Chapter Eight
Brody tightened the girth strap on his horse, ignoring the destrier’s impatient snort. The beast leaned heavily into him, but Brody shoved back with his shoulder. It was cold but clear, a perfect day for hunting—or rather, a perfect excuse to escape. Hunting was both a necessity and a reprieve—a chance to breathe, to clear his head without the constant press of walls, responsibilities, and people.
And her.
The image of Emmy flashed in his mind, and his jaw clenched. Her soft lips. That nervous chatter. He’d been... distracted. Captivated, if he was honest—obviously enough to kiss her. He still didn’t know what had come over him. One moment she was chattering on about broken bones and healing, and the next—God help him—he was pulling her close and tasting her.
What the hell had he been thinking?
He had no business pursuing matters of the flesh—not when grain was running low, the fishing was drying up, and the store of root vegetables was nearly gone. He was the broken laird of a crumbling keep. His people relied on him for survival, not for foolish dalliances with strange women who spoke of other centuries and used words he’d never heard before.
He tightened the strap once more, harder than necessary, and gave the horse a firm pat on the neck.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, as heavy as the walls of Dunmara itself sometimes did. There were roofs to be mended, stores to be rationed, and fences to repair, a hundred tasks for him and precious few others.
He couldn’t afford distractions.
And Emmy Clarke was not merely a distraction. She was something far worse: she was chaos wrapped in a bonny face, quick wit, and unsettling kindness—a disruption to the order he’d built for himself. She was a walking riddle of strange words and too-easy smiles, worming her way beneath his skin without even trying. He had no time for riddles. He had more important matters to deal with than untangling whatever madness had brought her here—or worse, whatever madness had provoked him to kiss her.
His pulled the stirrup toward him, tugging it slightly to check the length before letting it swing back, all while the phantom warmth of Emmy Clarke still lingered at the edges of his memory. The way she’d touched his arm—tentative but sure, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced up to see her standing in the archway of the stable, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, her breath misting in the frigid air. The morning light hit her face at just the right angle, softening the edges and turning her eyes the most vivid green he’d ever seen—different from the dim torchlight in the hall last night. Brighter. Wilder. Striking in a way that made it hard to look away, yet dangerous to linger.
She was enveloped once more in that strange fur cloak, black and glossy, unlike anything he’d ever seen in Scotland. The wind toyed with loose strands of her hair, sending them dancing across her cheek.
His pulse lurched against his will.
"Going somewhere?" she asked, her voice light but edged with curiosity.
"Hunting," he said curtly, turning back to his horse and gripping the bridle tighter than necessary.
"Can I go with you?"
"No." Christ, no. Not today, not ever.
His jaw tightened as he adjusted the reins, his mind already conjuring the disaster that one kiss could bring. It was already happening—the thing he’d feared most in the aftermath. The kiss had given her ideas. Ideas that he wanted her company. That he might kiss her again. Exactly what he couldn’t let her believe. If he refused her now, it would make things clear. Whatever foolishness had sparked that kiss would be snuffed out, no misunderstanding left between them.
He kept his back to her, breathing through the tension thrumming in his chest. "It’s nae a stroll in the hills," he added, his tone sharper than intended. "It’s cold, it’s long, and it’s quiet. Hunting’s done best in silence."
He expected her to drop it, most people would have. His tone was meant to end conversations, not invite more.
"Please," she said, stepping into the stable. "I can ride. I’m not some helpless damsel.”
"It’s nae about riding," Brody said, pulling the stirrup down before realizing he’d already done that.
“I can be patient," she insisted, her voice rising with determination. "I can be quiet, too. I’m not asking to shoot anything. I just... I can’t be in the kitchen today. It’s too depressing, honestly. Too dark, too...I don’t know.”
"Then ride around the grounds," he said, keeping his tone cool. "Stay close to the keep.”
Emmy wasn’t satisfied, and she wasn’t done apparently.
"Don’t think I want to tag along just because you kissed me," she boldly claimed. "I get it. It was a mistake. A heat-of-the-moment, spur-of-the-moment... whatever kind of moment mistake." She waved her hands vaguely, then planted them on her hips. "I’m not expecting you to do it again. Believe me, I’m not reading into it or—"
He glanced at her sharply, one brow raised, and she trailed off, her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
“Anyway," she continued, tucking her hair behind her ear, ducking a bit to the left as Brody led the destrier out from the stall. “I’m not asking to spend time with you . I just... need to get out. The kitchen is fine—the ladies are great, really—but it’s stifling—and frankly, it smells like death in there. I’m not used to being cooped up like this. It feels claustrophobic."
His eyes narrowed, studying her carefully, but she pressed on.
"I need fresh air. I’m going nuts already. I-I need to breathe."
Brody’s expression softened, just a fraction, though his lips remained set in a hard line.
"Hunting’s done best in silence," he said again, though it lacked the bite from before.
"I can be quiet," she was eager to assure him, going up on her toes a bit, mayhap with some expectation that his acquiescence was either forthcoming or inevitable. "Like, ninja-level quiet if I need to be," she promised him.
Whatever that meant.
He let out a breath through his nose, his fingers curling into a loose fist at his side. The truth was, he understood that feeling all too well—needing to escape the confines of stone walls. He was inclined to refuse again, but something about her wide, determined eyes, that barely-contained restlessness, made him hesitate.
And there it was again—the tug, the pull she seemed to have on him.
"If ye’re coming," he said at last, his tone clipped, "we leave now. And if ye canna manage the silence, turn around and go back to the kitchen."
Her face lit up with triumph. "Yes, sir," she said, snapping a mock salute.
Brody scowled fiercely at her.
“Sorry," she said quickly, biting back a grin. "But thank you. I promise, you won’t even know I’m there.”
Somehow he doubted that.
She peered into the stalls, only a few of which were occupied. “Which one should I saddle?”
He handed the reins of his destrier to her. “Hold this. I’ll saddle the mare.”
He did this in quick order, less distracted now since Emmy was busy petting and cooing to the big black. Brody rolled his eyes when he heard her calling him, pretty baby , and then cursed mildly at his own stupidity, at his weakness.
Daft or no, it seemed he’d just acquired a hunting companion.
Soon enough, he walked the mare out of the stables, switching reins with Emmy. He left the destrier untethered and returned to the stables, looking for a mounting block, something that likely hadn’t been used in years. He certainly had no intention of helping her into the saddle, or getting within three feet of her, for that matter.
A three-foot perimeter seemed a sensible idea—one he should probably suggest to her. No breaching that invisible barrier. Keep her at a safe distance. Out of his space, out of arm’s reach.
In the midst of his search, he happened to catch sight of Emmy climbing up into the saddle. She mounted the mare without any help, swinging into the saddle with ease, her movements fluid and sure.
To his surprise, she sat astride as if it was second nature, adjusting her seat and taking the reins like she’d done it a hundred times before. The docile mare barely stirred, clearly content under her light grip. Emmy, for her part, looked perfectly at ease, completely unbothered by skirts bunching around her legs or by the fact that she had no gloves.
Brody stepped outside, one brow lifting. "Ye’ve ridden before?"
Emmy flashed him a grin, patting the mare’s neck. "A little. My mom had high hopes for an equestrian career when I was younger. Mostly hunter-jumper stuff. I haven’t ridden in a few years, but I should be able to hold my own."
Grumpily assuming he’d have been halfway into the glen by now if she hadn’t caught him, he returned to the stables one more time, rooting around in the tack room until he found a pair of gloves. The leather was stiff and worn, but it should at least keep her hands warm.
He flapped those at her as he passed, grunting in response to her “Thank you,” and heaved himself up into his own saddle.
“Let’s go,” he said, a resigned sigh heard in his tone over which he felt no guilt.
He hadn’t invited her.
If God was good, he’d find that deer trail again and be dragging home a thick carcass in under an hour.
They rode through the open gate and into the snowy landscape, the crunch of hooves on frozen earth the only sound accompanying them at first. The air was cold but fresh, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Dunmara’s towering stone walls faded into the distance behind them, replaced by rolling hills dotted with skeletal trees and patches of stubborn heather.
The mare plodded obediently beside his destrier, the horses’ breaths visible in soft clouds against the morning light. Brody guided his horse onto a narrow path that wound through the hills, his gaze sweeping ahead, searching for tracks or any sign of movement in the underbrush. Beside him, Emmy kept up easily, her body moving fluidly with the horse’s gait.
“I’ve never ridden—or even seen—a horse as big as yours,” she remarked before they cleared the first hill. “He’s beautiful.”
“Aye.”
A moment later...
"You know, I’ve hunted before," she said, her voice casual. "Twice, actually. Once in Kenya when I was nine. My dad thought it would be a great bonding experience. Narrator: it was not a great bonding experience.”
He made no reply. Honestly, he didn’t understand half the things she said.
"It was a fancy trip," she went on, undeterred. "We stayed at this camp where they served tea in china cups. I ate too many pastries and got sick on the second day. My dad was furious. Not because I was sick, but because I missed the morning hunt."
He tried to tune her out, to focus instead on scanning the landscape.
For a few blessed minutes, she managed to keep her mouth shut.
"Then when I was fourteen, we went to Alaska. That one was... less glamorous," she said. "We flew into the middle of nowhere, and I managed to get lost for a few hours. My dad grounded me for the rest of the trip after that. Another bust, and FYI, the last time he took me hunting.”
Brody glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She hadn’t lied, she handled herself well in the saddle. More than well. She sat comfortably astride the mare, her posture relaxed but balanced, her hands light on the reins. No signs of the awkwardness he expected from someone so clearly out of her element in every other respect.
"So," she said a few minutes later, "do you think we’ll be out all day? Or just most of it?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"The hunt."
"You’re not much for conversation, are you? I thought we only had to be quiet once we were actually hunting," she pressed.
Was she just filling the silence? Was she trying to get a reaction out of him? Or was she one of those nervous talkers?
"Consider this part of it," he said without a trace of humor. "The quiet starts—or should have started—as soon as we left the keep."
"Right."
They reached the edge of the woods, the trees stretching tall and bare, their black limbs clawing at the gray sky. Brody dismounted without a word, his boots crunching on the frost-bitten ground. He led his horse to a low branch and looped the reins around it.
Emmy followed suit, her feet hitting the ground with a soft thud.
"Stay close," Brody said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And keep quiet."
They moved deeper into the woods, Brody stopping at a spot that surely would seem entirely unremarkable to her. He crouched behind a fallen log, gesturing for her to do the same.
She eased down beside him, her fur cloak pooling around her. He imagined her discomfort as the damp cold seeped through the layers of fur and linen, but she didn’t complain.
Minutes dragged by in silence, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves in the wind and the occasional creak of tree branches. Brody remained perfectly still, his eyes trained on the brush ahead, waiting for movement, for the flash of brown fur or the soft crunch of a hoof on frozen ground.
To her credit, Emmy lasted longer than he expected. Nearly fifteen minutes passed before she started shifting, first adjusting her cloak, then shifting her weight, and finally folding her legs beneath her. He waited for the inevitable burst of chatter, bracing himself for whatever nonsense might come next.
But when she spoke, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. "Agnes and Maud told me... about your brother. And your parents."
Brody stiffened slightly, his grip tightening on the bow resting across his lap.
"I’m so sorry for your loss," she went on. "I can’t imagine how much that hurt. Losing them, your family.”
He didn’t respond, keeping his eyes on the clearing, though he felt her gaze lingering on him.
“My parents are a tad overbearing, and...well, they’re pretty self-centered," she added after a moment. "And I’ve wanted to strangle my brother more times than I can count, but I would be devastated if they were gone.”
He clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the wind through the trees, on the tracks barely visible in the underbrush—anything but the knot forming in his chest. He didn’t want to think about it. He’d spent months and years learning how not to think about it.
"Do you feel..." she continued, her tone more thoughtful now, hesitant, “lonely? Or...like you were abandoned?"
Her words hit him harder than he expected. His initial instinct was to shut her down—firmly, with a sharp retort that would end this line of questioning. He shot her a glance, fully intending to do just that, but something about the way she looked at him gave him pause.
There was no pity in her green eyes. No prying curiosity. Just something soft and steady—sincere concern, as if she really did care how he felt.
He didn’t know what to do with that.
Yes, he’d raged at the unfairness of it more times than he could count—angry with the world, with fate, with God Himself. Enough times to be ashamed of his selfishness—that he’d been left alone. Abandoned.
Brody turned back to the clearing, his shoulders tightening. "I manage," he said gruffly, his voice barely louder than the wind.
It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was all he could give.
“Of course, you’re not alone,” she continued. “You have that man, Duncan—Agnes said he’s been a rock at Dunmara for years. And of course, Maud and Agnes. And Ailis and Donal. There are others, I know. I saw people down in the village when I was up on the roof. And correct me if I’m wrong, but everyone at Dunmara is part of the clan, right? So, basically, they’re all family.”
Brody’s eyes stayed on the horizon, his thoughts shifting in response to her words.
He recognized what she was trying to do—making him feel better about his circumstances, about the emptiness that had become his life.
It was... strange. No one had tried that in a long time, not since his mother lived. Duncan didn’t coddle him—not that he was looking for that. Maud wouldn’t dare cross that line, and Agnes’s idea of comfort usually came in the form of something hot and savory in a bowl or on a trencher.
But Emmy was different. She didn’t know him well enough to be cautious or cynical, or even circumspect evidently. Instead, she spoke as though kindness still mattered, as though she believed words could fill the cracks left by everything he’d lost.
Here she sat, likely freezing her arse off, trying to make him feel better. He, the stranger who hadn’t said more than a few dozen words to her, who had been distant and indifferent, who had kissed her and then rejected her,.
He clenched his jaw and shifted his weight, tightening his grip on his bow. "Aye," he said finally, his tone rough, almost dismissive.
And Emmy said no more.
Not until she stiffened at his side and tapped her gloved hand on his arm.
“There,” she said, pointing out from behind the log.
Brody followed the direction given, his eyes narrowing. A small herd of red deer walked among the trees, their red coats blending with the shadows. His heart quickened as his eyes locked onto the largest stag, its antlers a majestic crown of twisting branches.
Emmy gripped his sleeve tighter, and whispered excitedly, "Holy shit. That’s a twelve-point buck. How does he even carry them around?"
Brody suppressed a frown as he flexed his arm, meaning for her to remove her hand, which she did, with a brief and barely repentant, “Sorry.”
“Dinna move,” he said—to both Emmy and the stag.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his bow, drawing the string back. The muscles in his arm tensed, and the bow creaked softly under the strain. He waited, the world narrowing to the breath of the wind, the steady rise and fall of the stag’s chest, and the sharp focus of the hunter.
The stag lifted its head, the antlers catching the pale light, its ears twitching.
Brody loosed the arrow. It sliced clean through the air, striking true. The stag stumbled, its powerful legs buckling beneath it as it crumpled to the ground. The rest of the herd scattered into the trees, their hooves pounding the earth. Silence fell almost immediately, save for the rustle of leaves and Emmy’s soft exhale beside him.
Brody lowered his bow, satisfied with the clean shot. The stag lay motionless in the clearing, its massive antlers half-buried in the frosted grass. He stood, ready to retrieve his kill, but a movement at his side caught his attention.
Emmy had turned halfway, one hand half-covering her eyes, the other pressed against her chest, her bonny face twisted in a grimace.
"Oh, God. I wish I hadn’t seen that," she whispered, peeking through her fingers. “You just killed Bambi’s dad.”
Brody’s lips twitched as he extended his hand toward her. The lass was very peculiar. Without hesitation, Emmy took his hand, letting him help her up before Brody walked to his horse, pulling a length of sturdy rope from his saddlebag.
He inclined his head toward the stag as he passed Emmy. “Let’s claim it before the wolves catch the scent."
Emmy followed, keeping her distance from the massive animal sprawled on the ground when they reached it. She groaned softly, her expression a mix of awe and regret as she stared down at the lifeless creature.
"He really is magnificent," she judged, her voice tinged with sorrow. "But I’m going to be traumatized for life."
"Aye," Brody replied, crouching by the stag’s legs. "But he’ll feed us well."
He looped the rope around the stag’s forelegs, tying it securely at the joints to prevent it from slipping. Then, he worked his way to the back, repeating the process on the hind legs before knotting the ends together. The stag was heavy, but the destrier wouldn’t have a problem getting it back to the keep.
Emmy watched him work, her nose wrinkling slightly. "Please tell me you’re not going to hoist that over your shoulder and carry it home?”
Brody snorted softly and rose to his feet. "Hardly. I’ll drag it behind the horse."
While Brody coiled the remaining rope, Emmy startled him by wondering aloud, "Isn’t this the part where the forest animals come out and sing a sad song for the fallen king of the forest?"
For the first time in longer than he could remember, Brody laughed—a deep, unexpected rumble that echoed through the quiet woods. He couldn’t help it. That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.
Emmy blinked up at him, her lips parting in surprise. "Did you just... laugh?"
He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat, adjusting the rope in his hand. But Emmy’s bright eyes and brilliant smile prompted him to admit, “I did. Felt strange, I’ll admit."
Her lips melted into an amused grin. “I’ll bet.”
Moments later, they mounted and set off at a slow pace, the stag dragging behind Brody’s destrier, leaving a faint trail in the frost.
They hardly spoke, not until the keep came into view.
Beside him, Emmy slowed her mare, her eyes widening as she took it in. A soft breath escaped her lips.
"I hadn’t seen it from outside,” she said quietly, almost in awe. “Oh...it’s beautiful.”
Brody shot her a sidelong glance, his brow furrowing. "Beautiful?”
He followed her gaze then, studying Dunmara, outlined less than boldly against the dull expanse of clouds. To him, it looked much as it always did—a hollow, crumbling fortress. The outer walls had seen better days, the battlements worn down by centuries of wind and rain. The entire northern section of the keep lay in ruin, long abandoned when the clan dwindled. What was left sometimes seemed barely able to withstand another harsh winter.
It was no shining castle of legend, no proud stronghold, but a shadow of its former self. The roof of the great hall had begun to sag, and the gates hung slightly askew. It was a place that once bustled with life, now reduced to a handful of loyal souls clinging to the ghost of what had been. Duty bound him to it, as did honor and blood, but Brody found little of which to be proud these days.
Emmy, apparently, saw something he did not.
She nodded, her gaze sweeping over the stone walls and jagged towers. "Yes. I mean... it has this rugged, ancient charm. Like it’s still standing because it refuses to give up."
His chest tightened at her words. He followed her gaze back to the keep, trying to see it through her eyes, in that maddening way of hers, finding light in the shadows, like she wanted to see something worth saving, even if it meant digging through dust and ruin to find it.
He stole a glance at her, catching the soft, thoughtful tilt of her lips, the appreciative gleam in her eye.
And for a fleeting moment, Brody couldn’t decide which unsettled him more: her relentless optimism or how suddenly willing he was to adopt it.