Page 58 of Here in Your Arms
His gaze drifted—despite himself—to the top of her head, to the tousled strands of dark hair that seemed to have been yanked from their pins... then lower, to the curve of her collarbone, the soft swell visible above the neckline of her shift.
Beautiful. Exasperating. Already halfway gone.
He gave a curt nod—cold, impersonal—and strode past her, through the door, without another word.
Chapter Thirteen
Tiernan sat astride his destrier just inside the gates of Druimlach, his gaze fixed on the entrance to the keep. He’d sent the maid, Ceana, to wake Rose before dawn, thinking it wiser to explain her absence to Leanaafterthe fact. Better to face the woman’s disappointment than to endure the wailing that would surely erupt if she’d been made aware and witnessed Rose leaving.
The sky above was a low ceiling of angry clouds, the kind that threatened a storm it might not actually deliver. Fitting, he thought. It suited his mood well enough. Four men waited with him, two scouts—which were frankly unnecessary since the route was short and well-traveled—and two others, because even in friendly territory, it was never safe to travel with too small a party.
The plan was simple. Take Rose to Dunmara, leave her in Brody’s care, and return home.
And then forget about her.
It would be the last time he saw her. It was as it should be. He’d done what was necessary, had opened his home to her, had tolerated the chaos she’d brought to Druimlach long enough. Her presence had unsettled too many—his people, Lord and Lady de Moubray, and himself most of all.
And yet, as the minutes stretched and the keep’s door remained shut, he found no peace in the certainty of her departure.
He still didn’t understand why Brody had brought her here in the first place—aside from the obvious, that she bore the face of the dead. But he couldn’t fault his friend. In Brody’s place, he might have done the same. The lure of mysticism in the Highlands ran deep, embedded in the hearts of even the mosthardened skeptics. And when grief took hold, even the sharpest minds turned soft at the edges.
And frankly, he’d seen enough of what Rose’s presence could do—how her face stirred old ghosts, how easily she’d unsettled the servants, who whispered prayers behind her back and crossed themselves when Rose wasn’t looking. She’d maddened and saddened Margaret’s father, to the point where Tiernan had a wee bit of concern that the de Moubrays might become enemies of the MacRaes. Her very presence had shattered any hope of Leana grieving properly—not while she clung to the mad, desperate notion that Rosewasher dead daughter.
Still worst of all, Rose had begun to unsettlehim—not with illusion, but with something far more dangerous. With truth. With the vivid, living reality of who she was.
Then there was her wild claim—come from some other time, hundreds of years in the future, for Chrissakes! He shook his head with disgust. It was time she left.
So why, in God’s name, did it feel like the beginning of something... instead of the end?
Rose emerged at last, stepping carefully onto the stone steps, her movements stiff and hesitant, though her chin was held high. She wore the MacIntyre plaid draped over her shoulders, as she had nearly every day since her arrival—a quiet flag of allegiance, perhaps, to the only people who’d made her feel even marginally welcome.
Aye,Tiernan thought bitterly.Let MacIntyre figure out what to do with the lass now.
Her dark blue eyes met his briefly before skittering away. There was something in them—resignation, perhaps, or grim determination. Maybe even reluctance. Whatever it was, he told himself it did not matter.
He dismounted with a sigh, his boots striking the ground as he approached her at the steps. She held only a single smallsaddlebag, which he took from her without a word. As he fastened it to the back of the saddle, his brow furrowed faintly. He wondered if it held all her worldly possessions—and then wondered why he was curious about such a thing.
Realizing he hadn’t even offered her a proper greeting, he spoke over his shoulder as he secured the straps. “I reckoned it would be easier on ye—and on Lady Leana—if she dinna learn of yer leaving until it was done. Hence the early start.”
“I appreciate that,” Rose replied softly. “I wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to her.”
He turned to her and nodded toward the destrier. “I’ll lift ye up,” he said, his voice low.If ye dinna mind me touching ye, he thought but did not add, being visited by a recollection from last night, when he’d taken hold of her wrist, how she’d gone rigid at his touch. To be fair, though, last night’s touch had been... different, had begun with intention, had not at all been utilitarian as this would be.
She gave a small nod and Tiernan stepped closer, lifting her by the waist. He was fully aware of the subtle curve of her body, the tension in her muscles as she resisted leaning into him. When she was settled and had adjusted her skirts around her lower legs and her odd shoes, he mounted behind her, swinging up with ease.
She stiffened again or remained stiff, but Tiernan ignored it.
Without a word, he settled in, reaching around her to take the reins, his arms caging her in. He pulled her close—not tightly, but enough to eliminate the space between them, enough to make the ride easier for her. Safer, more secure.
That was the only reason to pull her close.
He told himself that twice.
But the feel of her against him was not something he could disregard.Jesu, she was soft. And warm. Her hair, loose today, brushed against his chin until she pulled up the MacIntyrebreacan over her head. He caught a whiff of something light, something floral—lavender or wildflowers—delicate and maddening.
He forced his eyes forward as the great gates of Druimlach groaned open before them. The destrier moved beneath them with slow, lazy strides. Tiernan focused on the road. On the weight of the reins in his hands. On the miles between here and Dunmara. He ignored the way her body fit so perfectly against his.
The ride was quiet. The kind of quiet that clung, not peaceful but strained. The escort he’d chosen rode ahead and behind, silent as shadows, their eyes alert. Early morning mist still clung to the hollows and swells of the land, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and last night’s rain.
