Page 41 of So Close To Heaven
It wasn’t merely nice. It was transformative, breathtaking. Strange, though. She had admitted to herself that she was drawn to him, and yet she hadn’t specifically thought about his looks, not in a way that measured handsomeness. But—wow!—when he smiled, even just that fleeting curve of his lips, he was super hot.
His gaze dropped, and he shifted as if suddenly restless. “I’ve been given a chamber just down the hall,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “I’ll be near if ye have a need.”
Sensing an imminent departure, Ivy realized she didn’t want him to go. But she nodded all the same. “All right.”
He lingered a moment longer, then gave a curt dip of his head and turned for the door. The latch clicked softly behind him, leaving Ivy alone with the warmth of the fire, and the greater warmth still lingering from the memory of his smile.
***
Ivy woke later than she had in weeks. No men snored nearby, no commands were barked out to get the army on the road, no horses snorted and pawed the earth nearby. The silence pressed soft against her ears, decadent in its strangeness. For once, no one was rushing her to mount up, and she harbored no fear that the MacKinlays would move on without her.
The older woman with the careful English appeared not long after Ivy stirred. She carried in a trencher of warm oatcakes and cheese, and when Ivy asked after Alaric, the woman shook her head.
“MacKinlay laird...with Kerr laird. Gone before sun.” She set the tray down and straightened, folding her hands over her apron. “He say...you find Mathar, or Ewan, or Kendrick. If need.”
Ivy smiled her thanks before the woman slipped back out. Did Alaric ever allow himself to rest? She wondered if he even knew how to simply...be.
She made use of the chamber pot she’d found under the bed yesterday and had her breakfast at the small table by the hearth. Noticing that her own clothes seemed to have disappeared but that her short boots remained, she tugged them on, grateful for their familiarity, even if they looked oddly out of place beneath the brown wool gown that brushed her ankles with each step.
Venturing into the corridor, she paused, uncertain, her hand brushing the cold stone of the wall as she listened. The hall below was quieter than she expected, only a few quiet voices were heard. Ivy walked further and then down the stairs, reaching the cavernous hall. The long trestle tables stood empty, the fire on the hearth burned low, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and grease.
Gathering her courage, Ivy crossed the flagstones and found the great doors at the far end. She pushed one open, blinking against the sudden daylight. The bailey beyond was alive with sound and motion. Blacksmiths hammered at glowing metal while two women—dressed as she imagined peasants would be— seemed to be arguing over a basket, while chickens squawked underfoot.
Unable to understand the language used by the women—and thus unable to eavesdrop—Ivy glanced around, spotting Ewan straightaway. He was crouched near the stables inside the courtyard, a hand steadying the flank of a MacKinlay horse while a Kerr farrier worked the nails into its hoof.
Ivy hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. “Ewan?”
He glanced up, squinting against the sun. “Aye, lass?” His gaze shifted down from her face, the brief surprise shown likely due to her new outfit.
“I was wondering...would it be all right if I walked down to the village?”
He nodded almost immediately, giving his attention again to the horse and its shoe. “So long as ye keep to the road and mind yerself,” he said, “there’ll be nae harm in it. The folk ken us well enough.”
“Thanks.”
“Dinna go beyond the village, lass!” Ewan called after her.
Ivy waved her hand over her head as she skipped away, acknowledging his advice.
The path wound down from the gate toward the loch, where cottages and barns huddled close to one another. Thatched roofs sloped low against the wind, peat smoke curling from their chimneys. Some houses appeared to have been built half-buried in the ground, the overhang of their roofs being not more than four feet off the ground.
Ivy slowed, taking it all in. A pair of men appeared to be mending the fence that enclosed one house’s back yard. A group of young girls, stooping, gathered bundles of sticks. A short posse of young, wild-haired children raced and stumbled about, chasing a wayward chicken. A dog barked and darted at Ivy’s skirts, sniffing almost frantically before racing away again. No one stopped her, but more than one villager looked up, their eyes following her with quiet curiosity.
Once more, she felt as if this couldn’t be real, but that she’d simply stepped straight onto a working movie set, about to film from a medieval script. Still, there was nothing picturesque about it—the walls were rough, the barns weathered, the people hardened—but it was alive.
Sadly, she realized that without knowing anyone, and having no one to visit and being unable to speak the language of these people, there wasn’t much to see or do. Thus, her desire to immerse herself, so to speak, at Caeravorn, all but deflated inside her.
Still, she meandered about a bit, realizing after a while that she wasn’t simply taking in the village. Every deep voice that carried from a doorway or every rumble of wheels along the track pulled her head around, her heart leaping as if she expected to find Alaric. She caught herself scanning the open field beyond the village for his silhouette and straining to catch the sound of hoofbeats, anticipating his return.
What is wrong with me?” she thought, pressing a hand to the small of her back. The answer came swiftly, automatically. That smile he’d shown last night had really fascinated her.
Her other hand drifted unconsciously to her belly, curving firm and round beneath the brown gown as the baby shifted. It wasn’t a kick, just a slight adjustment inside the womb.
Just a little more than a month now, Ivy realized.
The thought suddenly turned her mouth dry, Alaric’s stunning smile forgotten.
She still agonized sometimes, thinking of what was coming—of the pain, the blood, the risk. True, coming to Caeravorn had relieved much of her worry, but truth was, she was still terrified about giving birth in the fourteenth century.
