control when she’d defied him, had stepped out of bounds at Druimlach?
She remembered the feel of his hands, strong and unrelenting. The grip in her hair, the heat of his mouth, the way he’d left her breathless and shaken, and she was forced to wonder if she’d mistaken dominance for desire.
Rose pressed her fingers more firmly against her lips, her breath catching. She hadn’t been afraid—at least, she didn’tthinkshe had been. But that’s what made it so confusing now, in hindsight, the way he’d made her feel safe even as he’d taken control.
The line between passion and power blurred in her mind, and for the first time since she’d arrived, Rose wasn’t sure if she should fear Tiernan after all.
The door creaked suddenly behind her.
She gasped, slamming the journal shut and whipping around, her hands flying behind her back in a feeble attempt to hide it.
Tiernan stood in the doorway, silent, framed in the soft afternoon light that spilled across the threshold. He didn’t speak right away, and for a moment, neither did she.
His eyes flicked to her face, then to her arms and hidden hands, and though his expression remained guarded, something glinted beneath it—hesitation, maybe even unease. Not coldness. Not indifference.
Rose’s heart thudded.
“I dinna mean to startle ye,” he said, his voice low, rougher than usual.
“You didn’t,” she lied quickly, the words tumbling out as she pressed the book more tightly to her back. “I just... I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
His eyes returned to hers, and lingered. “What do ye hide?”
