Page 22 of So Close To Heaven
“Um, hi. Good morning,” she said, wearing a self-conscious smile. “Alar—I mean, the laird said I should find you for anything I need and well,” she shrugged and flashed a smile at him, “I have needs—a few, anyway.”
Kendrick lifted his tunic, using the bottom hem to wipe his face now, scrubbing it over his mouth and jaw, revealing a taut but pasty abdomen in the process.
He grinned when he dropped the shirt, letting it fall back over his hips. “Ne’er met a lass who dinna.”
Far different from his laird, Ivy liked that he was genuine, kind, and had this little teasing streak in him.
She lifted her hand, about to tick off her needs, but then thought better of it, imagining it would come across as bossy or pompous. Instead, she joined her hands behind her back. “I’d like to wash my face and brush my teeth, but I’m not sure how to go about doing that, how that might happen. And,” she continued, bringing her hands around to smooth them over her rounded belly, “I need to eat something.” Before he could answer, she thought she should offer something in return, and said, “Also, I’d like to help.” She pivoted a bit, waving her hand across the scene of so much labor around the shell of the priory. “Seems there’s plenty of work to be done.”
Kendrick eyed her a long moment, then rested both hands atop the axe haft, as it sat on the chopping block log. “Help, is it?”
“Yes. I don’t want to just... I can’t donothing, can’t just sit in that little room all day. It’ll drive me insane. And honestly, I’m stronger than I look.” She gave a hopeful smile, aware that wasn’t saying much in her state. “So, maybe you have some ideas of how or where I can be useful?”
Kendrick leaned his weight on the axe handle, studying her with the squint of a man trying to gauge whether she was serious. “Ye’d help, then,” he mused. His gaze swept over the yard as though picking from the dozens of small labors underway. “Och,” he said suddenly, turning back to Ivy. “I recall Tàmhas saying he was running low on a few plants and such. Said he was short on what he uses to soothe fever. Chamomile, yarrow, willow bark—anyone of those or all would serve.”
Ivy blinked at him. “Right. Plants.” She nodded as though she understood, but was forced to confess, “Okay, full disclosure— I wouldn’t know any of those plants from any common weed unless it was in a jar and labeled.”
Kendrick’s brows lifted, then knit together in obvious confusion.
Playfully, trying to make light of her inadequacy, she put her hand to the side of her mouth. “I’d probably end up poisoning half the army.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Aye, then we canna have ye do that. Ye’re bonny, wouldnae look so fine with yer head on a pike.”
Ivy’s jaw dropped while her eyes widened. “Wow. That escalated quickly. Instant beheading. I’ll make note of that.”
Kendrick only shrugged, with still only the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “We like to keep our punishments tidy.”
Ivy shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Tidy. Right. Nothing says neat and orderly like a severed head on display.” She cleared her throat. “All right. Any other ideas of how I might be helpful?”
He thought again, tapping the axe haft. “We can always use more bread, lass. Or oatcakes. Cook took a blade through the gut yesterday, God rest him. Laird hasn’t yet assigned who will replace him.”
“Oh. Bread?” Ivy echoed weakly. “Like... from scratch?”
Kendrick tilted his head, as though perplexed by her question.
“Oh, um—yeah, no. I don’t... bake.” She gave a nervous laugh. “I mean, I wouldn’t even know where to start.” She spun around again, considering the stone priory before facing Kendrick again. “Like, did the kitchen and ovens survive the fire?” She waved her hand, dismissing her own question. “Sorry, it doesn’t matter—I have no clue how to make any sort of bread.”
This time, he did laugh, just once, low in his chest, before shaking his head. “So nae plants or roots, nae foraging. Nae bread, nae baking. I see. Aye, we have a constant need for water, but I’m loath to have ye hauling buckets. Like as nae, the laird would have my head if he kent I put ye up to that.”
While Kendrick stared off blindly, appearing to wrack his brain for any other ideas, Ivy pressed her palms to her hot face, wishing the earth would swallow her. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “You must think I’m completely useless.”
“Useless?” He leaned down to grab another log, setting it on the stump. “Nae, lass. Mayhap... misplaced?” The axe came down in a clean, ringing crack. He straightened, knocking the split piece that hadn’t fallen off the block into the growing pile.
“Oh, gosh, Kendrick,” she all but moaned, “you have no idea.”
Kendrick seemed to make nothing of this hint of a confession. “There is one task ye can do that will serve well enough. The laundry. The soiled bandages pile high already, and as a marching and movin’ army, we go through 'em quick. It would be helpful if the used ones were washed, dried, and ready to use again.”
Relief flooded her. “Laundry, great. That, I can do.”
“Good.” Kendrick gave her an approving nod, already setting another log in place. He pointed with his free hand toward a copse of trees, where beyond Ivy could see what she hadn’tnoticed before, the shimmery blue of water. “There’s the loch, nice sandy bank it has. All the bandages needing laundering will be in there with Tàmhas,” he said, tipping his head toward the stone priory. “Might scrub up yerself there as well—at the loch. There’ll be nae fresh water delivered to ye, I ken that.”
“Thank you, Kendrick,” she said, genuinely pleased with his kindness and patience.
The married father of one—Ivy still couldn’t wrap her brain around that; he looked like in her time he might be sitting in an English class, his nose buried in his phone rather than his textbook—Kendrick jerked his chin toward the firepit where a blackened kettle hung over the flames. “Go on, get ye some pottage first. There’ll be oatcakes beside the pot. Take what ye can, for it’ll be long till the next.”
Ivy followed his gaze, her stomach tightening, not just with hunger, but with nerves. Half a dozen men were gathered there, eating from bowls, talking low between mouthfuls. Every one of them wore the same rough plaid, the same scars and wary expressions. She imagined walking straight into their midst, fumbling with the pot, drawing every stare. Her throat went dry.
“Would you maybe... come with me?” she asked softly, hating how small her voice sounded.
