Chapter Three
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Emmy took a deep breath and reached for the wooden door handle. It felt heavy and foreign under her palm, rough like everything else in this strange room. She paused, summoning her courage. If this turned out to be some elaborate escape room experience, Madison was getting a stern talking-to for dragging her into it.
She turned the handle and pushed. The door creaked open on rusty hinges, the sound echoing like a trumpet blast in the silence. Squinting against the sudden brightness, Emmy stepped out.
What she saw made her breath catch.
It was as if she’d stepped through the door in The Wizard of Oz. Except instead of black and white to Technicolor, it was more like dim and gloomy to... less dim and gloomy. Narrow, drafty hallways stretched ahead, their stone walls lined with heavy wooden beams. Flickering torchlight illuminated tapestries hanging on the walls—picturesque scenes of battles, hunting parties, and what she swore was a unicorn.
The air was colder here, somehow both damp and dry, and smelled faintly of smoke.
Her bare feet padded softly on the icy floor as she ventured down the hall. It was eerily silent, the kind of quiet that made her think of tombs. “Wonderful. I’ve stumbled into medieval The Shining.”
She peeked into the first open doorway she passed. Inside was a room that looked like a storage closet, filled with barrels, sacks, and a random broom leaning against the wall. Another door revealed what appeared to be a dining room, complete with a long, battered table and several mismatched chairs.
Everywhere, the same oppressive stillness hung in the air.
Her stomach churned uneasily, but she shoved the feeling aside. Focus. Figure out what’s going on. Find your friends. It’s just... a very elaborate and totally unauthorized historical reenactment?
Turning another corner, she nearly jumped out of her skin when a figure appeared in the dim light ahead. A girl—no, woman—was shuffling along with a stack of linens piled in her arms. Emmy blinked at her, taking note of the wide eyes, the nervous, almost rabbit-like demeanor, and her floor-length dress, which looked like it belonged to the costume department of a period film.
“Hello!” Emmy called, trying to sound friendly and not like someone who had just woken up in what was beginning to seem like a nightmare.
The woman stopped dead, her eyes widening even further. She let out a tiny squeak of alarm, clutching the linens to her chest. Then, before Emmy could say another word, she whirled around and bolted.
“Wait!” Emmy called, breaking into a jog before she truly thought it through—why the woman seemed alarmed by her and why Emmy felt the need to chase her.
The woman was fast, but Emmy’s longer legs kept her close. She chased her through a maze of hallways, the blanket swishing around her, her bare feet slapping the cold stone floor.
Finally, they emerged into a cavernous hall. Emmy skidded to a stop as the woman did the same. More confused than even moments ago when she’d woken, Emmy watched as the woman’s gaze darted from her to the far end of the room.
Emmy’s gaze followed.
At the far end of the room, a man sat behind a massive table, speaking with another man, an older and less...interesting one. The firelight cast shadows across the younger man’s face, highlighting sharp, chiseled features and a pair of stormy eyes that locked onto her the instant she entered the hall. He stopped speaking to stare at her, not even trying to disguise either his thorough, nearly offensive scrutiny of her from head to toe, or the fact that he apparently didn’t like what he saw, given how his mouth twisted in a bit of a snarl.
Her cheeks colored almost instantly under the weight of his hostile stare. It wasn’t just the way his gaze seemed to pierce her—it was the way it stripped her bare, like he could see right through the thin nightgown and straight to her bones. She felt exposed, nearly naked, and utterly lacking. Her bewilderment spiraled wildly, and Emmy stood frozen.
The woman—maid?— began jabbering in a language Emmy didn’t recognize.
The man behind the table rose slowly and scowled harshly at the woman, speaking brusquely to her as he jerked his hand and thumb toward a doorway to his left. The woman bobbed nervously and without another glance at Emmy, made her escape from the spacious room.
This definitely isn’t the Hilton, Emmy thought to herself, and he certainly is no bellhop.
Emmy shifted on her feet, placing one over the other in an effort to warm it, as the large man stepped out from behind the table, his boots striking the ground in slow, deliberate steps that echoed ominously. She immediately noticed the faint limp in his stride. Just as quickly, she realized his deliberate, measured pace wasn’t to ease the limp but to mask it, as if he were determined to make it appear less noticeable.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and possibly the most intimidating person she had ever encountered, with a face that looked as though it had been chiseled from granite.
She swallowed nervously and darted a glance at the other man, who hadn’t moved, though he wore a frown nearly as severe as this one slowly bearing down on her.
Returning her gaze to the giant approaching her, Emmy opened her suddenly trembling lips and asked in a small voice, “Where am I?”
Her question only drew his brows lower over his eyes.
She cleared her throat, summoning the remains of courage—that which was quickly evaporating in this man’s menacing presence. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice wavering slightly, “but I’m not sure what happened or where my friends are...or...”
She let that trail off as he stopped a few feet in front of her. She was five-foot-nine, and he seemed to tower over her. Dressed as they were—he wearing a lot of leather and draped in a plush though ragged fur and she wearing only a thin slip of a nightgown and wrapped in a blanket—she felt suddenly and distinctly like she was Emma Watson’s tiny Belle in front of Dan Steven’s mammoth Beast .
His sharp gaze swept over her, stripping away any sense of composure she’d managed to muster. In an instant, she felt ten times more vulnerable than she had moments before. Worse, his expression—a slight sneer, punctuated by the subtle curl of his lip—gave her the distinct impression—again—that he didn’t like what he saw. Not one bit. But as she studied him more closely, she began to wonder if that disdainful look was simply his default expression, etched into the hard lines of his face.
Still, she couldn’t deny the striking presence of the man. It wasn’t just his formidable size, but more so his face, all sharp angles and fierce intensity, that commanded attention. His eyes—an exceptional deep, dark amber—were captivating despite the steely glare he directed at her. The thick, enviable fringe of lashes did nothing to soften his expression.
Finally he spoke, replying in a language she didn’t understand, his words low and just as harsh as what he’d used on the maid.
“I don’t speak... that,” she said, shaking her head. “English? Parlez-vous anglais?”
His expression shifted, a flicker of something—surprised annoyance, maybe—crossing his face. “English?” he said haltingly, his accent thick and unfamiliar.
“Yes!” she blurted, relief washing over her. “Thank God. Okay, great. So... where am I? And how did I get here?” She snapped her mouth shut, cringing at the tremor in her voice, the way it made her sound dangerously close to tears. Pathetic. Still, if this man didn’t have some answers—any answers—she was pretty sure breaking down would be entirely justified.
“Ye stand at Dunmara,” he announced, his voice impossibly deep.
“This is Dunmara?” she asked, indicating the room in general with a blanket-covered hand. He nodded slowly, beginning to look as confused as she felt. “But we’re still in Pitlochry?”
The man narrowed his eyes, seeming now more suspicious than merely confused. “Pitlochry?” he repeated slowly, the word awkward on his tongue.
“Yes, Pitlochry,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Little town? Quaint shops? Probably not far from wherever this is...?”
The man exchanged a glance with the other man, who’d come to stand a few feet away from him, who muttered something in that unfamiliar language.
Emmy took a hesitant step backward, her legs suddenly shaky. “I don’t remember...what happened. How did I get here?”
“Ye were discovered in the watch tower,” the man said, his accent more pronounced over the longer phrase.
He spoke slowly, almost hesitantly, giving Emmy the impression that he didn’t use English very often.
“The watch tower?” She repeated, further dumbfounded. “How did I get there? Last thing I remember was walking down the street in Pitlochry, from the restaurant to the hotel—have you seen my friends?”
“Nae friends,” said the older man, tilting his head at her as if he found her very curious.
No less confused, Emmy sighed with a bit of frustration, “So, what is this? Dunmara? Is this a hotel? I didn’t see my purse or my phone...is there a phone I can use?” She glanced around, trying to make sense of what seemed nothing more than a large room in an old castle. “Can you point me to the front desk?”
“I dinna ken any of...” the man said, “Any of what ye say.”
Dinna ken? “You don’t understand?” Emmy frowned. “What—hotel? Purse? Phone?”
“Aye, that.”
Emmy opened her mouth but said nothing. Didn’t understand...any of that?
A chill crept through her, and she tightened the blanket around herself, shifting uncomfortably.
The man’s sharp eyes caught the movement, and his gaze dropped. One brow arched as he studied her bare feet.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, a flush of embarrassment flaring up as if she’d committed some unforgivable faux pas by walking around barefoot and wrapped in a blanket. The nightgown and blanket she wore concealed her almost entirely, except for her shins and ankles, but that didn’t stop her from feeling exposed under his scrutiny.
Her blush deepened as his gaze lifted slowly, like painfully, purposefully slowly. It was a deliberate, calculated inspection, the kind designed to unsettle. As if she needed any help in that department—she was already teetering on the edge of full-blown panic.
She raised her chin, meaning to show—falsely project—that she wasn’t unnerved by either him or this bizarre situation.
“Who should I speak to about an Uber or a taxi, or whatever, to take me back to Pitlochry?”
Again, the brown eyes fixed on hers and became very skinny. He shook his head. “Ye speak to me about everything, anything, but I dinna ken u-ber or...tax—taxi?”
Emmy nodded while her lips thinned. She had a sudden suspicion that he was toying with her. There was no way he didn’t know what an Uber or taxi was—he had to be playing some kind of joke. My God—have I been kidnapped by a deviant predator? she was caused to wonder.
She took another step backward. “I’ll just—”
“Ye are afraid of me?” He asked, his expression darkening.
Unable to lie, Emmy gave a tight, shaky nod as the first frightened tears welled in her eyes. Her heart raced, and a chilling thought crept in: what if he was the sort who thrived on fear, a man who found pleasure in his victim’s terror? She forced herself to hold his gaze, though her mind was spiraling. Strangely, she couldn’t help but notice how striking he was—handsome, she supposed, if you liked the burly, biker types. It was almost absurd to think someone like him might need to resort to deviance. Cleaned up and with a hint of a smile, he probably wouldn’t face much rejection at all.
“Och, lass, we’ve no intention of terrifying ye,” the older man said, his voice carrying a hint of not-so-gentle reproach as he sent a glare to the one in front of her.
Emmy blinked, her focus shifting to the older man as she analyzed his words. There was something in his tone—subtle, but unmistakable—that felt like a quiet chastisement, likely directed at the fur-clad, brooding biker guy for his icy demeanor. She wasn’t sure if it made her feel any safer, but at least someone here seemed to grasp basic decency.
“Thank you,” she said deliberately, flashing a half-smile. “I appreciate that.” Wondering if she might get farther with him, she addressed her next question to him directly. “Did you happen to see, or do you know where my purse and phone are?”
“I dinna ken ye came to us with naught but silk and fur, lass,” he said, moving one step closer to her.
Emmy took a better look at him, trying to size him up. The older man was completely different to the imposing figure beside him. His graying hair, cropped short and a little uneven, framed a weathered face marked by deep lines—though they seemed more the product of long days and laughter than hostility. His kind hazel eyes held a warmth that softened his homeless-man appearance, and the corners of his mouth tipped up faintly, as though he was someone who smiled often—or who, at least, wanted to put her at ease.
His build was sturdy but not intimidating, with broad shoulders and hands that suggested a man accustomed to a lifetime of physical labor. His clothes, well-worn leather and wool, looked old and not precisely clean, and Emmy noticed several places where some homemade patching had been applied.
She found herself relaxing—just slightly—under his gaze. Despite her unease, there was something about this older man that felt steady and dependable. Still, she wasn’t sure if she could trust anyone yet.
"And um," she said, pressing on, "where is this—you said you found me in a watch tower? Where is that?"
“Other side of the glen, lass, and how ye climbed up there dressed as ye are—er, were—and how long ye’d been there, I dinna ken,” he said, raising his thick brows at her as if she might provide some answers.
Emmy shrugged helplessly inside the warm blanket. “Like I said, I don’t know what happened. I was out with my friends and we were—oh, gosh, I just remembered we met this woman.” She raised her hand, blanket and all, and covered her cheek with the memory. “She was strange...like eerie strange. She said some weird things, something about she chose well.” She frowned now with the recollection, reliving the chill she’d known then at the strange aura that surrounded the woman. “I passed out, I think. I’ve never fainted in my life.” Her brow wrinkled. “That’s the last thing I remember.”
While she looked at the man as if he might fill in some of the blanks, he only shrugged, saying, “Nae fever to say ye are diseased, with wild imaginings....”
Emmy’s brows crinkled more. Diseased? Well, that’s rude.
Reluctantly, her gaze shifted back to the fur-clad biker guy—though at this point, she was starting to doubt the biker part altogether. Everything about him screamed wrong era, from the top of his scruffy, unkempt hair to the tips of his boots that looked like they belonged in some poorly funded medieval reenactment. A thick, fur-lined cloak hung heavily over his shoulders, fastened at his collarbone with a tarnished bronze clasp. The cloak’s hem was streaked with dirt, likely from trudging through mud or snow, and it looked like something straight out of a period film rather than modern fashion. Beneath the cloak, leather straps crisscrossed his broad chest, and she caught a glint of metal tucked in there.
His boots were leather too, but they looked like something out of a costume department: thick, worn, and tied up with straps that wound up his calves. His belt, wide and decorated with what might have been Celtic designs, held a large, ugly knife in a battered sheath.
A knife. The man carried a knife.
She adjusted her perception of him entirely, from biker guy to mountain man.
The whole ensemble looked authentic, down to the weathered edges and frayed stitching, but it didn’t belong here—or rather, it didn’t belong in any version of here Emmy had ever known. It left her frowning, both at the sheer ridiculousness of it and at the growing fright gnawing at her stomach.
She met his dark gaze, certain he hadn’t looked away from her once.
“Is this...well, why does everything look like we’re in, I don’t know, like Columbus’s time?” At his blank look, she clarified, “Sorry, I guess that’s an American reference. I just meant it looks like we’ve gone back to the year 1492.”
His blank look evolved into one of bafflement. “Gone back,” he repeated slowly.
Good Lord. He just might be as thick as his neck. Fine, she’d just have to get used to spelling everything out, and from this point on, simplifying her questions. “As in, it looks like we’ve gone back in time.” She was about to clarify and suggest that at least he and his friend and this house looked that way, but then she glanced down at herself and realized it might apply to her as well now, dressed as she was.
An alarming thought struck her. Her eyes widened, prompting the man to lift one brow in question.
“Who dressed me?” She rushed out. “I mean, who undressed me and then dressed me in this...thing? Please tell me it was the maid, that woman I followed into this room.” Please, oh please, oh please .
“Aye, Ailis and Agnes tended ye,” he answered.
She managed a small, tentative smile. “Good,” she murmured. “That’s...good.”
The man’s expression shifted—just for a moment. His intense gaze softened, his eyes catching hers as if her smile had disarmed him. It wasn’t much, just a flicker, but she saw it. Felt it. A crack in his otherwise impenetrable armor.
Emmy didn’t consider herself vain, but she knew the power of a well-timed smile. Her face had gotten her out of a speeding ticket or two, and she’d long understood how a well-placed smile could smooth over awkward situations or win over a skeptical acquaintance. This was different, of course—she wasn’t trying to finesse her way into a last-minute dinner reservation at a crowded restaurant or diffuse an awkward social misstep. She was stranded, terrified, and desperate. If the barest hint of appreciation in this intimidating man’s eyes could be coaxed into something resembling empathy, then she’d do what she had to.
She let her smile linger, just a touch brighter now, and shifted her posture ever so slightly to meet his eye level. “I don’t really know what’s going on here, but...” Her voice trembled, but she leaned into it, letting her vulnerability take center stage. “You’re clearly the one in charge. Can you help me? I need to get back to my friends.”
She blinked up at him, willing her eyes to convey the full weight of her confusion and fear. It wasn’t calculated—she truly felt every ounce of it—but if he responded to her vulnerability, all the better.
For a moment, his gaze stayed locked on hers, as if he were trying to figure her out. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, that brief softness vanished, replaced by the same stony, unreadable mask he’d worn since she’d first laid eyes on him.
“Where do ye need to be?” he asked in clipped, impatient English.
“Pitlochry” she asked, her heart pounding.
“I dinna ken Pitlochry,” he reminded her. “Ye need to return to England.”
“I’m not from—I wasn’t in England. I was visiting Scotland, staying at—”
“Visiting? Visiting Scotland?” The older man barked. “An Englishwoman? During a war?”
“War?”
“What were ye doing up in the watch tower?” The mountain man asked.
“I told you I don’t remember any watch tower. I don’t even know where—or frankly, what—that is.”
The man rolled his eyes, patience apparently not his strong suit. “But that is where I found ye. I’m less concerned with how ye got there—garbed as ye were—than why ye were there?”
Emmy replied tersely, enunciating every word, “I don’t know anything about a watch tower or how I got there.”
He stared at her fiercely, as if measuring her, trying to decide if she was to be believed or not.
“Ye may remain here at Dunmara for the time being,” he allowed without a hint of graciousness. “I caution ye nae to wander. The Highlands are nae hospitable to strangers and the present clime makes it even less friendly.”
More unfriendly than you? She somehow refrained from asking.
His begrudging offer begged an obvious question. “Are you—is Dunmara your home?” She hesitated, the possibility dawning on her. This isn’t an old castle-turned-inn? A hotel or cozy B&B would’ve been infinitely preferable to... whatever this was. She’d much rather have woken up in a quaint tourist trap, not someone’s private, intimidating estate.
Or a hospital, since she was beginning to fear that she’d lost her mind. At the very least, she wondered if she’d hit her head or something.
“Aye, Dunmara belongs to the MacIntyres,” he acknowledged solemnly, as though the weight of the name alone should mean something to her.
Emmy nodded, having no idea what else she might ask to unravel the mystery of what had happened to her. Each question that she had asked—and certainly some of their answers—only provoked more questions. Apparently, this guy found her passed out—in the many-times mentioned watch tower—and had brought her to his home. If nothing else, it suggested he had some decency, didn’t it? She latched onto that fragile hope, holding it close. Maybe she wasn’t in danger from him after all. Or at least, not immediate danger.
Boldly, she freed her right hand from inside the blanket and extended it to the man. “I’m Emmy Clarke, by the way. Thank you for...bringing me here or...um, getting me out of the watch tower.”
He stared at her hand as if he wasn’t sure what he was expected to do with it.
Then, simply ignoring her proffered hand, he introduced himself.
“Brody MacIntyre of Dunmara.”
“Brody,” she repeated, withdrawing her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured quietly, self-consciously.
He made no response to this. Not a word, not a nod, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. The silence that followed was as icy as his demeanor, making it painfully clear that—unsurprisingly—he did not consider it nice to meet her.
“Can you...” she soldiered on hesitantly, “can you help me get back to Pitlochry?”
“Aye,” he surprised her by agreeing so quickly, “as soon as ye tell me where it is.”
While she stared open-mouthed at him, he turned and called out brusquely, which brought back that scurrying young woman quickly enough that Emmy was sure she’d been waiting, or eavesdropping, just out of view.
The woman darted forward and motioned that Emmy should follow her.
“Ailis will return ye to the chamber,” Brody MacIntyre said, his back to her as he strode toward the table at the far end of the room. “See that she has something decent to wear,” he instructed over his broad shoulder.
Stunned at being dismissed so carelessly, Emmy turned away from the enigmatic man and followed the woman, no less confused than before.