Page 80 of Here in Your Arms
He wasn’t glaring. His gaze wasn’t even specifically cold, was only a steady, unreadable look that held her in place. Her breath caught as heat crept into her cheeks, but she didn’t look away.
Beside her, Emmy sat mutely.
Then came her whisper. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Rose jerked her gaze to her friend.
Emmy’s eyebrows were already halfway up her forehead. “You slept with him.”
“What?” Rose choked.
“You did,” Emmy hissed with greatly misplaced excitement. “You totally did. Your face is bright red and he’s staring at you like you invented fire.”
“I didn’t...we...” Rose stopped, giving up the intent of lying.
Emmy groaned softly, a sound of sad realization. “Oh, Rose.”
“I know,” Rose agreed stoically.
“He’s leaving today,” Emmy whispered.
“I know.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Rose shook her head and snorted a dispirited laugh. “God, no.”
Emmy nodded. “You don’t need to be in the yard to say goodbye when he’s ready, though,” she said, offering a sympathetic suggestion.
Rose shook her head, her gaze still on Tiernan. The bold and angry part of her responded. “Oh, no. I’m not missing that.”
***
Tiernan adjusted the strap of his saddlebag, his shoulder still stiff but manageable. Other pain, which he tried to ignore withequal stubbornness, chewed at him as well. He had intended to leave early, quietly, without ceremony or lingering glances, without having to face anything unresolved. But even the short drive to Druimlach, borrowing a handful of Brody’s men, required planning. And then Brody had wanted to share with him messages received yesterday at Dunmara, dispatches from riders traveling fast along the border roads, carrying missives from lords and commanders, rebels and loyalists both. Likely, many of them would also have made their way to Druimlach, hastily scrawled messages passed between men who were always marching, always bracing for the next campaign. They were lines scrawled in haste on damp parchment, sealed with wax smudged by wind and travel. The ones Brody had showed him included reports of English movement near the Forth, whispers of supplies being stockpiled in Berwick, and talk of allied forces gathering as spring stirred the land awake again.
It was the same every year. Winter offered its false peace, its quiet. And then, like clockwork, the season turned, and with it came the sound of swords being drawn again.
Brody and Tiernan had discussed if and when they would ride to join the larger host gathering near Selkirk, but knew they needed more information before any hard decisions could be made.
Thus, unable to have taken his leave before first light, Tiernan prepared himself to give a farewell to Rose.
He hadn’t prepared well enough, he realized as he caught sight of her standing with Brody’s wife near the entryway, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Her dark hair fell loose over her shoulders, no ribbons or pins to hold it back, nothing to tame it. The sight hit him harder than expected. She didn’t look like a woman of this time. She looked like a stranger, dropped into the wrong century with no means to disguise it.
Clenching his jaw, he finished securing the gear to the horse lent to him and tried—without success—to drive the images from his mind. But they returned with maddening clarity: the heat of her skin beneath his hands; the tentative way she’d first touched him, uncertain and exploring, and how that uncertainty had only made it... better; the feel of her breath, fast and shallow against his throat; and the press of her body beneath his, soft and new.
Christ, the moment her lips met his, the moment she hadn’t pulled away, it had been like floodgates giving way. She had felt like something forbidden, something rare and intoxicating, and he’d been too filled with longing to stop it. He hadn’t wanted to stop it, that was the truth of it. He’d wanted her, Rose, more than he’d ever wanted anything.
He remembered the way her hands moved over him, reverent and unsure, like she’d never done it before—because she hadn’t. When eventually he’d returned to bed last night, he’d found the evidence on the linen. Not his blood, but hers.
I’ve never done this before, gone this far. I’m not saying that to stop this. I just thought you should know.
The sight of the blood had stopped him cold, striking deeper than any wound he’d ever taken in battle. He’d felt shame then—raw and immediate—the kind of dishonor that settled in a man’s bones and would be difficult to dislodge.
She’d given him something she’d allowed no other man, and he hadn’t deserved it. He hadn’t treated it with the gravity it warranted. And after, he’d let her believe the worst of him, that she’d been nothing more than a poor substitute for another woman.
He clenched his teeth and tightened the strap a final time, jaw ticking with frustration.
When he straightened and turned, Brody was striding toward him. Rose’s face and figure were glimpsed over the MacIntyre’s shoulder, as she stood near the door with Emmy MacIntyre’shand threaded through her arm. A fleeting glance at her, the straightness of her back, the way her fingers curled into the wool of the breacan, suggested she was trying to appear composed, same as him.
