Page 53 of Here in Your Arms
Her pulse jumped. “Nothing,” she said, too fast. “Well—just something I was writing. My own thoughts,” she lied. “A... a diary,” she confessed, bringing the small leather tome to her front. She thought again of Margaret’s words—her dread, her fear—and then looked at the man in front of her, not hard and cruel, but uncertain. Braced, maybe, for her anger. Or her scorn, maybe worried that he’d frightened her by so hungry a kiss. Rose grimaced internally, supposing he was seriously regretting his earlier actions.
How wretched a thing, that I do not fear death half so much as I fear the life that awaits me...as his wife.
He tilted his head slightly, possibly not believing her, though he didn’t press.
Rose wondered why in the hell she’d just lied to him, why her first instinct was to protect him from the truth, that his beloved betrothed had been afraid of him. Because, she realized, forreasons she didn’t fully understand, she didn’t want to see pain in his eyes.
“I wanted to be sure ye were... well,” he said after a pause. He cleared his throat and added, “After earlier.” Looking as if he’d just bitten into something sour, he continued, “I should nae have—”
“I’m fine,” she said firmly, awkwardly. “Really.” Christ, she didn’t want to hear him apologize! She didn’t want him to say it had been a mistake, or that it shouldn’t have happened, or that he regretted it.
That would be unbearable. Humiliating beyond imagining.
Shehadn’t regretted it—despite every intuition, every sense of intelligence, every glaring warning that suggested she certainly should have.
Rose searched his face again, watching how stiffly he held himself, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with his arms or his hulking presence. Certainly, he was uncomfortable with his role now, the awkward, almost-apologist.
Tiernan gave a slight nod. “I’ll leave ye to yer... writing, then,” he said, stepping back from the door.
“Tiernan.”
He paused, looking back.
“Thank you,” Rose said evenly. “For checking.”
He dipped his head briefly and then was gone.
Rose slowly turned, clutching the diary to her chest, her thoughts spinning faster than ever, wondering why it had been so important to her to sparehisfeelings.
She rolled her eyes in self-disgust.
Please! I can’t have a crush on a medieval man who is in love with a dead woman!
Her shoulders slumped dramatically. She feared that she did, though.
Chapter Twelve
Rose stepped from her chamber, freshly dressed and feeling—for the first time in days—like something close to herself again. The gown was finer than anything she’d worn since arriving at Druimlach—soft blue velvet with delicate embroidery at the cuffs and neckline, its bodice expertly fitted. A maid she thought had previously served Emmy while she’d been here had appeared just before supper, speaking in hurried, broken English and gesturing toward a gown draped over her arm with a hopeful smile. Her English was limited and halting, but Rose had caught the wordsMistress MacIntyreamong them, followed by a shrug and a hopeful gesture.
Clean, well-fitting clothes were too rare a luxury to question. She’d been desperate to be rid of the gown she’d worn all week—one that reeked faintly of woodsmoke, kitchen grease, and a lingering dampness from her journey. This one... this one felt like it belonged to someone who still had a say in her own story. She could only assume Emmy had sent it—perhaps along with others—and Rose had silently thanked her for the kindness.
To Rose’s great delight, the maid hadn’t come with only a gown. With quick efficiency, she’d arranged for a wooden tub to be brought to the chamber, and Rose had bathed while steam rose in curls through the air and the fire crackled nearby. It had been three days since her last proper bath at Dunmara, and she’d nearly wept with relief as the hot water swirled around her. When she’d finally stepped from the tub, warm and pink-cheeked, the maid had combed her hair with surprising care while Rose sat near the hearth, brushing out the length again and again until it was nearly dry.
When she’d finished tying the laces at Rose’s back, the maid gestured again, this time pointing to her hair with a hopeful look, as if silently asking permission to continue.
Rose hesitated. “You want to... do my hair?”
The girl nodded, already reaching for the comb.
Rose usually left it down or managed a quick braid, but tonight she sat obediently while the maid worked to comb out and then arrange Rose’s long hair. Her fingers moved briskly—sometimes painfully—lifting and coiling, braiding small sections and pinning them intricately until Rose felt the weight of the style tugging at her scalp. Though she thought it too tight, it did feel elegant, almost regal.
“Bonny,” the girl said shyly in thickly accented English. “Like... other lady.”
Rose smiled her thanks, believing the young maid must be speaking of Emmy, and as soon as the maid dipped into a quick curtsy and fled the room, Rose dug her fingers beneath all the braids, scratching them a bit at her scalp to loosen the too-tight style. Almost instantly, it felt better, though there was no mirror to see if she’d ruined it at all. She patted her hands around the pinned style, deciding she felt nothing out of place.
She arrived at the great hall feeling composed, confident, and clean—strange what a new dress and hair style could do. The bustle of conversation met her at the threshold: the clatter of knives on trenchers, the low hum of voices echoing beneath the high, timbered roof. Her tennis shoes, ever hidden beneath the length of flowing skirts, whispered over the flagstone floor as she moved toward her usual seat.
But halfway there, the hum faltered and then seemed to quiet entirely by the time she reached her seat. Nervously, wondering if the fancier gown and updo were too much, too fancy for supper, Rose fixed her gaze on Leana, who’d overtaken theseat Emmy had previously occupied, grateful for once for the woman’s beaming smile.
