Page 57 of Here in Your Arms
"Ye should pay nae mind to them," he said, his voice gruff. "Their fears breed foolishness. Superstition runs deeper than reason in places... on occasion."
Her lips pressed into a firm line.
"I don’t care what they think," she said, but the slight tremor in her voice betrayed her.
He lifted a brow. "Aye? Then why did ye run?"
Her fingers curled into her palms. "Because I’m tired. I’m tired of the stares, the whispers, the feeling that no matter what I do, they will never see me as anything but her.” She shook her head, jaw tightening. "I’m not Margaret,” she whispered, sounding more pitiful than she ever had. “I don’t belong here. There’s nothing to learn, nothing to discover. This is simply some nasty trick of fate and I...I don’t want any part of it.”
Tiernan’s gaze dropped briefly to the parchment on the table. He didn’t have to look too closely to imagine what it was, what the splotchy ink marks might say.
He regarded her carefully. "What do ye plan?"
"To return to Dunmara." She exhaled sharply, lifting her chin. “I will write to Brody and Emmy and ask them to come get me. I should never have come here. I should have left with them, when they did. I don’t know what I hoped to...” she paused, her features tightening. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be here. I can’t be here.”
He had known, from the start, that she was a disruption. That her presence had unsettled too many, himself included. And yet, the thought of her leaving sat uneasily in his chest. And that, somehow, surprised him.
Still, he nodded slowly, keeping his voice even. "Aye. That’s probably for the best."
Something dashed across her face at that.
Disappointment?
No. He must have imagined it. Mayhap she felt defeated, angry even, but he saw no evidence of disappointment.
“Nae need to summon MacIntyre. I will take ye myself in the morn.”
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.” She marched across the chamber, walking around him, possibly meaning to hold the door, inviting his departure, he presumed.
Instinctively, Tiernan reached out as she passed, his fingers catching her wrist, a reflex, an unconscious act meant to stop her from dismissing him—though why he should care, he didn’t know.
The heat of her skin beneath his touch sent a jolt up his arm. His grip wasn’t harsh, but firm. Without thinking, his thumb swept once over the rapid thrum of her pulse, and he felt it—her tension, her awareness.
Rose turned to ice.
He didn’t know why he’d touched her. Or why he suddenly couldn’t seem to let go.
And then she looked up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow.
She was angry. Aye. But she was also trembling. Alive with fury, grief, confusion... and something else. Something perilously close to what burned in him.
In that moment, he wanted—madly, recklessly—to kiss her again.
He tugged at her wrist, just barely.
She didn’t budge.
She jerked her face up to him, as if she sensed the heat, or mayhap his vexing intention. But then, just as he dipped his head lower, her spine stiffened.
“No,” she said quietly, shaking her head, dropping her gaze to his chest. The word was soft, and yet as firm as his grip on her.
Tiernan paused. His hand fell away.
She stepped back and moved around him, brisk and composed now, and opened the door without meeting his eyes even as he pivoted, following her progress.
“I’ll be ready to leave in the morning,” she said evenly. “I’m sorry that I—for the trouble I’ve caused.”
He didn’t believe her. She didn’t mean it. He thought she might have wanted to say she was sorry—angry, even—for the trouble caused to her, simply because she happened to resemble his deceased betrothed.
