Chapter Fifteen
The sun poured into the chamber on the top floor, casting a warm golden glow across the stone floor. Emmy stretched out on the thick wool blanket she’d laid down, her arms reaching high above her head before she laid her palms against each other, lowering her hands to her chest. She inhaled deeply, savoring the sun’s warmth on her face, even as her clothes and surroundings reminded her she was in a medieval keep and not some high-end yoga studio in Manhattan.
Her muscles ached from trudging through the snow for hours two days earlier. Yoga had always been her go-to way to ease tension and clear her mind. Here, it was as much an emotional reset as a physical one. But oh, she was really missing her yoga pants today, having to make do wearing only the shift.
Two nights ago, Brody had carried her into the keep, his grip firm, his warmth irresistible. She’d been vaguely aware of Maud and Agnes scurrying behind him, fretting over hot water and dry linens as he’d swept up the stairs with her. A bath had quickly been filled, and Brody had stoked the fire in the hearth, and though the air inside the chamber still held winter’s chill, steam had soon curled from the tub, promising relief. Then, even as sensation had returned to her fingers and toes, prickling painfully with life, Emmy hadn’t been able to ignore the lingering impression of Brody’s arms around her, the way he’d held her and carried her as if letting go wasn’t an option. How he’d managed, with his bad leg and injured arm, she had no idea—but the memory of it warmed her almost as much as the bath had. Later, however, when her body no longer ached and she could think more clearly, a small twinge of guilt had crept in. Though she knew she hadn’t wanted to be anywhere else, or in anyone else’s arms, she felt Brody must have surely paid, in soreness, for his manly chivalry.
She was in the midst of an extended side angle pose, her bare feet planted very wide, her right hand flat on the floor next to her right foot, with her left arm stretched straight up toward the ceiling, when she startled, hearing Brody roar her name from somewhere else in the keep, possibly a floor below.
Emmy rolled her eyes, even as she smiled a bit inwardly.
“I’m up here,” she called out.
He’d done this yesterday, when she’d gone to check on Ailis, who was feeling better and without a fever now, but still weak and lethargic, still in her cot in the maid’s quarters down the hall from this chamber.
He’d looked sheepish when he’d found her yesterday, mumbling something about suspecting she’d run off again.
She’d grinned and told him that she was done with wild goose chases—at least until the weather improved—at which he’d frowned and replied, “There are nae geese in the forest, lass.”
Right.
Emmy pivoted, repeating the pose on her left side, facing the door.
She grinned, catching a sound that might have been the laird grumbling under his breath as he approached.
A moment later, he appeared in the doorway—and stopped dead in his tracks. His scowl morphed into something akin to startled bewilderment.
His brown eyes raked over her—long, slow, and thorough.
The shift she wore was sleeveless and had risen high on her thighs in the pose, leaving much of her legs, arms, and collarbone exposed to the sunlight that spilled into the chamber. Emmy felt the heat of his gaze, nearly as warm as the sun on her skin.
“What the—” His voice was rough, almost hoarse. He swallowed thickly. “What are ye about?”
Emmy fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny and instead held the pose, lifting her chin, as if completely unbothered by the way his eyes lingered.
"Stretching," she said, still holding the pose, her hand lifted over her head. "It’s called yoga. It helps with strength and flexibility—and calms your mind, too.”
Brody said nothing but leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. His scowl scarcely relaxed.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve commandeered this chamber,” she said smoothly, not wanting to disrupt her relaxed breathing any more than his intense scrutiny had. “Ailis said it wasn’t used for anything.”
“Nae,” he said distractedly, and she sensed that his gaze drifted back to her bare legs.
Emmy lowered her arm and straightened, bringing her feet together. “FYI,” she said and then exhaled and folded forward over her legs, laying her palms flat next to her bare feet, “Old Fenella had nothing to offer. She’s super weird and her eyes are kind of freaky, and frankly, I think she enjoyed how uncomfortable I was in her house,” she said, letting her head hang heavy facing her knees. “Though she basically admitted she was an ancient witch in human form—thought you’d want to know—she said she couldn’t help me. Said only the one who moved me here could send me back, and that I would never find her.”
Still bent over in the standing forward bend asana, Emmy heard Brody respond cautiously.
“And so ye...are to remain here? In this time?”
She thought she heard more than only a casual question in his voice and rose slowly when she was certain she’d held the pose for nearly half a minute. Shrugging with an indifference she didn’t yet feel, she said only, “I guess so.”
Releasing that pose, she stood straight and positioned her feet hip-width apart. She lifted her chest and rolled her shoulders back. Stepping back with her left leg, she aligned her left and right heel and then rotated the toes of her left foot to a forty-five degree angle.
“So now I guess I need to ask,” she said next, as she brought her left hip forward and her right hip back, distributing her weight evenly between her legs, “if it’s all right that I stay here.” She stared straight ahead, as the warrior pose required, but was totally aware of Brody in her periphery as she bent her right knee and lowered herself until her thigh was parallel with the floor, and her knee was directly over her ankle. “Obviously, I have nothing to offer,” she said evenly, and then inhaled, lifting her arms over her head, her palms facing each other. “I have no medieval skills, nothing to bring to the table, so to speak, but maybe I can help out Maud and Agnes, take on some...” she paused and shuddered a bit at the very idea, “take on some regular household chores. I’m not unintelligent,” she said but felt a grin rising as she held the pose, “despite the misadventure of two days ago. I’m sure I can be taught...things—to be useful. Earn my keep.”
When he didn’t answer immediately, Emmy did glance his way.
“Unless...” she began, a knot of dread forming in her core, “unless you’d rather I found someplace else to...be?”
Thankfully, Brody shook his head almost immediately. He actually looked a little miffed that she’d even asked that question. “Ye are welcome here, lass.” He wasn’t looking at her face, though, but at her hands, which she lowered to her side as she slowly came up from the lunge. “Where has yer ring gone?”
Emmy snorted, still smarting over that loss. “The creepy witch has it now, payment for the visit, I guess. I’ve got change coming, I know. And please don’t give me grief about it. I already feel awful for having sacrificed my grandmother’s ring to that...woman.” She stepped forward her left foot and sent her right foot behind her, repeating the warrior pose on the other side.
When he said nothing but remained in the doorway, Emmy was made now a little self-conscious.
“You know,” she said, “I feel like you would benefit from yoga. It’s very helpful for recovery, especially for sore legs and stiff arms."
Brody’s expression hardened slightly, even as he moved one ankle in front of the other, appearing very nonchalant. "I’ve managed just fine without twisting myself into knots."
"Have you?" Emmy said, her tone doubtful. "Managing isn’t the same as healing.”
Brody’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t deny it.
"Think about it," Emmy suggested mildly, not wishing to jam it down his throat. "Even these regular, gentle exercises would build strength and improve your range of motion. I think I mentioned it, but I broke my leg skiing when I was seventeen. The physical therapy was brutal, but it made all the difference."
"Aye, ye’d mentioned it. And what is that—skiing?" Brody’s brow furrowed. "Is that some English madness?"
Emmy wagged her finger at him, lifting a brow as she reminded him, “I’m not English. Skiing is a sport," she explained. “A recreational activity. Flying down a snowy mountain on two thin boards. It’s thrilling—if you’re outfitted properly for the cold. And, until you hit a tree. Or, as previously mentioned, fall out of the ski lift."
Though he didn’t smile or even look as if he might, his expression appeared much less... severe.
"Come on," she said, nodding toward the blanket. "Let me show you a few things that could help. Nothing fancy, I promise."
Brody hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I dinna have time for such...”
“What? Nonsense? The luxury of taking care of your body? I suppose that should be counted as another huge difference between this century and where—er, when— I’m from.” She shrugged, as if his pain and stiffness were none of her concern. “Guess I thought a laird—a knight, in fact—would want to make sure he was in the best possible condition to be able to defend hearth and home and country, or whatever.” She didn’t feel one ounce of remorse for throwing that at him. “Fine,” she decided when he seemed unwilling to even consider it, “then I guess you’ll just continue limping around Dunmara like a grumpy old man," Emmy said sweetly. "But if you want to regain full strength..." She spread her hands in a what-have-you-got-to-lose gesture.
“Ye are verra...curious, lass.”
The way he said it—low, almost tender, and as if it wasn’t exactly a negative—made her breath catch. But before she could respond, Brody gave a small nod and turned, obviously meaning to leave.
"Think about yoga," she called after him. “I’d be happy to help.”
He glanced back, his frown returned. “Nae, lass.”
***
Shortly after midnight, Brody found himself standing in the doorway of the third-floor chamber, where an old wool blanket was still laid out on the floor. The morning fire had long since burned to embers, casting little more than a dull glow against the cold stone walls.
She wasn’t here, of course—not at this hour. But he could still see her, clear as day. Her body stretched in those unfamiliar poses, long, bare legs taut with effort, scandalously clad in naught but a shift, which had clung to her lean figure with no small amount of adoration. He’d been unable to move for several minutes this morning, rooted to the spot as he’d been, his gaze roaming over her, drinking in what little modesty she’d left herself.
And yet it hadn’t been indecency. There was something graceful, something strangely powerful, about the way she moved, deliberate and fluid. She’d spoken of yoga , some foreign practice meant to increase strength and flexibility. At the time, he’d dismissed it as more of her peculiar ways. But the words returned to him now, looping through his mind like an insidious whisper.
Flexibility. Strength. Range of motion.
He shifted his right arm experimentally, rolling his shoulder in a careful circle. Even after months—half a year since the bandages had come off, if he were counting—the movement still pulled sharply, reminding him of his limitations. The stiffness had not eased, nor had the dull ache that haunted him after even a short burst of labor. His leg fared no better. The old wound still ached with every change in the weather, still slowed him when he least expected it.
He’d been told to take care. To rest . That time and patience were the only cures for his wounds. But time had passed, and he still felt half the man he’d been before. If rest was the answer, why had nothing changed?
Brody exhaled sharply and turned away from the empty chamber, continuing his aimless trek through the halls. He welcomed the crisp bite of the air against his bare skin, the cold bracing rather than uncomfortable. It sharpened his mind, even as his body begged for sleep he knew would not come.
His feet carried him downward, back to his own chamber. He pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside, plunking himself down in the chair before his desk. The fire here had burned lower as well, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls. He leaned back, stretching his leg out with a grimace as a familiar throb radiated from knee to hip.
He stared at his desk, at the few scrolls and flat pieces of parchment, what remained of the candles, the old inkwell he’d found in his father’s office belowstairs.
There was little business to conduct, little to officiate. He ought to have taken his duties to the hall, where his people could see him, where he might project some strength—however much of it still remained. But he preferred the seclusion of his chamber.
Brody rubbed a hand over his jaw, staring at the curled edges of the parchment on his desk while he thought again of Emmy’s yoga. You should at least consider it , a voice in the back of his mind suggested. He scowled, hating the thought.
Brody let his head fall back against the chair with a quiet sigh.
If you want to regain full strength , she’d offered. A tempting reward, he considered.
***
Emmy stood in the middle of her small chamber with her hands on her hips, surveying the space like it was a problem to be solved, which to her mind it was. It wasn’t terrible, but it certainly wasn’t cozy. The bare stone walls were cold and unwelcoming, the lone wooden bed frame with its lumpy mattress barely adequate. A rickety table sat near the bed, and an ancient-looking very unattractive armoire leaned against the wall, tipped a bit to the right. The whole room felt like a monk’s cell—or maybe a prison, depending on her mood.
She’d glanced around the chamber with a small sense of dismay the morning after returning from her wild trek to Fenella’s, missing her own bedroom and every inch of her loft in New York. True, her loft sometimes felt too large, too cold—her mother had decorated it in the international style, which prioritized function over form and décor, using clean lines, glass, steel, concrete, and neutral tones, all of which made it feel very cold, very...unwelcoming, not a place Emmy had truly ever felt comfortable in. It wasn’t the aesthetics she was missing from her loft, but the fact that it was hers, that it had every modern convenience, and that one day—when she worked up the nerve to tell her mother she was going to redecorate the space in her own style—she felt she truly would have loved it. She had so many ideas for the tall windows and high ceilings, the exposed brick wall and the open floor plan.
This chamber, however, held so much less promise.
And yet, If I’m going to be here for a while, I might as well do it in style, Emmy had decided. After all, a peaceful and visually appealing home setting can create a greater sense of wellbeing, her mother was fond of saying, something Emmy and Meredith Carter had actually agreed on.
Earlier, after helping in the kitchen, Emmy had casually asked Maud if she could "borrow" some extra furnishings from the unused chambers. It had been Agnes who’d responded, waving her off with a bemused chuckle. "Aye, lass, take whatever ye like. Most of it’s been gathering dust for years."
And so Emmy had set to work.
She started in chambers up on the third floor since they weren’t used for guests as far as she knew, and since they proved essentially a treasure trove of forgotten and discarded furniture. Dusty tapestries hung limply from the walls, old chairs and wooden screens were stacked haphazardly, and a few small tables leaned against each other in a precarious tower.
Her eyes lit up. "Jackpot."
Other chambers revealed an old wooden chair with arms and a tall back—one of its legs was loose but Emmy thought it might be repairable. She found a small tabletop wooden chest with iron hinges and latch, locked but lightweight enough to move. She thought an old washstand might be nice to have; it was missing its basin but otherwise seemed usable. Further, she collected a smaller tapestry, only as tall as she was, which depicted a woman looking aside while an armored knight tried to hand her a rose. An old fur pelt, possibly from a wolf or fox, looked like it could be salvaged if she beat enough dust out of it. Another heap of discarded linens and other bolts of fabric, some of them patterned, might come in handy as well.
However, the first thing she claimed was a tall, latticed, wooden folding screen, perfect for creating a little privacy around the most unfortunate feature of her room—the chamber pot. She dragged it back into her chamber, positioning it in the corner to form a makeshift bathroom area. She rifled through the fabric pieces, choosing some plain linen, a curious strip of wool lace, thin and delicate, and a long but thin rolled strip of burgundy damask silk. She bit at the end of the linen and tore narrow strips and then arranged a bunch of different pieces to droop and drag and hang, kind of like a bohemian rag curtain, across the screen.
Standing back, Emmy surveyed her handiwork, rather pleased with the simple but feminine result.
There. Instant medieval luxury.
Next, she found a thick wool rug with only a few questionable stains and rolled it out across the cold stone floor. It didn’t match anything, but it would be warm under her bare feet, and that was all she cared about.
She discovered a tiny statuette of a wolf, which looked to be made of bronze, and inspected the striking craftsmanship. While she thought it would be an interesting addition to her chamber, the wolf’s posture—proud, alert—reminded her of Brody, and she decided it belonged in his chamber. She skipped down the stairs and knocked lightly on his door, but there was no answer. Slipping inside, she tiptoed across the floor and placed it on the mantle above his hearth after brushing away the dust gathered there.
Returning to the third-floor, Emmy cleared a path to a sturdy but heavy-looking chest with carved details along the sides and top. She tugged at the bulky piece and grimaced when it hardly moved. Though sadly empty inside—she’d hoped to find more treasures within—it was heavy, and while she thought she might be able to drag it across the floor and out into the hall, she wasn’t sure how she would get it downstairs to her chamber. She tugged several times, grimacing when it moved only small increments.
“Holy crap,” she said, shifting her grip—there were no handles—and pulling again. After a few more tries, she decided to push and got behind it. This moved it better but still not far. Because it was still close to the outside wall, Emmy sat with her back against the side of the trunk and put her feet up against the stone wall, giving a good shove, moving it more than a foot. But then the wall was not close enough to employ the same method again and she was forced to stand behind the chest, bent low so that she could push her shoulder into it.
"Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain," she called out to no one in particular, grinning at her own joke.
"She’s behind a kist,” said a voice, “but one wonders why.”
The deep, familiar voice startled her. She snapped to a standing position, flipping the ends of her hair over her shoulder, straightening the kerchief keeping the rest of it out of her face. Brody hovered in the doorway, one brow arched in a way that was starting to become annoyingly attractive.
His eyes flicked from the chest to her, then back again. "Are ye stealing furniture now?”
"Obviously," Emmy said with a straight face. She bit her lip briefly and then said, hopefully, with a hint of question in her tone, “Um, Agnes said I could plunder the storerooms for unused furniture...?”
Brody nodded, which Emmy took as permission granted.
Planting her hands on her hips, she smiled sweetly at him. “You’re a big, strong guy,” she said, tilting her head to the right. “Ah, but with that bum arm, you probably wouldn’t be able to move this any better than me.”
Challenge submitted. She waited, wondering if he would accept.
He did, but not without a pointed look at her—that may have actually contained the barest hint of amusement—letting her know he clearly saw through her tactic.
He walked toward her, his boots echoing softly in the narrow corridor. "And what exactly do ye plan to do with that?"
"I’m redecorating,” Emmy answered. “This is a statement piece. Very on-trend for the 1300s, I’m sure.”
Brody watched her for a moment, his dark eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite place. When she’d come out from beyond the chest, Brody lifted one corner of it, testing its weight. “Are ye sure ye dinna want a smaller kist?”
Stunned, Emmy gaped at him.
Had he actually inserted some humor into their conversation? Brody MacIntyre? She thought for sure she must have misheard, or misjudged his tone and inflection, but then, his usual scowl seemed to have relaxed a bit.
Good God, was that a...a twinkle in his eye? Emmy was staggered.
"Where do ye want it?" he asked while she stared mutely at him.
Emmy blinked. "Oh. Um... in my chamber, I guess.” And she winced a bit, for the fact that it was now up to him to figure out how to get it downstairs. “It um, might be a two-man lift,” she suggested.
“Aye, it is. Show me where ye want it in yer chamber and I’ll see that it gets moved there.”
“Great, thanks.” And with a nod in his direction, she exited the chamber, leading the way down to hers.
Reaching her chamber one floor below, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. Turning to face him, she gestured to the foot of the bed. "There, if it fits."
Brody didn’t step inside immediately. Instead, he lingered in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the space in a slow, measured assessment.
Emmy watched as his expression shifted, though she couldn’t quite decipher what passed through his eyes—mild surprise, curiosity... something else?
She followed his gaze as it moved over the room, taking in all the small but noticeable changes she had made. The bed was no longer a stark, imposing piece of furniture but looked more inviting now, layered with extra furs and blankets she’d pilfered from the storerooms. A woven tapestry, its colors muted with age, hung against the cold stone wall, softening the otherwise austere chamber. And then there was the chair by the fire—the one she’d found abandoned in storage, dust-covered but sturdy, which she’d dragged in herself. The screened privy , as she’d come to think of it in the last hour, held his attention the longest.
“Ye’ve made it... comfortable,” he observed, his voice low, bringing his gaze round to her.
She had no idea if he had any other opinion about what she’d done, his voice carefully neutral.
Emmy shrugged. “I figured I might be here for a while.”
Brody’s eyes lingered on her for a moment longer before he nodded and glanced away.
“I’ll have the chest brought down,” he said at last.
And then, without another word, he turned and strode away, leaving Emmy standing in the middle of her chamber, watching him go.
Emmy let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then glanced around her newly improved chamber. It was still a little rough around the edges, but it was starting to feel like home.
She lit a few candles, the warm glow softening the stone walls and casting flickering shadows across the room.
There.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers.
She settled onto the bed, simply to appreciate the new vibe for a few minutes, her eyes wandering around the room with a small, satisfied smile while she simultaneously thought of Brody MacIntyre’s piercing brown eyes.