Page 44 of So Close To Heaven
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd. Villagers had come, pressing in close, whispering sharply in Gaelic, some with hands to their mouths. The Kerr soldiers stood tense, waiting.
Then a new voice cut through, calm but iron-edged. “Enough!”
Ciaran Kerr strode forward, green eyes blazing as he cast his gaze over the scene—the bloodied man held back by villagers, Alaric crouched in the mud before her, the soldiers caught between restraint and confusion. “Stand down, all of ye.”
The murmurs ebbed.
Alaric ignored them all, still bent over her, still searching her face as though he could will the pain from her cheek. His own lip bled, split from the one wild swing the man had landed, a crimson smear against his stubble.
Ivy lifted a trembling hand without thinking, her fingertips brushing his mouth. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered.
The contact stilled him. His eyes locked on hers, the brown fire of his gaze softening by degrees. For a heartbeat, the shouting, the crowd, even Ciaran’s commanding presence faded to nothing. There was only his hand cupping her jaw, her touch against his lip, the storm of rage in him giving way to something else entirely.
Ciaran’s voice cut through again. “Drag him to the byre,” he commanded, staring daggers at the man who’d smacked Ivy. “Lash him to the great beam and leave him there under guard.”
When the man had been escorted away, protesting loudly and struggling against the many hands that dragged him off, Alaric lifted Ivy himself, scooping her up as though she did not actually bear the weight of two. Her cheek brushed the rough wool of his plaid, her body pressed close against the breadth of his chest. Heat radiated from him, steady and solid. He smelled of horse and heather, of smoke and sweat, the scent of a life lived outdoors.
Ivy’s breath caught as she curled instinctively against him, the chaos of the last minutes fading beneath the thunder of his heartbeat in her ear. But she was safe now. That was the word her rattled mind kept circling back to—safe—even as her cheek smarted and her body trembled. However terrifying the fury in him a moment ago had been, it was a more powerful fury now shielding her, holding her, carrying her away from danger.
***
Alaric carried her straight through the gates and into the hall, his jaw locked so tightly it near split his teeth. He did not trust his own voice, for if he loosed it now, he’d roar the walls down. He set her gently upon the nearest bench, his mind replaying the moment he’d witnessed her being struck as he, Ciaran, and a handful of others had come upon the loch.
“Cold cloths—quickly!” His shout snapped across the hall, sending the two milling servants scurrying away down the corridor.
Ciaran’s boots scraped the flagstones as he approached, his tone maddeningly calm.
“Settle yerself, Alaric. The man’s a hothead, aye, but he’ll be dealt with. He doesnae strike without cause. What did she do to—”
“I dinna care if she carved up his bollocks, Ciaran!” Alaric roared, spinning toward him. “He struck her. She is heavy wi’ child, and he laid a hand on her.”
A plum-faced maid returned, anxiously presenting a cool wet square of linen to him, and then hovering near Ivy like a nervous sparrow.
Alaric crouched low, holding the cloth to Ivy’s cheek himself. His thumb brushed against her soft skin, the sight of the red and already swelling bruise causing his rage to simmer anew.
“Bluidy hell, I canna trust that Caeravorn is safe for her, can I?” He spat at his old friend when Ciaran came into view beyond Ivy.
“Alaric,” Ciaran growled, the tone suggesting Alaric proceed carefully.
Ivy took the cloth from Alaric and kept it pressed to her cheek, her eyes downcast.
Alaric stood straight and rounded on Ciaran. “He bluidy struck her—would’ve done more had we not arrived!—and I want to ken what’s to be done about it!”
“Can I hear what—” Ciaran began.
“There’s nae way I can entrust her safety to ye now!” Alaric carried on, his blood only boiling more for Ciaran’s irrational calmness.
The maid gave a small squeak and retreated to the shadows.
Ciaran’s gaze slid past Alaric’s shoulder. Alaric turned as well, to find that Ivy had come to her feet, pale but composed. She lowered the cloth to her side.
“I feel terrible—this was all my fault,” she blurted, voice tight with guilt, her gaze on Kerr. “I’ve caused so much trouble—it’s just...where I come from, those kids—those babies—would never be left alone near water, let alone water so deep.”
Ciaran folded his hands behind his back, his head canted. “And where is it exactly ye come from, lass?”
Alaric stiffened, every muscle locking. He shot her a warning look, but she only glanced nervously at him before producing an answer.
“I come from around the Loch Katrine area—but I, um, haven’t been there lately. Not in...years.” Her words tumbled too fast, but before Ciaran could press further, she added quickly, “Laird Kerr, I am genuinely sorry for the trouble. My intent was honest—I thought the children were in danger. The language barrier made it worse than it was. I assume that man was—is—their father? I swear, I’ll mind my own business from now on. Alaric, please don’t be angry with Laird Kerr. And Laird Kerr, please don’t...kick me out of Caeravorn.”
