Chapter Fourteen
“Gone?”
Brody’s voice sliced through the chamber like a blade. The single candle on his desk flickered at the force of it, the parchment beneath his hands crinkling as his fingers curled into fists.
Maud stood before him, her hands wringing at her waist, her expression a mixture of exasperation and unease.
"Aye," she said, her tone tight, almost pert with frustration. "She and Donal set out this morning... said they were going to the bog for peat. The lad returned some time ago, said the lass would follow shortly, that she’d only wanted to walk a stretch.”
Brody’s scowl deepened. "Walk?"
Maud gave a sharp nod. "Aye. That’s what Donal said. But she has yet to return."
Silence pressed heavy against the walls.
His fingers flexed against the desk.
Brody exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his voice to stay measured. "And where is Donal now?"
"I dinna ken, laird." Maud shook her head, her hands wringing tighter. "Agnes went to look for him, but she couldnae find him. He dinna come to the hall for supper."
Brody’s jaw tightened, irritation flaring into something darker.
"When exactly did she leave?"
Maud hesitated, and when she finally spoke, her voice had lost some of its usual steadiness. "Midmorning."
His breath stalled.
Midmorning.
Brody shoved to his feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor as he did. "And ye’re only telling me this now?"
Maud stiffened. "We thought she’d return. We dinna ken she meant to disappear altogether, now did we? She comes and goes, isnae in the kitchen all day."
Brody barely heard her.
Midmorning. An ill-advised trip to Fenella’s should have taken hours at most. Even with the snow. Even if she’d lingered.
She should have been back by now.
His pulse hammered against his ribs.
Was she lost? Injured? Caught in the worsening cold? Or—his jaw locked at the thought—had she somehow found her way back to wherever the hell she claimed to belong?
His stomach turned at the thought.
Without another word, he was already moving, striding out of his chamber, calling for Duncan before he’d even reached the hall. By the time he entered the open space, his voice thundered through the keep.
"Duncan!"
The name rang off the walls, reverberating through the beams overhead.
A moment later, Brody whipped open the door to the courtyard, calling for the captain again. He strode across the cobbles, maddened by the oppressive darkness.
Duncan emerged from the barracks attached to the gatehouse, trailed closely by two young soldiers—Finneas and Will. Both lads straightened at the sight of Brody, awaiting orders.
"Find the lad, Donal. Now,” he instructed them.
Finneas and Will immediately turned, hurrying off without hesitation.
"What’s amiss?” Duncan asked.
“The lass, Emmy, has apparently been gone from the keep for half the day,” he advised his captain. “Gone to Fenella’s, it’s been suggested, seeking...I dinna kent what,” this last, evasively, as Duncan had yet to be made aware of what Emmy claimed was real, that she’d traveled through time.
But Duncan’s mouth set into a firm line. He knew Fenella’s name. Everyone did.
"And she hasnae returned?"
Brody shook his head. “Ready the horses and the men.”
“Aye,” said Duncan without hesitation, pivoting on his heel, making for the barracks.
Brody rolled his tongue around his teeth, staring at the closed gate and the inky sky above before he, too, turned and headed for his chambers to retrieve his cloak, heavier boots, and gloves.
His mind churned as he moved, a torrent of conflicting emotions battering at his usually ironclad composure. Irritation was foremost—what a reckless thing to do!—but it was quickly drowned out by something heavier.
Worry.
He’d seen too many men lost to these woods in winter. Too many bodies found frozen, too late to save. The thought of Emmy alone out there, vulnerable, chilled him tremendously. He cursed under his breath, shoving the image from his mind. She was resourceful—maybe even more than she might imagine. But even as he told himself that, the knot in his chest tightened.
He was on his way to the stables moments later to collect his steed when Donal was finally brought to him.
Brody barely slowed his pace as he changed direction, and as Will all but dragged Donal into his path, the lad’s freckled face pale beneath the torchlight, his eyes darting anxiously between Brody and Duncan, walking in Brody’s wake.
Caught by the nape of his cloak, Donal twisted in Will’s grip, clearly desperate to smooth the situation before it spiraled beyond repair. "I—I dinna mean for anythin’ to happen to her, laird!"
Brody stilled, his breath visible in the freezing air. "Then explain."
Donal swallowed hard. "I—I took her as far as the edge of the woods, like she asked. She was stubborn, laird, said she had to see Old Fenella, so I gave her directions—guid directions, I swear it! I told her exactly where to go to find the crone’s place, and how to get back. She should’ve been back hours ago!” His voice cracked on the last word.
Brody’s teeth clenched. "Ye took her to the edge of the woods? And left her there?”
Donal winced, his face twisting in misery. "She wanted to see the crone,” he cried. “I ken she shouldnae, but she...” he shrugged helplessly, as if to say she couldn’t have been talked out of it. “I’ve been looking for her. Truly, I was! When the sun dipped low, I kent surely she’d be back by then, so I ran out past the bog to look. I called for her—I did! But there was naught but wind."
Brody stared at the boy, his stomach tightening. "Ye knew she hadnae returned and ye dinna come straight to me?"
Donal’s expression crumpled. "I—I was afraid." His voice turned small, his shoulders curling inward. "I kent maybe...” another shrug, his gaze on the ground. “I dinna want to cause a fuss for naught—and she dinna want anyone to ken where she’d gone. I meant to check again before sayin’ anythin’, but then..." He trailed off, hitching his thumb toward Will, as if he’d been found before he might have set out again.
Duncan, standing at Brody’s side, exhaled sharply, rubbing his beard as if trying to decide whether the lad deserved a clout or some reassurance that they’d take it from here.
Brody’s jaw ticked, his patience fraying. "Get on home. I’ll deal with ye later.”
The boy blanched, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a hard swallow.
"Mount up," Brody ordered the waiting militia, his voice like iron. "We ride now."
Briskly, he strode to his horse, the lad’s part already dismissed, his mind fixed on only one thing.
Finding Emmy.
***
She was, to her best knowledge and worst fear, completely and irrevocably lost.
And yet, for the longest time she wasn’t tortured by fear, but by questions, beginning to believe she actually felt some relief that Old Fenella hadn’t actually been able to send her home. Which was crazy, of course, but... damn, am I happy that I’m still here?
Oh, my God. I’ve lost it now.
She was almost certain that a tiny, treacherous part of her was glad.
Happy about what? To play at being a medieval maiden, wandering candlelit halls like some heroine in a gothic novel? What? I’m going to hang around some crumbling castle, hoping the lord notices me?
Brody MacIntyre had done absolutely nothing to suggest he wanted her here. He hadn’t asked for her presence, hadn’t so much as hinted that he cared one way or another if she disappeared tomorrow.
Well, except, of course, for that kiss.
The decadent, toe-curling, logic-destroying kiss.
But that meant nothing—right? Just a moment of impulse? A fleeting lapse in his usual iron-clad self-control?
It wasn’t as if he’d treated her differently afterward. If anything, he’d been more distant.
And yet, despite everything, the thought of leaving—of never seeing him again, never hearing the deep rasp of his voice, never feeling that sharp, electric pull whenever he looked at her—sent a pang of something dangerously close to regret through her chest.
The part of her brain that wanted to justify her illogical desire to stay here—if that’s what it really was; the cold could have already made her delusional—wondered with some tartness, but what was there to go back to?
For the first time, she considered in depth...if she would be missed at in 2019.
Her friends would love the drama of it all— missing socialite Emmy Clarke, presumed dead in the Scottish Highlands! They’d post pictures with sad captions, spinning the narrative into something tragic and glamorous, with they themselves as the victims.
And her parents.
Her throat tightened. Her father would treat it like a business problem, managing the crisis with cool efficiency. He’d make calls, hire the best private investigators, and do his utmost to make sure the story never touched the press—good luck there, going up against Vanessa and Serena’s expected craving to make sure it was everywhere.
And her mother? Her mother would care. Surely. She’d be terribly upset...or inconvenienced? But she’d also check her schedule before booking a flight. Maybe after she secured that big client she’d been chasing. Before Emmy had become someone —before the modeling gigs, before the social media attention—her mother had barely noticed her at all. Just nannies and playdates with other rich kids whose parents didn’t have time for them. To this day, Emmy wasn’t entirely sure some parts of The Nanny Diaries hadn’t been written about her and her family.
She exhaled sharply, wiping at her face with frozen fingers. Stop it. No time for self-pity.
The wind howled through the hills, cutting straight through the layers of her very impractical fur coat, which had proven to be much prettier than it was warm. Or maybe it was just that she’d been out in the elements too long. She’d been walking for what felt like hours. Somehow—she blamed the darkness—she’d lost her own trail. And despite the wind, she felt as if she were engulfed in silence, as if she were utterly, completely alone, the only person in the world.
Her toes were freezing, or had frozen, she couldn’t tell. Possibly only the thick woolen hose Agnes had scrounged up for her a few days ago and the fact that she refused to stop moving had kept her from actually freezing. Her legs ached with every step, her breath coming in sharp puffs of cold air. Occasionally, with her hands buried deep inside the sleeves of her coat, she pressed the fur to her nose and mouth, trying to keep out the cold. More often, though, the uneven ground forced her to lower her arms and hands, needing them for balance.
Her earlier resolve— it’s a straight line, Emmy, just follow your own tracks —had crumbled into a dull panic. She’d lost all sense of direction a long time ago and frankly, she had no idea if she was even heading anywhere near the right direction.
A branch snapped behind her, the sound echoing unnaturally loud in the stillness. Emmy froze, her heart hammering in her chest. Slowly, she turned, peering into the darkening woods.
Nothing. Just trees and shadows.
Her breath came fast and shallow. Calm down. It’s probably a bird. Or a squirrel.
Birds flew and squirrels foraged at night, right?
Did Scotland have dangerous predator animals? She had no idea.
She took a shaky step forward, every muscle in her body tense. The trees seemed to close in around her, their gnarled branches reaching out like claws. She squeaked as she stumbled over a root, catching herself just before she fell. The cold crept deeper into her bones, sapping her strength and numbing her fingers. She pressed her hands under her arms, trying to warm them, but it wasn’t enough. Her feet dragged through the snow, her body growing heavier with each passing minute.
The fear that had been simmering since shortly after she’d left Fenella flared into full-blown panic. Her breath came in gasps, tears spilling down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She hated crying. It made her feel weak, childish. But she couldn’t help it.
Who’s going to find me out here?
Her knees buckled, and she sank into the snow, her coat pooling around her. She wrapped it tightly around herself, curling into a ball, her breath hitching as the tears came harder.
A panicked voice inside her spoke cruelly. You’re not a survivor. You’re a spoiled city girl. You can’t handle this.
She rocked slightly, trying to calm herself, but hopelessness clawed at her, suffocating her.
I can’t do this.
Her teeth chattered, her body trembling violently from the cold. She glanced around, her eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of light, any break in the trees that might lead her somewhere safe. Nothing. Just endless black shadows and the low howl of the wind. Her breath hiccupped again, and for the first time, the thought crept in— What if no one comes? What if no one looks for me?
Not more than a minute after she’d buried her face against her knees and wept pathetically, Emmy lifted her head and scolded herself. Stop that. She lunged to her feet, jerky and unsteady, her muscles sluggish with cold. The snow in this part of the forest crawled halfway up her boots, clinging to the leather, numbing her calves, but not enough to justify collapsing and giving up.
“Get moving, Emmy Carter,” she commanded herself sharply, her voice hoarse in the empty woods. You survived traveling through time. You’ve lived in a fourteenth-century castle for more than a week. And now, what? You’re going to freeze to death in a pile of snow? You could have stayed in New York and done that.
Even as she acknowledged the hollow bravado of her words, a flicker of stubbornness caught hold. She knew this burst of angry energy couldn’t last—not when her limbs were stiff, her fingers too numb to fully curl, her toes aching inside her wet boots—but she had to keep moving. Even though she had no idea if she was heading in the right direction.
And then—just a few minutes later—she saw them.
Lights.
She froze, confusion washing over her. At first, she thought it was just another trick of her exhausted mind—delirium setting in, maybe hypothermia playing its cruel game. Chaotically, she wondered if she would even know if she were delirious?
Her pulse stuttered. The beams slicing through the trees looked eerily like flashlights. Had she made it back? Had she somehow stumbled through time again?
The possibility sent a sharp pang through her, but before she could decide if it was panic or relief clawing at her ribs, she realized her mistake.
Not flashlights.
Torches.
The tall, naked trees broke the glow into beams, their light flickering gold and red against the stark white snow.
“Help!” she called, but the word came out weak and fragile She coughed, tried again, forcing her raw throat to work. She still wasn’t sure the sound carried.
And then she heard it. Her name being called. The voice was deep and resonant, unmistakable, carrying easily through the trees and over the wind.
Brody had come for her.
Tears of vast relief fell now, and she forced herself to keep moving. At present, they were ahead but slightly to the left of her. It seemed they might move right by her if she didn’t get their attention, still quite a distance away.
“Here!” She cried out, louder now. “Please,” she begged weakly.
And when the movement of those shadowy figures seemed to stop and even the flickering torchlight appeared to hold still, Emmy was sure someone had heard her, and had asked for quiet to discern where the sound had come from.
“Here!” She shouted once more.
The next sound she heard was Brody’s desperate voice. “Emmy?” The question in her name confirmed that he had heard her, was listening.
“I’m here,” she returned, as loud as she could, suddenly unable to take one more step, clinging to and leaning against the rough bark of a tree.
A flurry of sound erupted—voices shouting, harnesses jangling, beams of light dancing, all of it coming closer.
Emmy closed her eyes and dropped her head against the cold tree. Oh, thank God .
She opened her eyes a moment later, just in time to see Brody swing down from his horse before it had come to a full stop. Shadows came in his wake, other mounted Dunmara men, the search party.
Brody limped in double-time toward her, which made him appear to hop a bit.
“Emmy!” He said fiercely.
She nodded. She hadn’t energy for anything else but to pull her arms away from the tree. She stumbled slightly but Brody caught her, steadying her with a firm grip.
“ Jesu , lass,” he seethed, his eyes glittering in the night. "Thank God," he muttered, pulling her into his chest. His arms tightened around her.
Emmy melted into him, a soft moan escaping, closing her eyes again, the world narrowing to the steady thud of his heart and the magnificent heat of his body.
Then, just as suddenly, he pushed her back, his hands still gripping her shoulders. His eyes flashed with something raw and furious.
"Do ye have any idea how reckless this is?” he began railing at her. “What the hell were ye about?" he snapped, his voice low, ragged. “Dinna ye ken to—ah, Christ, lass,” he muttered, sweeping her off her feet and up into his arms.
“Aye, and save the scolding for another time,” said a voice Emmy vaguely recognized as Duncan’s. “Home and hearth are what she needs now.”
“Aye, I’m moving,” Brody growled.
He strode toward his horse with purpose, the snow crunching beneath his boots. With a cautious but steady motion, he lifted her onto the back of his horse, settling her securely before swinging up behind her in one swift movement. The powerful warmth of his body engulfed her as his arms wrapped around her, one hand gripping the reins, the other tightening briefly around her waist.
“Back to Dunmara,” he barked to his men. “Let’s get home.”
Flickering torchlight illuminated the path home as the others wheeled their horses around to accompany them.
“I’m so cold, Brody,” she murmured, leaning back against him, the words delivered through chattering teeth.
“I’ve got ye now, lass. Ye’re safe. We’ll have ye warm in nae time.” He pulled her more tightly against him. "Ye’ve caused enough trouble for one day,” he said gruffly.
She was a bit dazed, her brain muddled with exhaustion and cold, but she felt distinctly that his gruff annoyance possibly hid a deeper meaning, that he’d actually been very worried about her.
She had no idea how much time had passed, how long they rode in near complete silence, but she noticed when the lights of Dunmara came into view. The keep’s shadowy outline was highlighted against a cloudy black sky.
“I didn’t know if you...if anyone would even look for me,” she mused softly.
Brody tensed against her as they cleared the gates.
“If ye truly thought nae one would come,” he responded quietly, “then ye dinna ken me at all.”