Page 86 of Here in Your Arms
Though centuries old, Maella was young in the world of thenigheanan sgàil,a daughter of shadows born only hundreds of years ago and not a millennia ago like the elder daughters.
She’d been so energized to have discovered Rose, to have sensed her connection to this time—to Margaret.
Maella recognized immediately that Rose and Margaret were echoes of the same soul across time, what some called"soul mirrors." Thenigheanan sgàilcalled it theSgàthan-anama, the soul’s reflection that spans lifetimes. They were not reincarnations exactly, but parallel sparks destined to repeat, the same person under different skies. Rose was drawn to Tiernan because part of her alreadyknewhim.
Some souls just ripple, Maella had been taught. They repeat themselves, not to relive the same story, but to finish it. Margaret’s life was meant to shape something—a lineage, a moment in history, or Tiernan himself—but her early death severed that thread. As with all thenigheanan sgàilwho were bound to preserve balance, Maella simply pulled a matching thread from the future to repair what was lost. Rose wasn’t sent back toreplaceMargaret, but to complete what Margaret could not.
Maella sighed, distraught. She’d meant to repair time and balance by bringing Rose here to this time, but now she’d ruined it.
Oh, if only Rose hadn’t touched her!
She’d grabbed her without warning, had just seized her wrist, with that fire and fear and sudden certainty in her eyes. Maella had reacted purely on instinct. Her magic, always unruly, always more flare than control, had surged straight through her like a livewire. The air had gone weird and thin, her fingertips had sparked, and then—poof. Gone.
Rose Carlisle had vanished.
Maella groaned and flopped backward into the grass, staring up at the pale spring sky. Her whole body still ached from it, a slow, dragging weariness that clung to her like soaked wool. No one had told her howdebilitatingmoving someone through time—or even just across distance—would be. She’d learned that the first time, when she’d purposefully relocated Rose, and now had experienced it again, albeit unwittingly this time. It felt like she’d been wrung out, drained dry and hung crooked on a line. Evennow, more than a day later, she hadn’t fully recovered. She’d tried to track Rose again earlier this morning, but she simply hadn’t the strength. Her vision had blurred, her legs buckled. There was nothing left in her.
She’d seen where Rose had landed in the instant it had happened but knew nothing of her whereabouts today.
At the moment of relocation, Maella had a fleeting glimpse of Rose, alone, lifeless, in the middle of unfamiliar land that shimmered wrong at the edges. There had been smoke in the air and bloodied earth underfoot, remnants of tents and hooves and booted feet. Maella had felt it in her chest like a pressure drop before a storm. Armies. They were moving, circling, converging, and Rose was somewhere in the path of it all. That girl didn’t know enough to keep her head down, let alone how to tell a Scots rebel from an English soldier. She might get picked up or cut down or disappear again, this time for good.
Brody, bless his mortal heart, had been trying. But he wasn’t looking in the right direction. His riders searched the woods near Dunmara, combed the foothills eastward, doubled back toward the village roads, but Rose was so much further away.
A sigh escaped Maella, and the trees responded, their leaves shivering.
A whisper in the distance caught her attention. The subtle shift of hooves on wet ground, a mind tortured with concern and regret.
Maella’s eyes flashed open and she sat up.
He was here.
Tiernan.
She felt him before she saw him—like a wave of heat slamming into cold water. The air around him crackled, his energy a low, growling hum that disturbed the birds overhead. When he came into view, riding hard into Dunmara’s outercourt, his jaw was set, his plaid snapping behind him, his whole being fixed to a singular, furious purpose.
Maella’s heart leapt with hope.
Hewould find her. He was not a man to stop, to yield, to shrug and say, “We’ve tried.” Tiernan would move heaven and earth. He had more at stake. She could feel it pulsing off of him, heavy and ragged—the fear, the regret, the quiet, blistering need. That fierce warrior of his might be scowling from horseback, but somewhere inside that brutal man was a wound, and it was bleeding for Rose.
Maella scrambled to her feet and crept toward the edge of the keep’s wall, peeking out from behind a crooked stone pillar. She wasn’t supposed to be seen but hadn’t the strength to render herself invisible.
Please,she thought, narrowing her eyes, reaching for him.
She focused on his mind, on the heat and weight of it and tried to form a picture for him. A curve of a hillside, a bent tree near a stream, the red clay soil and the mist-shrouded south. She tried to show him where Rose had landed, where she still wandered alone.
But his mind—by the ancient flames!His mind was like a solid stone wall. His energy, raw and coiled, resisted her completely. She pushed gently, then harder, searching for a crack, a soft place to seep in, but it was like trying to send water through granite. Every effort broke against him, splintered and sent scattering.
“You stupid, stubborn man,” she whispered, a tremble of panic rising in her voice. “She’s out there. She needs you.”
She dropped her hand, frustrated. She couldn’t get through. Not in her present state, not without more power.
Still, her heart pounded with hope. He was here, at least.
Tiernan would not stop until he found Rose.
Chapter Twenty
The damp earth clung to her skin as she woke with a start, curled awkwardly in a patch of moss and pine needles, her head pounding and her limbs stiff with cold. It was dark, but she couldn't tell whether it was just before dawn or after sunset. Trees loomed above her, limbs thick and tangled, and a hush blanketed the forest as Rose pushed herself up slowly, her fingers trembling as she brushed at the leaves tangled in her hair.
