Slow. Testing.
“There are many things I could do for you. I could do for you…you could do for me.”
His fingers slide around my bicep, grip tightening. Knuckles brush my torso. I squirm away, but he only presses closer, grazing the backs of his fingers along my ribcage.
A current jolts through me, like touching a live wire, galvanizing every muscle.
The bastard is trying to cop a feel.
Memories swirl of all the times I’ve felt cornered. Taken advantage of. Underestimated. Years of helplessness thunder through me—and then disintegrate into ash.
The girl who frets, who obeys, who freezes in place?
Gone. I left her in the twenty-first century.
I’m not skittish. Just pissed. I shift the bucket in my hands, adjusting my grip. My voice stays flat. “I need to change the water.”
I angle my body, just slightly. Just enough. He doesn’t step back.
“You might want to move.” A casual warning.Friendly. Innocent.
I tip the pail—just a little too far.
Oops.
Chicken filth splashes his leg, darkening the fine wool of his breeches. He stumbles back, bellowing a stream of furious Gaelic.
I dart past him, outside. I bite my cheek, holding back a triumphant grin.
But Hamish is on my heels. I feel him hovering at my back, and my grin fades.
I’m alone. It’s dusk. And his father is master of this castle. Master of this whole area, as far as I can tell.
“Watch yourself, lassie. Looks like you’ve got more than you can handle.” He snatches my shoulder and snarls in my ear, “You wouldnae want to get hurt.”
I stiffen. I’m scared, but I refuse to be cowed. Tractable, eager-to-please Rose is gone, and she’s not invited back. I slip free and stride ahead, determined to continue with my chores. Determined to avert whatever it is Hamish has in mind.
He’s behind me like a shadow as I unlatch the gate and pass through, slinking past just before it shuts again. I stop short and heave the pail with deliberate clumsiness, letting the chicken water splash behind me before I use it to water the garden. I’m gratified to hear the slap of wet fabric and whispered cursing at my back.
Don’t mess with a farm girl.
I head to the water trough, every nerve on high alert. Hamish looms closer now. Too close. My stunt with the water was funny. It was satisfying.
But maybe it was stupid.
Dread creeps over me—a shuddery feeling of inevitability. Women through history have been powerless. Whywould I be different? Because I was raised to believe in myself? Because Poppa told me I was strong and could do anything?
Poppa’s not here. And this game has an entirely different set of rules.
No. I refuse to accept that. I do believe in myself. Iamstrong.
There are women here who have power, surely. My mother had it. The witches and the healers and the midwives—they’re all powerful. Strong.
As though eerily summoned by my thoughts, I spot a familiar lump in the grass.
And then I know. I may not have authority here, but I’m smart and I’m strong, and that’s a start. The old me fades and a new, fearless Rosie expands within me. I drop my bucket and lean down, fingers curling around a stone—mystone. The one I threw the night of the cèilidh.
I rise, flashing Hamish a brittle, too-bright smile. “Look what I found again.” I thrust it toward him.
