Page 82 of Here in Your Arms
Moments later, Tiernan and his party rode out through the gates of Dunmara, the gray sky above matching the dull ache that had settled behind his ribs.
The road to Druimlach was familiar and not long. The hills passed in a blur, with men riding quietly around him. Normally, he preferred the silence. Today, it left too much room for thought.
He’d made the right choice, he told himself. Of that, he was certain. Rose Carlisle didn’t belong in his world. She had no place among his people, no safety at Druimlach. Her face—so like and unlike Margaret’s—would only keep old ghosts stirred. The whispers and dread would never cease.
And he... he’d already let things go too far.
Druimlach loomed ahead by late morning, the stone keep rising against the cloudy sky.
Home.
And yet, something in him twisted as he crossed the threshold. It didn’t feel like he’d come home. It felt like he’d left something behind.
Chapter Nineteen
It had been two weeks since Tiernan left Dunmara.
Fourteen days of waking without any chance of seeing his handsome face, of meals without his brooding presence at the table, of cold, quiet nights where memories of being entwined in his arms were most painful. Rose had counted them at first, each day a weight that tugged at her spirit. But somewhere between the ninth and tenth day, she stopped. Not because she didn’t long for him, or didn’t still hope for a different outcome, but because the weight of that longing had become exhausting.
She refused to drown in it.
Whatever had passed between them in that chamber abovestairs, it had ended when he walked out the next morning without looking back. And if that was how it had to be, then so be it. She would not unravel over a man who had made his choice, even if that choice had left her feeling disposable and desolate.
Dunmara was a quiet place, with few inhabitants outside Brody and Emmy and now Rose, but not without rhythm or purpose. She spent hours in the kitchens, learning from Maud the names and uses of unfamiliar herbs, the eyed-not-measured recipe for bread, and how to make broth stretch through three meals. With the young maid, Alice, Rose learned the patterns of daily labor, how to clean the hearths and the hall, how to properly wash a woolen cloak without ruining it, and the daily routine of housemaids. Agnes taught her how to dry strips of meat for preservation, how to mend seams and repurpose old cloth, and Rose practiced her stitches until they no longer looked like knots tied by a drunken toddler.
On warmer days, she and Emmy walked to the village, Emmy coaching her in the old Gaelic as they strolled. After a few such visits, they began to draw a group of nosy children, curiousabout Rose’s strange speech and efforts to learn. Just yesterday, she’d read aloud to them from a bit of parchment Emmy had helped her copy phonetically, and they’d clapped like she’d performed a miracle, even though she was certain she’d botched half the words.
And for all of it, Rose told herself it wasn’t for nothing, she wasn’t simply surviving, she was learning to live.
If this was her life now, then she would live it the best way she knew how.
And at times, well, the pain in her chest felt a little less sharp.
The sun was warm above the green sweep of the village, casting long golden shafts across the fields where sheep grazed, weeds were being pulled, and new seedlings planted. Rose wandered along a narrow footpath that curved past the grazing paddocks, and then farther until Dunmara and the village were well behind her.
She saw a woman at the edge of a northern field. A young woman, maybe in her late teens, with wild russet curls spilling from a lopsided braid, who was crouched low in the tall grass, her fingers working furiously to uproot what looked like nettle or yarrow. She wore a faded apron and an odd expression—half determined, half distracted—as if she were mid-argument with herself since she seemed to be talking to someone though there was no one else about.
Rose slowed, curious.
“Need a hand?” she called.
The girl startled, nearly losing her balance as she twisted to greet Rose. She looked up with a smile that was wide, but noticeably strained.
“Oh! Nae, nae, I’m quite all right, thank ye.” Her voice was bright, high, with the distinct lilt of someone trying just a little too hard to sound normal.
Rose stepped closer. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you new to Dunmara?”
The girl blinked, then offered a flustered shake of her head, bouncing her wayward curls. “Oh aye...er, nae. I’ve always been here.”
Rose smiled politely, if cautiously. “I’m Rose.”
The girl’s eyes flared slightly. “Of course ye are.”
Rose’s smile faltered. “Have we met?”
“Nae! Nae,” The girl said quickly, standing up and brushing her hands on her apron. “I just mean... I’ve heard of ye. Everyone has.”
“Oh. Right.” Rose murmured, sorry to hear that her resemblance to Margaret might plague her here at Dunmara as well. She studied the young woman for a moment longer, something about her energy too... jittery. “And what is your name?” she prompted in a friendly manner.
