Epilogue
Brody helped Emmy alight from the horse, allowing her a moment to adjust the folds of her gown. The weight of the fabric settled around her legs, and while she was nervous, she felt a sense of accomplishment she wouldn’t have thought possible a year ago. The deep blue wool had been cut and stitched by her own hands—her proudest creation yet. Though the work had been slow and imperfect, she had done it almost entirely herself after grueling hours of lessons with Maud learning how to sew. The embroidery she’d added to the neckline and fitted bodice was far from perfect, that too being a work in progress, but she’d had the foresight to use dark thread, so that any mistakes weren’t glaring.
Emmy spared only a glance at the imposing stone fortress before her, looming against the bleak spring sky, a fitting backdrop for a clan that carried grief on its shoulders.
“Dinna be nervous, love,” Brody said, waiting patiently. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Ye look almost too beautiful for a funeral.”
Emmy swallowed. “In truth, I’m less worried about how I look—except I don’t want to embarrass you—than I am about meeting all these people, the MacRae in particular.” Tiernan MacRae was an old and trusted friend of Brody’s, with whom the MacIntyres had rallied late last summer when war had called. Emmy had felt much better knowing her husband and his ragtag band of two dozen men would not be alone, but combined with the MacRae army, which purportedly numbered in the hundreds. “This is my first time outside Dunmara, Brody. I don’t want to make any mistakes or have anyone question whether—”
Brody took the hand that had fluttered nervously as she spoke, effectively silencing her. “Ye canna embarrass me, lass,” he assured her calmly. “And I imagine that any guests or residents will be too immersed in their grief to wonder about ye—even as I have nae doubt ye’ll turn many heads.”
“Okay, but Brody,” she said as they moved toward the gates, with Duncan and half the small MacIntyre army following in their wake, “don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave my—”
“I’ll nae let go of yer hand,” he said, giving it a squeeze.
“Okay, thank you.” She chewed her lip a moment, paying little attention to the imposing castle, and then whispered to Brody as they walked up the stone steps adjacent to the keep, “There are a lot of wagons and carriages and horses here. Who was this woman that her funeral has drawn such a crowd?”
“Margaret was the MacRae’s betrothed,” Brody reminded her. He expanded on this, as he had not when he first informed Emmy that they were expected to travel for the poor woman’s funeral. “He’d loved her since he was a boy. If nae for the war, and other losses that required respectable mourning, they’d have been married years ago.”
“Oh, gosh, that’s so sad,” she decided. “Poor Tiernan,” she said of the man she’d never met but whom she was prepared to like immediately, for how warmly Brody spoke of him, and for how graciously he’d absorbed the MacIntyre army into his own when they’d gone off to war for five long months—a period of time Emmy would absolutely not like to live through again, though one that she feared and expected she might have to endure once more.
Tiernan MacRae stood in the middle of the massive hall at Druimlach Castle—or Castle Ridge, Brody had said it was sometimes called—receiving condolences from a long line of mourners.
With at least a dozen people in front of her and Brody, Emmy peeked ahead, trying to get a look at him.
Tiernan was a mountain of a man, towering over even the tallest of his kinsmen. Broad shoulders filled the heavy breacan draped over them, his form exuding not quiet confidence and strength but rather a daunting fierceness. His thick, dark hair was pushed back from a face carved from stone, all sharp, unrelenting angles that might have been handsome if not for the severity of his expression. His gaze, cold and cutting, seemed to pierce through a person with unnerving precision, as if seeing everything they wished to hide. There was a quiet hardness about him, possibly the weight of sorrow buried beneath layers of fortitude. Unlike Brody, though, whose intensity masked an undercurrent of warmth, Tiernan seemed to bear no such softness.
She had thought Brody was intimidating when they’d first met, but this man—he was something else.
“MacIntyre.” Tiernan's voice was deep and rough, like the unyielding mountains that loomed over his land, steady as the stone beneath their feet.
Brody inclined his head. “MacRae. Ye have my deepest condolences.”
Tiernan gave a curt nod, his gaze flicking to Emmy as Brody introduced her. “I mentioned my wife to ye last fall. Emmy, this is Tiernan MacRae, mormaer of Castle Ridge.”
Emmy stepped forward, her posture poised but respectful, meeting Tiernan’s piercing gaze. “It is a privilege to meet you, sir, though I deeply regret the sorrow that has brought us here today. You have my heartfelt sympathy.”
At the sound of her voice, Tiernan’s expression flickered—just barely, but enough for Emmy to notice. His jaw tightened, his gaze narrowing slightly as if assessing something unseen. There was no mistaking the reaction; the distinct English lilt in her words had registered, and not in a way that boded well. A muscle ticked in his jaw before his features smoothed once more into an unreadable mask.
After a lingering moment, he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment to both her and Brody.
With so many mourners still behind them, Brody and Emmy did not tarry but moved along, further inside. The air inside the great hall was thick with sorrow and the scent of burning tallow. Emmy stood beside Brody, essentially committing herself to a thoroughly modern but hopefully subtle bit of people-watching.
A cluster of elderly women sat near the hearth, their hands busy with bits of cloth, though their eyes seldom left the gathering. One had a face as weathered as old leather, her mouth drawn into a firm line of disapproval. Another, wrapped in heavy furs despite the warmth of the hall, whispered behind her palm to a companion who nodded gravely, glancing now and then toward the MacRae.
Near the long table, a stout man with a thick gray beard leaned on a cane, his sharp eyes taking in everything like a man accustomed to authority. His surcoat bore a brooch with a clan sigil, though Emmy didn’t recognize it as the MacRae design, which she’d seen often enough on missives from Tiernan that came to Dunmara. The tightness of the man’s mouth suggested either deep grief or roiling anger.
A trio of young warriors, their dark plaids and finely wrought belts marking them as men of some standing, stood apart, speaking in low tones. One of them, a wiry man with a long scar down his cheek, kept his arms folded, his expression indifferent but watchful as he occasionally glanced toward Tiernan.
A girl of no more than twelve darted between the guests, her unruly curls escaping a half-hearted braid. She carried a wooden trencher half-full of bread and cheese, though she seemed more interested in eavesdropping than serving. When she caught Emmy’s eye, she quickly averted her gaze and hurried off toward the kitchens.
Nearby, a woman with silver-threaded black hair and a finely woven gown sat ramrod straight in an ornate chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She bore the unmistakable air of someone of importance—perhaps Tiernan’s mother or aunt, a matriarch of the clan, maybe the deceased Margaret’s mother. Though she wept no tears, there was something in the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her skirts that spoke of grief held tightly in check.
Emmy forced herself to keep her expression neutral as she took in the faces around her, each one adding another layer to the weight of sorrow pressing down upon the room. She hadn’t met Margaret, hadn’t ever heard her name until Brody had been notified of her passing, but Emmy felt the young woman must have been special, to have gathered so many people, and to have aroused such grief and sympathy.
The mourners gradually began to move, drawn by the solemn call of the bell that signaled the procession’s start. Tiernan led the way, his imposing figure at the forefront, his grief evident in the rigid set of his shoulders. Two priests walked just behind him, murmuring low prayers, their voices barely audible over the shuffling feet of the gathered clansmen and the dozens of visiting mourners.
Margaret’s body, wrapped in a fine woolen shroud of deep maroon and bearing what Emmy supposed was her own family’s crest, was carried on a wooden bier by six warriors. The cloth clung to the shape of her slender frame, making her presence all the more stark. Emmy swallowed hard. Somehow, the sight of a coffin might have felt more distant, more ceremonial—but this was intimate, raw, a reminder of how fragile life was in this world.
The entire procession moved in slow, deliberate steps, winding down the worn stone path that led from the keep to the small graveyard nestled on a rise overlooking a vast loch. Emmy and Brody followed in respectful silence, the chill in the air sharp but not unbearable. To her relief, Brody hadn’t let go of her hand.
At the gravesite, the priests spoke of Margaret’s kindness, her devotion, her unwavering strength in the face of hardship. They called upon God and ancestors alike to welcome her home. Tiernan stood motionless through it all, his face carved from stone, betraying no outward emotion. But Emmy, watching him closely, caught the barest tremor in his clenched fist.
When the final prayers were spoken, and a handful of earth was scattered over the coffin, the mourners turned back toward the keep. The long walk back was quieter, heavier. The wind picked up, sweeping across the land as if carrying away the last echoes of farewell. By the time they returned to the great hall, the scent of tallow had been joined by that of roasted meat and spiced ale, the preparations for the funeral feast already underway.
The celebration of Margaret’s life would go on well into the evening—Brody had advised her of that much. Though they’d traveled only a little over an hour to get here, he’d said they would depart before darkness fell.
Brody and Emmy, along with the small party from Dunmara—Duncan and several of Brody’s officers—had taken up one entire table and half of another. The hall was heavy with voices, a blend of mourning and reminiscence, and conversation flowed freely around them.
Emmy shifted in her seat, threading her hand into the crevice of Brody’s elbow, a wee bit saddened by all the heavy hearts around her.
Though he was mid-sentence in a discussion with Duncan about their upcoming trek to Glasgow where they hoped to purchase several rams for breeding, he covered her hand with his, his fingers warm and comforting.
That was all Emmy needed for now, just the reassurance of him, solid and warm at her side.
By the time Brody signaled their departure, she was more than ready to leave. The MacRae keep, with all its sorrow, pressed down on her like a physical weight. They bid their farewells and mounted their horses, riding away from the hall of mourning and back toward Dunmara.
The road stretched long before them, the sky fading into twilight as the last rays of daylight slipped behind the hills. Brody rode beside her, while the MacIntyre soldiers fanned out in front and behind them.
Emmy glanced at Brody, then back to the road ahead. The funeral, the entire day, had made her confront the possibility of loss. “I couldn’t bear to lose you,” she told him.
Brody turned his head, his brow furrowing. “I’m nae gone yet, lass,” he said lightly. “Nae for many years, God willing.”
She swallowed, tightening her hands on the reins. “God, I hope so.” Thoughtfully, she added, “I never expected this life. You. And now I can’t—” She exhaled sharply. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you.”
Brody reached across the small space between them, his gloved hand brushing hers briefly. “I’ll do my best to stay alive, love,” he promised, his voice quieter now, steady. “For as long as I can manage it.”
She let out a quiet, breathy laugh. “That’s a terrible reassurance.”
“Aye, but it’s an honest one.”
Emmy huffed, shifting in the saddle. “If you really loved me,” she provoked him, “you wouldn’t leave me.”
His amusement faded as his gaze drifted toward the darkening horizon. “If ever something should happen to me, Em, ye’d need protection. A sponsor. The land at Dunmara... it would need strong backing.” He inclined his head over his shoulder, toward Castle Ridge. “Ye’d go to Tiernan.”
Emmy turned to fully face him. “Tiernan?”
“Aye.” Brody’s expression was serious now. “He’s a hard man, but he’s honorable. He’d see ye and Dunmara kept well and safe.”
She hesitated, her stomach tightening at the thought. “I don’t want to think about that.” Then, after a beat, she narrowed her eyes at him. “And by the way, that wasn’t what I was talking about. I meant losing you , not land and sponsorship.” Her mock petulance earned her another smirk, so she played it up. “I told you already, when you left me last year to go to war—how rude, by the way—that yes, I would survive if... something awful happened to you. But you wouldn’t want me to be miserable and morose, would you?”
His grin deepened, but she wasn’t finished.
“I’d be quite upset with you, actually,” she declared, sitting straighter in the saddle. “I’m not even sure I’d ever speak to you again.”
Brody chuckled, shaking his head. “Ye are, of course, ridiculous, but I love ye.” His voice softened. “And fine—I’ll nae ever leave ye.”
She dropped the teasing, her smile turning soft and real, her eyes warm as she held his gaze. “Thank you.”
Brody grinned, then leaned toward her, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to her cheek.
It was only a few minutes later when a halt was called. Brody ordered Emmy to stay put and rode ahead to see why they’d stopped. Five MacIntyre soldiers surrounded Emmy while they waited.
Duncan, Brody, and three others gathered round a figure that had stepped into their path.
Over the last year, Dunmara had taken in several weary travelers. As they were not but another half hour from home and the night would only get colder, Emmy assumed they might have an overnight guest.
She was surprised when Brody turned in the saddle. “Emmy, come on up.”
Me? She questioned silently, wondering why her input might be needed. She trusted Brody’s judgment about a person. But she moved forward, the guardsmen moving with her.
Brody dismounted and strode to meet Emmy before she reached the mounted group hovering near the figure. Brody swung Emmy down from the saddle with ease, giving her a pointed look as he said, “See what ye can make of this, Em.”
Perplexed by what seemed a slight agitation in him, Emmy followed as Brody led her between two MacIntyre destriers.
A woman stood there, small and nervous, wrapped in a thin wool blanket, which covered her hair and put her face in shadows.
“Hello,” she said cautiously, holding up her hands to show she meant no harm.
The woman reacted dramatically to Emmy’s voice, her frightened eyes widening and her mouth dropping open.
Emmy started to ask, “What has you out—” but froze mid-sentence, her stomach twisting.
In the dim light, she noticed what had first escaped her—not a long skirt beneath the oversized blanket, but a pair of bell-bottom jeans.
“Oh, shit,” burst from Emmy.
Her pulse pounded.
The woman visibly swallowed, a lone tear slipping from her eye as she held Emmy’s shocked gaze.
“Where—what is happening?”
Emmy reacted instinctively, forcing herself to steady her voice. “Okay, everything is all right. I know it’s scary. It’s confusing, but I promise you—you’re safe now. That’s all that matters right now.”
The wild fear glazing the woman’s eyes hit Emmy like a memory—because she’d stood in this exact place, felt this exact terror. Emmy turned to Brody, already believing what he must have suspected. “She’s from... where I came from.”
Brody nodded tightly. “Aye.”
Recalling the moment she’d stood in exactly this position, confused and afraid, Emmy reached out her hand. “I’m Emmy Carter—er MacIntyre. I know exactly what you’re going through.” She stepped closer to the woman. “Please, come with us. Let’s get you out of the cold, someplace warm.”
“I don’t...” the woman began, shaking her head. “I don’t understand what happened.” She choked back a sob. She sighed dramatically and lowered the blanket from around her head, leaving it draped over her shoulders.
“ Jesu ,” Brody seethed somewhere behind Emmy, who imagined his small outburst must have been in response to the sight of the woman’s exquisite onyx-black hair, which fell in waves over her shoulders.
But then, for the first time, Emmy truly saw the woman’s face.
She was stunning—undeniably gorgeous—but a distinct, unmistakable scar cut across her cheek, running from the edge of her nose to her ear, a rippling mark that did nothing to diminish her beauty, but was impossible to overlook.
Emmy tightened her jaw, thinking she would chew out Brody later for his rudeness, for reacting so callously to the woman’s deformity.
“We can help you,” Emmy promised her. “What is your name?”
“R-rose. Rose Carlisle,” she said, shivering violently.
“Come,” Emmy prompted, stepping closer, slowly lifting her arm to place it around the woman’s trembling shoulders. “Let’s get you out of the cold. You can ride with me. We don’t live far. Truly, I vow to you, you are safe.”
She urged the woman through the hovering men and horses, catching sight of Brody’s pale face. She frowned at him, a question in her gaze, while he stared at the poor woman as if he’d seen a ghost.
Will had brought Emmy’s mare forward. Ignoring Brody for the moment, though she now wore a frown of her own, Emmy steered the stiff woman toward the horse.
“Will, can you see her settled?” she asked the young soldier.
When he nodded, Emmy strode the few feet back to Brody, confused by his tense agitation.
“Brody, my God, what is wrong with you?” She asked in a hissed whisper.
He didn’t acknowledge her at first, staring over her head at the stranger, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding.
“?Tis Margaret de Moubray,” he said hoarsely, looking about as disturbed as Emmy had ever seen him.
“She said her name was Rose. Brody, this woman is obviously in the same boat I was two years ago. We need to help her. Don’t be so rude about her scar. And why are you saying she is Margaret?” She asked sharply, gripping his arm, which finally wrenched his gaze from the woman wearing bell-bottom jeans, seemingly arrived as Emmy once had, from the twenty-first century. “Margaret who?”
Brody hissed down at Emmy. “Margaret de Moubray, the woman we just buried this morning at Castle Ridge.”
Emmy felt her stomach drop, her breath shuddering in her chest.
“That’s... impossible.” She slapped a hand over her cheek.
But as she turned back to the woman and stared into her terrified eyes, a dreadful realization clawed at the edges of Emmy’s mind. If the last two years had taught her anything, she’d learned that nothing was impossible.
The End