Chapter Nine
Snow fell steadily outside the narrow kitchen windows, blanketing the world in soft white. It had started in the early morning and hadn’t let up since, turning Dunmara into a quiet, frozen landscape. Emmy had sought out a larger window earlier, staring for a while at the winter wonderland. It was pretty, but she feared it would keep her longer trapped at Dunmara.
After Brody’s surprising turnaround two days ago—the man had actually laughed —she’d intended to pester him today about arranging a way for her to get to Pitlochry. She regretted not pressing the issue while she’d caught him in a good mood. However, she hadn’t seen him since then. Now, with the snow piling up, she feared her window of opportunity had closed, quite literally, under a blanket of white.
But... Good God , that smile . That laugh. She must have thought about it a hundred times in the past forty-eight hours. It had been fleeting, unexpected, but impossible to forget. He always seemed carved from stone, his face so often locked in a stern, unreadable mask, but when he’d smiled, it had been something else entirely—something warm and startling, lighting up his eyes in a way that made her heart trip over itself. And that laugh... low and rich, like it came from somewhere deep. Genuine.
It had felt like discovering a secret no one else knew, something hidden and rare. She’d been proud—foolishly proud—that she’d drawn it out of him. Truth be told, she’d thought about that moment more than was reasonable. Far more. And then she was, unsurprisingly, a bit sorry that she’d not seen him since.
But where was he? What does the laird do all day, anyway? The thought finally pushed its way out of her mouth as she stood by the hearth, warming her hands and glancing over her shoulder at Maud, who was laying bread and a plate of cheese out on the table.
Agnes paused from ladling out bowls of pottage. "Och, he’s busy enough," she said with a nod. "Laird’s work is nae ever done. There’s always something that needs his eye, even with fewer folk about."
"Fewer folk?" Emmy asked, curiosity piqued as she sat down at the lower table in the back corner of the kitchen, where the kitchen staff regularly took their meal midday, when supper for the hall was well underway, and they had a bit of time before they needed to serve. “As in, why this castle seems so eerily empty?”
"Aye, but it wasnae always like that," Maud said, settling across from her. "Dunmara once bustled like a proper keep should. Back then, ye could hardly move in this kitchen for all the cooks and scullery maids. Folk were always coming and going, baking, chopping, stirring—tripping over one another in the rush of it all." Her eyes glinted with fondness. "The mistress—Lady Isobel—she’d be in and out from dawn to dusk, bustling about, overseeing every detail. Nae a loaf went into or left the ovens without her approval."
Agnes nodded, smiling at the memory. "Aye, and the hall! Full to bursting every night. Nearly a hundred souls gathered for supper—hunters, farmers, soldiers, even passing travelers. The hearth would roar with flames, and there’d be music and laughter until the candles burned low."
Emmy tried to picture it: the great hall alive with light and sound, rather than that cavernous tomb that it seemed to be to her. Last night, she’d helped Ailis serve supper for the first time and had counted only twenty-seven people scattered across the long tables, their voices hushed and their faces drawn with winter weariness.
The laird hadn’t even joined them, Emmy could not help but notice, choosing instead to take his meal on a tray in his chamber. Ailis said he’d been doing that since he’d returned from war in the spring.
"It must’ve been something," Emmy said softly, wrapping her hands around the bowl, steam rising into her face. "It’s hard to imagine it like that now."
"Aye, it was grand," Maud agreed. "But times change. War’ll do that.”
Emmy thought she looked as if she might say more, but Maud shook her head and concentrated on her stew, as if the very subject upset her.
Agnes offered a chunk of bread to Emmy across the table, her face kind but somber. “Nae fish for a while,” she said, changing the subject after a thoughtful glance at Maud. "Nae one’ll be foolish enough to try for the loch in this weather."
"Thank God for that stag," Ailis added, dipping her bread so far into the bowl, the thick broth covered her fingers. "Else we’d be gnawing on dried oats by week’s end."
"Aye, but venison every day?" Agnes clucked her tongue. "I’ll be sprouting antlers by week’s end."
Emmy smiled faintly at their talk, taking a bite of the bread and chewing slowly. She studied the women around the table—strong, spirited, endlessly practical. She might suppose they simply adapted as needed, no matter the challenge, rolling with each new difficulty without complaint. There was no self-pity here, no wallowing in how hard life was, just an unflinching resolve to carry on.
She wondered what they would think of her world—of fast food and supermarkets, where meat came in neat, shrink-wrapped packages and vegetables appeared perfectly washed and trimmed, ready to eat. What would they think of microwaves and slow cookers? Of electric stoves with sleek glass tops, and dishwashers that could clean a day’s worth of dishes in under an hour? She smiled at the thought.
"You know," she said, glancing around the table, "in my time, we have these things called dishwashers. Big machines—picture like an enclosed box with pressurized water—that you load with dirty dishes, press a button, and... voilà, clean dishes an hour later."
The three women froze, their eyes wide.
"Ye’re jesting," Agnes said, her brows shooting up.
"Nope. No scrubbing, no rinsing. The machine does it all for you," Emmy said with a grin. "We have the same thing for laundry—washing machines. You simply lift a lid on...well another box machine, I guess is the best way to describe it, toss your dirty laundry in, add some soap, press a button, and it does the washing and rinsing for you. No hauling water, no beating it against rocks or whatever you do here, just... clean clothes at the end."
Ailis stared at her, slack-jawed. "Yer clothes wash themselves?"
"Pretty much," Emmy laughed. "And then there’s another machine that dries them—fluffy and warm in less than an hour."
"Fluffy?" Ailis repeated, her expression skeptical. "Like a sheep?"
"Well, no, but... kind of," Emmy admitted, chuckling. "Trust me, it’s heaven."
The three women exchanged glances, clearly struggling to process the idea.
"What about cooking?" Ailis asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Is there a magic box for that too?"
"Actually, yes," Emmy said, her eyes lighting up. "Several. One’s called a microwave. It heats food in minutes.” At their aghast expressions, Emmy explained, “It’s better for reheating, but you simply put a plate in—again, I’ll just call the machine a box with electricity— and press some buttons, and you’re food’s heated in minutes, sometimes seconds. No fire needed. You can even make popcorn in it."
"Pop-corn?" Agnes wrinkled her nose.
"Popcorn. It’s corn that... well, pops," Emmy said, waving it off with a laugh. "We have slow cookers, too. Put your meat and vegetables in there with some liquid in the morning, put the lid on, plug it in, and at the end of the day, your meal is ready. No fire at the hearth, no stirring, no burning."
"All day?" Maud asked, her head tilting, her expression highly doubtful. "Ye leave it alone, and it doesnae burn?"
"Exactly."
Agnes stared with a serious frown at Emmy. "Sounds like witchcraft to me."
Emmy grinned. "It does, doesn’t it? But it’s just technology. You’d love it. Seriously, where I come from, people only cook, as you three do all day, for about an hour a day on average, I would guess.”
Ailis giggled, tapping her fingers on the table. "Och, what do ye do with all the extra time?”
Emmy shrugged. “Whatever we want. Well, no,” she qualified. “People work—leave the house to go to a job, their career, and then they come home and cook, and plop those dishes in the dishwasher, and they’ve got the evening free.”
Maud harrumphed good-naturedly. “How can we get one of those dishwashers here?” She wondered.
Emmy smirked and sent a glance to Ailis. “You have one already. She’s not a box, though.”
“So, is that what ye do, lass?” Agnes asked. “Ye leave your home and go to work, and come home and cook a meal?”
"Me? Oh, God no," Emmy said with a short laugh. "I mean, I can cook—I just don’t like to cook. And... well, it’s just me, so cooking seems kind of wasteful. It’s easier to grab something on the go."
"Just ye?" Ailis asked, her brow furrowing. "Have ye nae kin?"
“I do. My parents, a brother. But I don’t live with them. I have my own loft—house, if you will."
Three pairs of eyes widened in unison.
"Yer own home?" Maud asked, blinking in surprise. "Are ye a widow?"
"A widow? No,” Emmy replied. "Why? Can’t women own property in this century?"
Agnes answered. "Nae unless ye’re widowed or yer father’s left it to ye... and even then, the next man along’ll be quick to claim it. A woman on her own? With her own house? I’ve nae ever heard of such a thing."
Emmy snorted. "Where I’m from, it’s normal. Single women live alone all the time—work, buy homes, have their own lives."
Ailis leaned forward, wide-eyed. "And ye’ve never married at all? Nae once?"
"Nope," Emmy replied. "Dodged that bullet."
Agnes frowned. "What bullet?"
"It’s an expression. It means... I avoided it. Intentionally."
Ailis raised a skeptical brow. "Avoided marriage? Why would ye do that?"
Emmy chuckled softly, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "Trust me, you’d understand if you met some of the men where I come from."
"Oh, aye," Maud said with a rare smirk. "Plenty of men I’ve kent, made me want to prefer my own company."
They all laughed at that, the sound filling the kitchen.
Emmy enjoyed them tremendously. She appreciated how they had embraced her—not with pity or suspicion, but with an easy, pragmatic kindness. They didn’t treat her with kid gloves, nor did they act as if she were crazy. Instead, they’d let her intrude upon their domain, weaving her into their routine with surprising grace.
At times, they gave her small tasks—shelling nuts, plucking herbs, folding linens—nothing too difficult, just enough to keep her hands busy and her mind from wandering too far. Yesterday, they’d even given her an apron and a kerchief to cover her hair, which she wore now, feeling a little less like an outsider.
The women treated her with a strange but endearing mix of camaraderie and deference, as if she were a guest they couldn’t quite figure out how to accommodate. She had privileges she was fairly certain they didn’t: a private room with a fireplace, a small bath brought to her chamber last night when she’d cautiously asked how and where she might get one.
And God , that bath had been lovely—despite lacking any iota of modern convenience. The soap had been raw and plain, hardly scented at all. The towels were coarse and scratchy. The water, hauled up by hand, had been tepid at best. And yet, it had been divine. Sinking into that wooden tub, letting the warm water ease the tension from her muscles, she’d felt more human than she had in days. For a few stolen moments, she’d been able to close her eyes and pretend she wasn’t lost in time, that she hadn’t fallen into a life she barely understood.
A moment later, Agnes’s expression became more thoughtful, her voice softening as she leaned slightly toward Emmy. "They must be worried about ye now—yer parents—lost er, in time as ye are."
Emmy laughed, but it came out a little awkward, a little forced. "I hope so."
But the truth was, she wasn’t sure.
Her mother might not even notice right away, busy with her endless clients and high-profile design projects. Emmy pictured her father pausing long enough from his golf game or latest business deal to wonder vaguely where she was, then quickly moving on to whatever came next.
Her throat tightened. "My friends... they’ll be worried, I’m sure," she added quickly, trying to shift the focus. "They’ll definitely notice I’m missing."
Maud studied her quietly, her sharp gaze seeming to read more than Emmy intended to reveal.
The back kitchen door burst open at that moment, a gust of cold air sweeping in along with Donal, his face flushed and his red hair sticking up in wild tufts. "Visitors!" he exclaimed, his voice breathless. "Riders coming down the hill."
Maud gasped. "Visitors? In this weather?"
Ailis exchanged a glance with Emmy. "Must be mad to travel with the snow coming down like this."
Agnes muttered something under her breath, shaking her head. "It’s been ages since anyone came calling."
Emmy straightened, her pulse quickening. "Visitors? Could it be—" Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. What if it was her friends? What if they’d somehow been caught up in the same strange twist of time that had trapped her here?
She hopped off the bench and made to follow Donal, who scampered quickly to the other door, the one that led to the hall. She paused, though, tugging at the strings of her apron, yanking it off and tossing it onto the nearest chair. The kerchief soon followed, her fingers fumbling as she pulled it from her hair. No way was she going to greet Serena, Madison, and Vanessa dressed like some medieval peasant.
She smoothed her hair hastily and rushed to catch up with Donal, walking briskly along the corridor and then through the vacant hall toward the door to the courtyard.
Snow swirled around her as she stepped outside, the cold biting into her skin. She barely noticed it, her eyes fixed on the small group of riders approaching the keep. Excitement flared, only to dwindle almost instantly. There was no way her friends would be riding horses—certainly not with the easy proficiency of these riders. Several of them were mounted on large warhorses, similar to Brody’s, their cloaks whipping in the wind like banners.
Her gaze swept to Brody, standing near the gate, his broad frame imposing. He wore a sword on his hip again. She’d noticed it the other day while hunting with him, and it had startled her then—how large it was, how casually he carried it, as if it were as natural as breathing. It had taken her a moment to understand that in this century, people were probably rarely without their sword, or a weapon of some sort. Presently, his hand rested lightly on the hilt, his posture relaxed but ready.
The deep rumble of his voice carried on the wind as he greeted the group, though Emmy couldn’t make out the words. He was speaking with a tall man whose silver-shot hair and commanding presence gave him an air of quiet authority. Beside him was a younger man—early twenties, handsome, with a friendly face—and a girl of about twelve, her hood slipping back to reveal a head of thick auburn curls. Several other men lingered behind them, guards or soldiers perhaps, their eyes darting warily around as they braced against the swirling snow.
Emmy hesitated just outside the door, unsure whether she should stay or make herself scarce. I probably don’t have any business being here, she thought, taking a step back. But her gaze snagged on the young girl, curiosity sparking. What’s she doing with this group of men? The child’s small figure seemed oddly out of place among the all-male group.
Brody gestured toward the gate, inviting the party inside with a wave of his hand. Emmy frowned, watching him walk. She thought his limp seemed less noticeable today—or did the tight expression on his face suggest that he was purposefully trying to conceal his limp?
One of the men dismounted quickly, helping the girl down, who wasted no time making a beeline for the keep, eager to escape the cold.
Emmy had half turned to retreat when the girl suddenly slipped on a patch of ice. Her feet flew out from under her, and she landed hard on her hands and knees. Emmy winced at the sharp slap of noise against ice and stone.
Without thinking, Emmy rushed forward, her boots skidding slightly on the icy ground as she hurried to the girl’s side. "Are you all right?" she asked, crouching down to brush the snow from the girl’s cloak and help her to her feet.
The girl blinked up at her, wide-eyed, then grimaced, her cheeks pinkening dramatically. She dusted off her skirts with a kind of exaggerated dignity, clearly embarrassed.
"Happens to the best of us," Emmy said with a soft smile, steadying her. "I once slipped down an entire staircase at school—landed flat on my back. Very dramatic. Half the student body saw it."
The girl’s eyes brightened slightly at that, a tentative smile tugging at her lips. "Are ye English?" she asked as they stepped inside the hall, her tone curious but edged with caution. She straightened her cloak and stood a bit taller, still brushing herself off.
"No, I am not," Emmy answered quickly. She wasn’t entirely sure that was true—there might be some English blood on her father’s side—but she had a sense that admitting to anything remotely English wasn’t the best idea. The girl’s tone had carried just enough suspicion to suggest it wouldn’t be well received, especially given the current conflict.
Emmy tilted her head, studying the girl. "Why do you ask? Do I sound English to you?"
The girl gave her an appraising look. "Nae exactly... but ye dinna sound Scots either. Ye talk strange—different."
Before Emmy could respond, the silver-haired man entered. His gaze caught hers immediately and lingered just a moment too long, sharp and assessing. Emmy felt her pulse quicken under his scrutiny, unable to read what she saw in his assessing gaze.
Brody followed close behind, brushing snow from his hair. He stopped short when he saw her, looking surprised and...irritated? His jaw tightened just slightly.
“I was just...” Emmy began, throwing her thumb over her shoulder, in the direction she guessed she should be headed.
The silver-haired man looked between Emmy and Brody, asking, “Have ye taken a wife, lad?”
Brody’s eyes widened, his expression bordering on alarm. “Nae. Nae,” he said quickly, a little too sharply. He cleared his throat, then motioned between the older man and Emmy with obvious reluctance.
“Laird Hugh MacBain," he said, his voice steady but strained. "This is... Emmy Carter. She was... lost in the storm as well. A stranded traveler, as ye are.”
Emmy suppressed a grin at his choice of words. Not exactly a lie. She was lost—just in time rather than weather—and God willing, only visiting temporarily.
“It’s nice to meet you, Laird MacBain,” she said, dipping her head politely, hoping that was the proper greeting.
“And his daughter,” Brody said next, “Maeve MacBain.”
“How do you do?” Emmy greeted the child properly, receiving what seemed a regal nod in response.
Hugh MacBain made a show of stomping snow off his boots, his expression thoughtful as he continued to stare at Emmy, his smile charming. "Och, forgive us if we seem poor, travel-stained company compared to such beauty," he said with a wink.
Emmy blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes flicked to the young girl at her side, who stared at her father with a look that clearly said, Speak for yourself.
"Hardly," Emmy said warmly, smiling at the girl. "There’s plenty of beauty here already. Look at you—you’re absolutely stunning. If I had hair like yours and those blue eyes, I’d insist people refer to me as Princess.”
The girl’s eyes widened slightly before her cheeks flushed pink again, and she tucked a strand of her glossy dark hair behind her ear, smiling with greater warmth at Emmy.
“Pray, dinna put notions in her head,” Hugh MacBain said with a small chuckle.
The young handsome man Emmy had noticed with the party arrived inside the hall then. He came to rather an abrupt halt behind Hugh MacBain, his eyes finding Emmy. His gaze lingered just long enough to make her aware of it, and she forced herself not to fidget under the weight of his attention.
Geez, they certainly weren’t shy about ogling in the 14 th century, were they?
Emmy could swear she heard Brody sigh.
“Emmy Carter, this is the laird’s son, Ross MacBain,” he said.
Emmy dipped her head again and gave another polite, “How do you do?”
“Very well now,” the young man acknowledged, as smooth as silk.
Brody shifted in front of her. “Maud,” he said, turning away from the door, “would ye show our guests to chambers?”
Emmy startled slightly, realizing Maud had been standing there the whole time, her expression seeming purposefully serene.
“Aye, this way,” Maud said briskly, already moving toward the stairwell without waiting for a response.
“Ye’re welcome to stay through the storm,” Brody added, his voice even, perfectly polite.
Emmy thought it was a kind and proper invitation—hospitable, as any laird should be. Still, she could’ve sworn there was something beneath his words, an undertone of displeasure barely masked.
The MacBains followed Maud toward the staircase, Ross throwing one last lingering glance over his shoulder at Emmy. He caught her watching, his grin widening as she turned away, hardly able to refrain from rolling her eyes.
“Sorry,” she said in a quiet voice to Brody. “I heard people were coming. I thought it might be my friends.”
He scowled at this, as if wondering why she would think her friends might come to Dunmara.
“Now I’ll go back to the kitchen,” she said quickly then, sensing she’d somehow upset him though she wasn’t sure how.
Just as she made to move past him, he caught her arm. “Lass?”
Her breath sharpened at the soft rumble of his voice. She shouldn’t like it so much—being called lass . It was silly, really, but something about the way the word rolled off his tongue, in that deep, rich accent, sent a pleasant little thrill racing through her.
Brody glanced toward the staircase, as if ensuring the MacBains were out of sight and earshot. His grip on her arm loosened but didn’t fall away entirely. His brown eyes met hers, and for a fleeting moment, Emmy thought she detected something rare—worry.
“I might ask ye to dine in the hall tonight,” he said finally, dropping his hand completely.
Emmy blinked in surprise and poked her chest. “Me?”
“Aye, with the MacBains. As my guest.”
Her brows knitted. “Dine in the hall?” Almost every meal she’d taken so far had been in the kitchen, crowded around the worktable with the women. “What does that mean?”
Brody’s tone grew gruffer. “To sup at the table—”
“Yes, I know what dining means,” she interrupted, barely stopping herself from rolling her eyes. “But why me? Why do I need to be there?”
“It’s nae so much that ye need to be there, but that Hugh MacBain will expect ye there since I’ve named ye a guest.”
“But what if they start asking questions? About where I’m from? Or—or whatever?” Her pulse quickened. “What do I say? I don’t know them from Adam, but...” She hesitated, her gaze softening as she studied him. “I sensed the deference you showed him—Laird MacBain. He’s important, right?” She paused, frowning. She was almost certain Brody had been trying to disguise his limp earlier. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”
His brows rose, perhaps taken aback by her observation—or her unexpected concern. “I dinna imagine ye’d embarrass me, lass,” he said, his voice lowering a notch. “But it might be wise to avoid speaking too freely...about things that dinna belong to this time.”
“Totally understandable.” Emmy nodded.
“And yet, I canna ask ye to fib.”
“But I will,” she replied without hesitation, surprising herself with how quickly she offered. “I mean, I would, if needed.” Honestly, it wasn’t a big deal. She didn’t care if she had to bend the truth a little, especially if it meant not embarrassing herself or Brody.
Brody seemed torn, shifting his weight. He looked deeply uncomfortable—more so than she’d ever seen him—as if genuinely sorry to have to ask this of her. Or maybe embarrassed that it had even come to this.
Emmy lifted her hands, deciding for him. “You know what? Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’m sure Maud and Agnes can help me invent some vague origins. You go entertain your guests or... whatever it is lairds do. I’ll be fine.”
Brody gave her a skeptical look.
“I promise you,” she said, flashing him a dazzling smile. “It’ll be fine.”