Chapter Eleven
The next morning, Emmy made her way to the kitchen, expecting that they might not mind her help again, supposing they needed to put out another supper for guests tonight. A quick glance through the slats in the shutters of the window in her room said that though the snow seemed to have stopped, there were drifts of several feet in places. The MacBains might be stranded here indefinitely. It wasn’t like a modern-day plow would swing by and clear a path for them.
"Emmy Carter, what are ye doing in here?" Maud asked as she entered, her brows drawing together.
It seemed she was late to the party. The kitchen, tidied less than twelve hours ago, looked exactly as it had before supper last night, the counter crowded with dough, a pile of chopped onions, and more slabs of Bambi’s dad at the far end. Three different kettles hung over fires of medium size and the square ovens in the wall of the hearth were already filled with the first loaves of bread.
Emmy approached the counter. "I thought I’d help. I can—"
"Ye canna be seen here, laboring like one of us," Maud said sternly, taking a long thin knife and removing a layer of fat from the former king of the forest.
Agnes nodded firmly. "Off to the hall with ye. Ye need to entertain the MacBains."
"Me?" Emmy blinked, taken aback. "Why do I have to entertain anyone? I thought I only had to sit at dinner last night...pretending to be someone I was not.”
"But they’ll expect to see ye again throughout the day, lass," Ailis pressed on. “As a ‘guest’, it would nae do for ye to hide away here like a scullery maid."
"I’d much rather be a scullery maid," Emmy muttered under her breath. She could still feel the sting of Brody’s curt words from the previous evening and wasn’t sure she was ready to encounter him—or that she was in any mood to help him.
When Maud gave her a pointed stare and tipped her head toward the door, Emmy pouted, “Great. Now I’m the court jester.”
Agnes chuckled. "They’ll want yer company, nae a song and dance. Go on, lass, see who’s about in the hall. It’ll be easier than cleaning pots, I promise ye."
"Depends on who’s in the hall," Emmy muttered under her breath.
"Off ye go," Agnes said airily, turning back to the kettles suspended over the small flames.
Grumbling still, she trudged down the stone corridor toward the great hall. As she stepped inside, she was relieved to find it empty, save for Maeve, who sat curled on a window seat in one of the tall alcoves, her head bent in concentration over a small piece of embroidery. The morning light streamed in through the narrow panes of glass, catching in the soft red-gold strands of her hair.
This window seat was tucked into one of the few arched windows that boasted actual glass—something Emmy had noticed early on. As far as she knew, this was the only window in the whole castle that actually had glass. Most of Dunmara’s windows were simple, open spaces covered by what Maud had said was oiled goatskin cloths, like in Emmy’s chamber, or heavy tapestries to keep out the cold. The glass here was uneven, its surface rippling like water, distorting the snowy landscape beyond it.
Emmy strolled over and peered at the needlework. "Good morning, Maeve. That’s very pretty,” she said, indicating the rounded, hooped piece the child was working on. “Did Maud or Agnes give you that?"
Maeve rolled her eyes dramatically. "Nae. My father insists I carry it everywhere, so I always have something to occupy my hands and mind— as a fine lady should ," she added, her voice adopting a mockingly pompous tone.
Emmy bit back a grin. "Sounds like something you’ve heard more than once."
"At least a hundred times," Maeve said with a huff, setting the embroidery in her lap. "Wherever we go, he says it. I’ll nae be a ‘fine lady’ if I dinna learn to sit quietly and stitch roses onto handkerchiefs." She glanced down at her small stitches with clear disdain.
"And where is your father now?" Emmy asked. "And your brother?”
Maeve scowled. "They went riding with the MacIntyre." She lowered the embroidery to her lap and pouted as Emmy had moments ago. "I wasnae allowed to go. ‘It’s too cold for a child,’ they said. Just rode all day and night through what was at times a blizzard by my reckoning, but today I’m a delicate flower who should nae be out in the cold."
Emmy rolled her lips inward to keep from grinning too broadly. "Sounds very inconsistent," she said lightly before trying to cheer up the girl. “You’re probably not missing much. Guy talk probably—war...um, horses, maybe land or sheep?”
Maeve frowned up at Emmy. “But how am I expected to learn about any of these things, and be a proper helpmate to my husband if they exclude me from such conversations?”
Emmy blinked, caught off guard by Maeve’s earnest question.
“Well... that’s a fair point,” Emmy admitted. "And I’ve got to say, you’re way ahead of your time for thinking that way."
Maeve tilted her head, curiosity brightening her young face. "What do ye mean, ahead of my time?"
Emmy chuckled softly, taking a seat beside her on the wide window ledge. "It means that where I’m from, it’s expected—encouraged even—that women can be equal partners to their husbands. They make decisions together. They talk about everything—money, land, horses, even war. But I wasn’t sure it was like that...here.”
Maeve shook her head. “It’s nae.”
"Actually, we do more than only talk about them," Emmy elaborated. "Some women run businesses, own land, and not only lead armies and countries, but make or influence policy and law. There’s nothing they can’t do, and hardly anything we’re not allowed to do."
Maeve’s eyes had widened in awe as Emmy spoke, but now her brows crinkled. "Da does nae allow me to learn what’s really important. Why are we expected to sit quietly and sew?" She wrinkled her nose, flapping the piece of embroidery with clear disdain. "I can stitch a flower on cloth, aye, but what us is that compared to managing land or fighting in battle?”
Emmy couldn’t help but laugh at Maeve’s fearless questioning of the norms of her time.
"You’ve got a point," Emmy agreed, “though I’m sure some would argue that stitching a flower has its merits." She paused, her tone becoming more thoughtful. "It’s about timing, Maeve, I guess. The world doesn’t always change as fast as we’d like it to.” She didn’t want to disillusion the girl entirely, telling her it would likely be hundreds of years before her voice would be heard.
She studied Maeve for a moment longer, marveling at the complexity of this young girl—so eager to learn, to be seen as more than a delicate lady-in-training.
Maeve tilted her head, studying Emmy critically. "Can ye sew roses?"
"Absolutely not," Emmy said without reluctance. “And frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time trying to learn how.”
That earned her a small smile from Maeve.
Emmy planted her hands on her thighs, suggesting, “I say we leave the embroidery behind. I like to stand on the roof overlooking Dunmara and survey all the land as if it’s mine.” That wasn’t quite true, but she did enjoy the scenery. “I scan the view with a discerning eye,” she further invented, “making notes of all the things I would change,” she paused and winked at Maeve, “if I were in charge.” Standing, she raised a brow at Maeve. “Care to join me, Lady Maeve?”
Her smile wide now, Maeve laid the fabric and thread aside. “Aye. I’ll get my cloak.”
***
The hall was warm, filled with the low hum of conversation, the clink of goblets, and the crackle of the roaring hearth fire. Brody sat at the head of the table, tearing a bite from the venison and chewing slowly, savoring the surprising tenderness. His plate was piled high—a rare indulgence these days—and he found himself eating heartily for the first time in months. He would have to give his appreciation to the kitchen staff—how they’d pulled off such a meal, twice now, given their dwindling supplies, was a small miracle.
His gaze wandered across the hall as he wiped his hands on a cloth. Last night, the denizens of Dunmara had seemed quiet and guarded, weary after a long winter and clearly surprised to find their laird dining among them. Conversations had been muted, with frequent glances thrown his way, their wariness plain.
But tonight was different. The hall felt lighter somehow. Conversations were not whispered but somewhat robust, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter. Surely, they appeared less burdened than they had last night.
His eyes fell on Duncan, his captain, seated at one of the middle tables surrounded by a cluster of soldiers. Duncan’s deep voice rumbled over the others, his words lost to the noise of the hall, but Brody noticed how the younger men leaned in as he spoke, hanging on every word.
They looked to Duncan with a kind of deference that twisted something deep in Brody’s gut.
He’s earned their trust. That much was clear. Duncan had stayed with them through it all, holding the line when so many others had left. But it left Brody wondering if he himself had done more harm than good by keeping his distance, by shutting himself away. Had he made it worse for those who had remained by not engaging, by not giving them the leadership and camaraderie they surely needed? Craved?
At his side—though she’d barely sent a single glance his way—Emmy laughed at something Ross said.
His jaw tightened, his shoulders a knot of tension while Emmy’s bonny face lit up in that way that seemed to brighten the whole damn hall.
Ross leaned closer, grinning, his eyes never leaving hers.
Brody’s grip on his goblet tightened. He knew it was unreasonable—hell, it was downright absurd—but a slow burn of irritation coiled in his gut. He didn’t like it. Not one bit.
He thought back to the night before, to her poised and unexpected performance at supper. Truthfully, he’d half-expected a disaster—a slip of her strange tongue or some outlandish tale that would expose her for the mystery she was. But there’d been none of that. Not a single misstep.
Instead, Emmy had carried herself with natural confidence, charming everyone at the table as if she’d been born to it. Hell, if he hadn’t known better, he might’ve believed her himself. She’d navigated the meal like a lady of good breeding, even deferring to Maud’s carefully crafted backstory with surprising grace.
She had almost seemed the gracious hostess, the kind of woman his mother might have approved of, commanding attention without demanding it.
There was no denying her beauty helped. Any misstep she made would be easily overlooked when accompanied by that warm smile and those striking green eyes. Even he wasn’t blind to it.
His thoughts slid unbidden to Hugh MacBain’s words the night before, having supposed that Emmy must be his mistress. The very idea should have been laughable. Ridiculous. And yet, here he was, his gaze dropping to the delicate curve of Emmy’s wrist, the creamy flesh of her slender hand resting lightly on the table. His eyes traced upward to the elegant column of her throat, catching the flicker of firelight on her skin. She shifted slightly, her fingers curling around her goblet, and something deep and primal stirred in his chest.
Brody scowled, furious with himself. He pushed the thought away, hard and fast.
She wasn’t his mistress. If she were to be believed, she wasn’t even from the same bloody century. She was a troublesome, utterly maddening stranger who had thrown his carefully ordered world into chaos.
Ross leaned in closer again, murmuring something that made Emmy laugh softly, and Brody’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. His fingers flexed against the goblet, his knuckles whitening.
Christ. Get a hold of yourself.
Earlier today, while Hugh, Brody, and Ross had toured as much of Dunmara as the snow would allow, Ross had asked many pointed questions about Emmy, essentially probing to discover if Brody had staked a claim or if she were free to pursue. Brody had basically repeated what he’d said to the young man’s father, she meant nothing to him. Now, at dinner, Ross was openly flirting with her, his attention unable to be diverted, charming her with that easy smile and too-smooth wit.
Brody stabbed a piece of venison harder than necessary, his teeth grinding together. It shouldn’t matter. What did he care if Ross found her enchanting? What did he care if Emmy returned the sentiment?. But the thought of Ross’s lingering gaze—of Emmy encouraging it with that bright, effortless smile—made his blood simmer.
He wanted the snow to stop. To melt away swiftly. He wanted the MacBains gone, their presence erased from Dunmara. Hell, he wanted things back to the way they’d been before Emmy arrived and disrupted everything.
Hugh MacBain, seated on Brody’s left, raised his goblet and took a long drink, his sharp eyes flicking between Brody and Emmy. He leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful and a little too amused.
Brody was sure he saw a question in the man’s gaze. Not your mistress, eh?
He needed the snow to melt. Now.
***
The corridors of Dunmara were cold and quiet, the only sound the soft scuff of Emmy’s boots against the stone floor.
Maeve had—rightly so—questioned Emmy’s footwear earlier when they’d gone up to the rooftop— battlements, Maeve had called it.
“Those are the strangest boots I’ve ever seen,” the girl had said, squinting at the narrow heels with open skepticism. “How do ye even walk in them?”
“With great care,” had been Emmy’s response, showing a grin filled with more embarrassment than indifference.
The truth was, the boots were wildly impractical for life in a medieval castle. High-heeled leather boots might be the height of fashion in 2019, perfect for strutting down Fifth Avenue or being an ideal companion to half her wardrobe—but they were miserable for trudging up and down stone staircases or across uneven ground. After an entire day in them, her toes pinched with every step, and the slick soles were a constant hazard on the damp floors.
In fact, they’d nearly betrayed her on the battlements earlier, where the stones had been treacherously slippery. She’d caught herself just in time, her heart hammering and cheeks flushing as Maeve had watched her with a bit of alarm.
On the other hand, she’d realized that wandering barefoot was untenable. In those cases, her feet were constantly freezing and nearly black by the end of the day. Her pedicurist would have a stroke if she saw Emmy’s heels right now.
God, what she wouldn’t give for a pair of Uggs—or even her old ballet flats.
Maybe a pair of good old-fashioned house slippers.
––––––––
Rain pattered steadily against the narrow windows—rain, thankfully; not more snow—and an occasional gust of wind sent shutters rattling. Suddenly the air was more damp than crisp and cold inside Dunmara.
Emmy pulled her fur coat, which doubled as a robe of late, tighter around her shoulders, wandering without direction. She couldn’t specifically name what had her so restless tonight, but knew it had much to do with her predicament, which somehow had gotten lost in the shuffle of Dunmara’s houseguests.
She was still trapped in time and annoyed with herself tonight that she hadn’t made nearly enough effort to get home. She’d spent days blending in, going along with the flow of life in the castle, letting herself get swept up in the coming of the MacBains, seeming to have ignored what should have been Priority Number One.
Rounding a corner, she stopped short at the sight of a familiar figure moving toward her from the shadows. Brody’s broad shoulders filled the narrow space, his expression indecipherable in the shadowy light. His footsteps were slow and measured, the limp in his gait more pronounced than usual, prompting her to wonder briefly if, like those with arthritis, the damp weather caused him grief.
"We seem to have a habit of meeting like this," Emmy said, her voice low though edged with a sharpness she hadn’t particularly intended.
Brody’s eyes roamed over her fur coat before lifting to hers. "Aye, nighttime prowlers.”
They stood there for a moment, neither moving, neither speaking. The corridor was too narrow for them to pass without one of them stepping aside, but neither made the effort. The silence stretched taut between them.
“The MacBains seem like good people," Emmy said finally, her voice softer now. "Maeve is very sweet.”
Brody’s brow lifted slightly, his gaze sharpening. "And Ross MacBain? Is he sweet ?"
His words hung in the air. Emmy’s breath caught as she studied him, catching the hint of something beneath his calm exterior. His question was almost too pointed, too revealing. For a split second, he sounded almost... jealous.
Brody seemed to realize it at the same time. His shoulders tightened as though bracing for impact, his gaze sliding away from hers, narrowing at nothing in particular, clearly annoyed with himself. His hand flexed at his side, as if he wished to undo the question through sheer force of will.
He cleared his throat, his expression darkened now when he met her gaze. “Aye, they’re guid people. My father and Hugh MacBain fostered with the same English lord in their youth.”
“What does that mean? They fostered...what? Good will?”
To her surprise, Brody’s lips curved slightly, almost a smile. “Nae, though when the experience is positive, that results as well. In fostering, lads leave their home to be brought up in the household of another chief or nobleman. It strengthens alliances, creates a bond of kinship, and builds trust between clans. A chief who fosters the sons of others is seen as honorable and reliable. A protector.”
“So... like an exchange program for nobles,” Emmy said lightly, though her focus began to drift... to his lips.
She was fascinated by the slight curl at the corners when he spoke, and the way his voice wrapped around the words with that deep burr of his accent. She was staring—she knew it—but couldn’t quite stop herself. His mouth was... distracting. Far more than it should have been.
Brody nodded. “In a sense. It is as much about education as it is politics—learning new customs, battle strategies, diplomacy.” His gaze softened slightly. “But at its heart, it’s about loyalty.”
A flash of memory hit her, unbidden. His kiss. The warmth of his breath, the press of his lips against hers, rough and commanding but not unkind. Her pulse quickened at the thought. How easy it would be to lean just a fraction closer, to feel that again...
Her tongue darted out, moistening her lips. Brody’s eyes flicked to her mouth, and for a fleeting second, something unreadable darkened his gaze.
“In some instances,” he was saying, “ah... fostering builds ties... stronger than blood.”
Her breath caught, her heart thudding in her chest. She dragged her eyes back to his, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat blooming in her cheeks. What the hell was wrong with her? He was a jerk—maybe not outright, which somehow made it worse. No cruel words to her face, but the stinging remarks she’d overheard the night before lingered like thorns under her skin.
And yet here she stood, rooted in place, captivated by the curve of his mouth, the rough edge of his voice, and that maddening magnetic pull he seemed to carry without even trying.
An awkward silence stretched between them, the tension thick enough to touch. Emmy knew she should step back— leave, now —but something held her there. Something dangerous in the way his eyes softened, flicking to her lips just long enough to make her pulse stutter.
Would he...?
She suddenly needed to know. Was he really the kind of man who could say such cutting things behind her back and then stand here, looking like he might kiss her again? Did he have any integrity at all? Or was he as two-faced as she feared?
Her pulse quickened, but now with heat of a different kind—anger curling low in her chest, battling the flutter of something much more reckless.
He muttered a curse, stepping closer. He reached for her, his hand brushing her arm as he leaned in—about to kiss her, she was sure.
"No," Emmy said sharply, pulling back. She placed a hand on his chest, Keeping him at arm’s length. "No.”
His brow furrowed, confusion flickering in his eyes, a very clear question in his now stormy gaze.
Emmy’s pulse thundered in her ears, her breath coming quicker. The words she’d been holding in since last night rushed to her lips before she could stop them.
"I heard what you said," she whispered, her voice trembling with both anger and hurt. "Last night. To Hugh MacBain. You said I was no one. That I meant nothing."
Brody froze, his hand still resting lightly on her arm. His face darkened, the weight of her words sinking in. "Ye heard?” His scowl grew. “Ye eavesdrop?”
"Oh, I heard," Emmy said, lifting her chin, though her throat tightened with the effort to hold her composure. “And I didn’t eavesdrop,” she said, considering that only a slight fib. “I was simply walking to my room. And don’t try to turn this around on me, like I’m the bad guy.” Pushing away from him, she closed the fur coat at her neck. “And pardon me if I don’t feel like being kissed by someone who thinks I’m irrelevant."
The silence that followed was heavy, crackling with unspoken things. She didn’t realize until now how desperately she wanted Brody to refute what she’d heard, to explain it sufficiently away. She clenched her teeth.
Brody’s hand fell away, his eyes shadowed and unreadable.
"Em... it wasnae meant like that," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "It’s nae what you ken."
Not quite the impassioned plea she wanted—needed—to hear.
"I don’t care what you think of me,” she lied, her tone frosty, “but don’t think I want you to kiss me.” She skirted around him, pausing when they were nearly side to side. “And don’t call me ‘Em’. Only my family and friends call me that, and you are neither.”
She turned and walked away before he could stop her, her footsteps echoing softly down the corridor. Her pulse thundered in her ears, her heart twisting painfully in her chest.