Chapter Seven
The haul from the loch had been pitiful, hardly enough to fill one basket. The fish had been scarce all winter, and the wind biting off the water made it clear the season wasn’t done yet. His leg ached more today, the old wound protesting each step as he trudged back toward the gate, his limp more pronounced than usual.
Of course, it wasn’t a laird’s duty to fish, but there was no one else to send, no extra hands to take his place. Dunmara’s last fisherman had left last spring, part of the larger exodus that had taken place after Brody’s return from war—scarred, limping, and without his brother, Laird James, or more than half the MacIntyre army.
Some had left out of fear, unwilling to tie their fortunes to a castle that no longer felt secure, its defenses weakened and its numbers too few. Others, driven by superstition, believed defeat brought curses and bad omens, and Dunmara seemed to wear both like a shroud. A handful had slipped away in the dead of night, quietly choosing new allegiances with stronger clans that promised safety—or simply a full winter larder.
And so, it had fallen to Brody to fill the gaps, to take on tasks far beneath his station just to keep Dunmara and the MacIntyres standing. The laird of a crumbling castle, reduced to scouring the loch for enough fish to keep what remained of his people from going hungry.
The short gate at the back of Dunmara groaned as he pushed through it, the cold air sharpening against his skin just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. He turned and locked the gate behind him and then, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders, he happened to glance up.
That’s when he saw her.
Emmy.
She was perched atop the battlements, wrapped in a thick, dark fur cloak, the one she’d been wearing when he’d found her. The wind tugged at her hair, sending loose strands fluttering across her face. She stood so still, she might have been a statue carved from the stone itself.
Brody frowned, shifting the weight of the fishing basket in his hand. What was she doing up there?
Her gaze drifted toward him, her eyes catching his for a fleeting moment. There was no smile, no wave—just the faintest inclination of her head in acknowledgment. A small gesture, nothing more. Then she turned away, her attention fixed once again on the distant horizon.
She looked... lost.
Out of place. Out of time.
A fragile, misplaced thing in a world too rough for her.
Brody clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the basket. He’d heard her crying again last night. The sound had carried through the stone walls, thin and hollow, like a ghost mourning in the dark. He’d stayed in his chamber, listening with a strange mix of pity and frustration, telling himself he’d intervene if it grew worse. But it hadn’t, and he’d done nothing.
Now here she was, wandering the battlements like a restless spirit. Alone.
Pathetic. That was the word that crossed his mind—though not unkindly. Just a sad, hollow truth.
And now, she was his responsibility.
Christ.
A voice called out, cutting through his thoughts. Brody turned to see Duncan striding toward him from the far side of the courtyard, his gray hair whipping in the wind.
“Mornin’ lad,” Duncan said, falling into step beside him, his eyes flicking to the basket. “Nae much of a catch, I see.”
Brody shook his head. “Nae worse than it’s been. Nae the worst it’ll be, I’d wager.”
Duncan’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m taking Callum and Rory out to check the southern fences. Found some tracks near the woods yesterday—could be wolves again.”
Brody swore under his breath. “That’s the last thing we need.”
“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “But better to deal with it now than wait for trouble to come knocking. We’ll go and come back, but with nae shepherd, we may need to station a watch out there overnight.”
Brody nodded, grateful as always for Duncan’s steady presence. The man had been his father’s right hand and had stayed on after Brody took the lairdship, loyal to a fault despite everything seemingly crumbling around them.
“We canna afford to lose anymore sheep,” Brody said, sighing as he proceeded to the far side of the courtyard and the kitchen door. “See what transpires over the next few days and nights. We may have to hunt the wolves away.”
Duncan paused, his gaze drifting toward the battlements where Emmy still stood. “And what of her?”
Brody’s jaw tightened, not quite sure what Duncan was asking. “She stays. For now.”
“But who is she? Figure that out yet?”
“Nae yet,” he answered, reluctant to spread the wild tale she’d told—though he wasn’t certain the womenfolk, Ailis in particular would keep that news under wraps.
Duncan raised a brow but said nothing more, his expression unreadable. He gave a curt nod and turned back toward the stables.
Brody didn’t know what he was going to do with her, or what he could do for her—hell, he didn’t even know what she truly was—but she was here, and it seemed she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
And like everything else, it fell to him to sort it out.
He glanced back over his shoulder once more before disappearing inside. Emmy hadn’t moved. She was still standing on the battlements, the snow beginning to dust her shoulders like ash.
She didn’t belong here.
***
Dunmara during the day was quiet, almost peaceful, though it often felt hollow—like a once-grand place that hadn’t breathed in years. The kitchen seemed to be the only room that saw any real life, the warmth of the fire and the steady hum of activity offering a comforting contrast to the cold, empty halls and unused rooms.
Dunmara at night, however, was something else entirely. It was eerie, almost tomblike. The shadows stretched longer and darker, and the walls seemed to close in, the silence broken only by the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the cracks in the stone.
It felt like a place caught between worlds—too ancient and uneasy to be truly at rest, too empty to feel alive.
The corridors were dim and drafty as Emmy wandered aimlessly. She wasn’t sure why she’d left her room; she wasn’t sure the oppressive weight of thoughts she couldn’t shut off would be cured by wandering.
Her bare feet padded softly on the floor, the chill of the stones seeping up through her skin. She’d thought wandering might clear her head. An earlier walk out on the rooftop this afternoon had actually been quite invigorating.
Though she was still wildly uncertain about what had happened to her and why, today had been... better.
Not great, but better.
Taking care of personal hygiene had solved some of her discomfort and, well, frankly, ickiness.
She’d asked the women in the kitchen how they cleaned their teeth and was relieved to find they used a rough mixture of salt and herbs, which wasn’t completely barbaric. Agnes had kindly scrounged up a bundle of twigs for her to chew on, explaining how they softened and frayed into bristles. Strange but oddly effective. She kept a stash of those twigs on that small bedside table in her room.
Once Emmy had scrubbed her teeth and washed her face— really washed it with hot water and a scrap of clean linen—she felt almost like herself again. Ailis had kindly offered to bring her a basin each evening so she could wash her face before bed. The youngest of the maids—though Emmy was beginning to think Ailis might actually be in her mid-thirties, much older than she’d initially thought—had also helped Emmy braid her hair the Highland way—thick, neat plaits twisted close to her head that kept it from becoming a knotted disaster overnight. She’d been given an old comb, made of bone— ew —for brushing her hair, and though she’d put it to use already, Emmy was determined that she could find something better, a bit grossed out about running the bones of a dead animal through her hair.
And then there was the question she couldn’t avoid any longer: underwear. What did medieval women wear beneath their skirts? The answers had ranged from nothing at all—depending on when the laundry got done, apparently—to some rudimentary linen wraps, leaving Emmy to quietly regret even asking. She’d cobbled together her own solution from scraps of material Ailis had found, and while it wasn’t exactly Victoria’s Secret, it worked. Certainly, she felt it was less drafty. For the most part, though, Emmy simply washed her lone pair of black silk panties every night in her chamber when she was done washing her face. She hung them on a rough bit of stone on the hearth, suspended above the fire.
It was strange how those tiny changes had made a difference. Small victories, but victories, nonetheless.
For the first time since her arrival, she felt a little more human. A little less like a stranded time traveler desperately clinging to whatever scrap of normalcy she could find. She wasn’t exactly thriving, but considered for the moment that merely surviving was good enough.
A faint noise drew her attention as she came upon the landing above the hall. Her breath caught the moment her eyes landed on Brody MacIntyre. He stood near the hearth in the otherwise vacant hall, his broad frame silhouetted against the soft glow of the firelight. To her surprise, he wore no shirt, his skin gleaming in the flickering light, the hard lines of his chest and shoulders carved in shadow and flame. His muscles shifted as he flexed and curled his fingers, as if testing a soreness in his arm. His shoulders were tight, and he moved with a stiffness that spoke of deep, persistent pain.
Her gaze lingered despite herself, her heart giving an unsteady thud. Magnificent was the only word that came to mind—rugged and raw. She’d seen her share of shirtless, handsome, muscular men—top models in New York, actors whose perfectly sculpted bodies filled up the big screen. But none could hold a candle to Brody MacIntyre.
Hollywood—America in general— would absolutely drool over this man.
He didn’t notice her at first, not until she started moving down the stairs, her palm gliding along the smooth, worn wood of the banister. His head turned at the sound of her steps, his dark eyes narrowing as they met hers.
The firelight flickered across his features, highlighting the sharp lines of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. He scowled, and for a moment, she forgot how ridiculous she must look—wrapped in her fur coat over the thin shift she used as a nightdress.
"Can’t sleep?" she guessed, her voice soft, in deference to the late hour.
As she drew closer, her gaze drifted to his arm—bare and corded with muscle. But what caught her eye was a scar, thick and ropey, cutting a jagged path across the flesh of his upper arm. It looked old, but not ancient, the edges raised and angry, a wound that must have been deep and unforgiving.
Instinctively, she slowed her steps, her eyes lingering on the scar before flicking back to his face. She half-expected him to shift or turn, maybe hide it, but he didn’t. He just stood there, silent and unmoving, his expression unreadable.
Though he didn’t seem to be wearing it proudly—Emmy knew plenty of guys who would—but since he hadn’t tried to hide it, Emmy dared to mention it. “Is there another one of those? On your leg?” Maybe larger, more gruesome, to have given him his limp?
His eyes flicked to the scar on his arm, then back to her, his expression as inscrutable as ever. For a moment, she thought he might ignore the question altogether.
"Aye," he said finally, his voice low and clipped. "Same fight."
No elaboration. No explanation. Just two words, delivered with a full stop.
Emmy raised a brow, waiting for more, but Brody had already shifted his weight, his attention sliding back toward the hearth. He looked like a man who’d said all he intended to say on the matter.
Emmy sighed. “Yeah, why would you want to discuss that with the nutjob from the twenty-first century?” she mused aloud.
He jerked his gaze to her, his expression suddenly sharp, and Emmy almost thought she read chastisement in his dark eyes. A scolding likely for her making assumptions about him more than anything else, if she had to guess.
She took one step closer to the fire and stretched out her hands toward the small flames.
“So, I’m restless and sleepless because you know—time-travel trauma,” she said pertly, trying to make light of it, “but what has you out of bed? Do aches and pain keep you awake?”
“I sleep just fine.”
She raised an eyebrow though she didn’t look at him. "Really? You look pretty awake right now. And it looked like you were flexing, working out a kink or soreness.”
Maybe he stiffened a bit, she wasn’t sure. He didn’t respond though.
"Old wounds can be tricky," Emmy said "They don’t just go away because you ignore them.”
Emmy turned to face him, and he instinctively did the same, as if driven by some natural defensive reflex—like he couldn’t help but square off with her, assessing her as a potential threat.
She grinned, unable to deny that she was intrigued by this. “Don’t be afraid,” she teased. “I’m half your size and likely don’t have a tenth of your strength.” Her gaze dropped again to his arm and the ugly scar that surely pained him.
With less hesitation than she felt, Emmy reached out, taking his forearm in her hands.
The contact was electric—unexpected and sharp, like the snap of static electricity. Brody’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, and Emmy felt her pulse quicken. For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then, perhaps because the silence felt too charged and she was already regretting what now seemed a recklessness, Emmy started talking—fast.
"So, not that I’m some kind of expert or anything," she said, her thumbs lightly brushing the hard muscle of his forearm, her forefinger moving over the raised scar, "but I do have a pretty lengthy physical therapy history. The first was for a broken arm—skiing accident. Well, technically it was a falling-off-the-ski-lift accident." She laughed, staring at his arm, while her cheeks pinkened because he was staring at her. "Not exactly my finest moment. You’d think it would happen on the slopes, right? Nope. Lost my balance on the chair and—bam! Broken arm. Totally mortifying."
Brody raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady, though he said nothing.
"I’m not clumsy or anything," she continued, undeterred, "Just... accident-prone. I’ve been in and out of PT for years. Broken bones. Sprained ankle. Torn ligament. The works. Pretty sure they had a file on me the size of that awful chem book in high school." She grinned again and met his gaze. "I was practically a regular. Got a punch card and everything—tenth visit free." Not unexpectedly, that lame joke was lost on him. She traced her fingers lightly over his upper arm as her smile faded into a thoughtful frown. The warmth of his skin and the hard muscles beneath didn’t escape her notice—not at all—but what stood out most was how tight he felt, very rigid. "This is really stiff," she murmured, pressing gently along the muscle. "It needs work."
She paused, her fingers still resting lightly on his forearm, trying to recall the specific exercises she’d been given during PT when she’d broken her arm. But the sudden tension between them made it hard to concentrate. She could feel his gaze on her, like heat pressing against her skin.
When she glanced up, her breath caught. Brody’s jaw was tight, his teeth clenched, a muscle ticking at his temple. His nostrils flared slightly as though he were holding his breath, and his eyes—those intense, stormy eyes—locked on hers with an unreadable expression.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move closer, either. Just stood there, silent and still, watching her as though unsure of what to do next—or maybe as though he were afraid to do anything at all.
“A-anyway,” she forged ahead, wrenching her gaze from his magnetic stare and releasing his arm at the same time, “I’ve learned enough about physical therapy to know that at its core, to make things better, you have to work through the pain. It’s all about repetition and consistency. Strengthening what’s weak, loosening what’s too tight, and doing it over and over until it stops hurting—or at least hurts less.” She shrugged, giving a self-deprecating grin. "Simple in theory, but it’s brutal. Skip a few days, and you’re back to square one. But if you stick with it, things start to heal. Slowly, but they do."
Brody said nothing, watching her with a look she couldn’t quite read. His eyes darkened, his jaw tightening again. The air felt heavy, the silence stretching taut between them.
Emmy swallowed. Well, I tried , she thought. Nervous now under the weight of his stare, she pulled her coat tighter around herself. "Well, um... good talk," she mumbled, a small breathless laugh erupting from her as she made to turn.
But before she could take even one step away, Brody moved. Fast.
His hand shot out, catching her by the collar of her coat, his fingers curling in the thick fur. Emmy barely had time to gasp before he tugged her forward, his other hand bracing her waist, pulling her flush against him.
And then his mouth was on hers—firm, urgent, and impossibly warm.
Her heart stuttered, the world tilting sideways. She froze for a second, stunned by the suddenness of it. The kiss was nothing like she expected—not gentle or hesitant, but fierce and consuming, like he’d finally lost a battle he’d been fighting.
His lips were firm and warm, stealing the breath from her lungs. There was no hesitation in the kiss—only heat and intensity, a rush of something wild and undeniable. Brody thrust his tongue inside her mouth, probing and warm. Emmy moaned against his lips and let her tongue explore his mouth.
Her hands found his chest, her fingers curling into his hard but smooth flesh. For a moment, everything else disappeared. There was only him—the strength in his touch, the roughness of his stubbled jaw against her skin, the possessive way he held her. She leaned into him, savoring his touch, his wild kiss.
The kiss grew deeper and Emmy placed her hand on the back of Brody’s head.
The kiss was only seconds old, the very idea had not once entered her mind, and yet already she wanted more, wanted it to go on forever.
Brody, apparently, felt differently.
In the next moment, he pulled back abruptly, his breathing uneven, his expression hardening almost immediately.
"I should nae have done that," he muttered, his voice rough.
Emmy blinked up at him, still dazed, wonderfully breathless. "Why did you?"
Brody’s jaw worked, but he said nothing, his gaze darting away from hers. The muscle in his cheek twitched again.
"Brody," she pressed, her heart still racing. "Why did you kiss me?"
He took a step back, his eyes dark and unreadable. "It dinna matter. It willna happen again."
Emmy’s stomach twisted, the rush of the kiss replaced by a hollow ache. He looked... angry. Frustrated. Like he regretted everything.
"Right," she said, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "We’ll just pretend it didn’t happen,” she said, the sarcasm heavy.
His eyes snapped back to hers, something hard flickering across his face. With a curt nod, he turned and left the hall.
Emmy stood frozen, her pulse still racing. She watched as he climbed the stairs, her gaze raking over the breadth of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his bare back.
God, he really was magnificent—a living, breathing sculpture of raw strength and masculinity.
She found herself wishing she’d explored more of him, that she’d taken that brief startling moment to really touch him.
Brody moved with purpose, his steps soundless despite the weight of his boots. He disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairs, leaving her breathless and standing in the middle of the room, unsure whether she wanted to run after him or hide from the shame of his rejection.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, the sensation of his kiss still burning there. Her thoughts spun wildly. He’d kissed her— God, he’d kissed her! And it had been... incredible. But the way he’d looked at her afterward, like he wished he hadn’t—like it was some mistake—cut deeper than she expected.
"Oh, that’s right," she recalled scathingly to herself, “he thinks I’m completely unhinged.”
She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat, turning into something closer to a sigh. Her fingers curled into the fur near her throat, her mind replaying the kiss again and again.
Brody MacIntyre was like Scotland’s medieval version of that leprechaun in the cereal commercials. His kiss was magically delicious.
Too bad he apparently regretted every magnificent moment of it.