Page 46 of So Close To Heaven
It lingered with her. But what did it mean—that a man like him, fierce and guarded, could erupt so violently on her behalf? Could such an instinct be only duty, a warrior’s reflex to defend the vulnerable? Or was it something else, something unspoken that she scarcely dared let herself hope for? The question gnawed at her, dangerous in its sweetness. Because if his fury had been more than duty, if it had been born of some deeper place within him...then perhaps her own wayward thoughts about Alaric weren’t so foolish. Maybe they weren’t even one-sided.
She sighed, having no answers. And though she wasn’t exactly eager to face this world today—not after the disaster she’d set in motion yesterday—she knew she couldn’t bear to sit in this room all day.
A fresh set of clothes—chemise, gown, and hose—had been delivered at the same time the tray had been brought, and she slipped into them a little easier today before tugging on her short boots. Her own clothes, the leggings, sweater, her underwear and bra, had all been returned, laundered and neatly folded and placed on the end of the bed at some point yesterday, but Ivy decided to keep with the medieval outfit, meaning to not stand out, to not draw too much attention to herself.
Descending the winding stairs, she found the hall quiet, only a few servants moving about with buckets and brooms. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the courtyard, almost instantly realizing some commotion at the gate. A small crowd had gathered there, just inside the formidable wall, villagers pressing close with eager faces. Something—or someone—was clearly the source of the commotion. Ivy was thrilled it wasn’t her today.
She noticed Ciaran—and was surprised that Alaric was nowhere around—standing half in shadow at the base of the gatehouse, sleeves rolled, dragging a bundled sheaf of spearsout onto the stones. Another man bent to help him stack them against the wall. The Kerr laird looked up when Ivy approached, sweat darkening his temple.
“What’s going on?” she asked, glancing from him to the cluster of people at the gate. “Is someone coming?”
He straightened, rubbing his palms together to dust them off before throwing a disinterested glance toward the gate. “Seems the tinker's come to call.”
Tinker? Ivy considered thoughtfully while Ciaran returned to his labor. She wasn’t overly familiar with the term, but thought she had some recollection that a tinker was a person who traveled from place to place repairing utensils. Surveying the crowd again, she decided maybe they didn’t seem so eager, but were more jockeying for position.
Ivy frowned. What? The tinker only mended so many utensils per visit, she wondered, and if you didn’t get here early, you might have to wait until his next visit?
Though she was sure he couldn’t read her mind, Ciaran more or less answered her question. “The man’s a clackit tongue,” he said, hefting another bundle of spears against the wall. “And he’s nae one for working while his lips wag. Folk dinna care to waste the day hearing his blather, so they crowd early, hoping to be quit of him fast.”
“I see,” Ivy said with a small smile, amused at the picture Ciaran had painted.
The noise at the gates swelled, then parted like a tide as the cart finally creaked its way through the arch. The mule pulling the rickety cart tossed its head, ears flicking, as the tinker cracked a worn length of leather against its rump and shouted something coarse in Gaelic that made several villagers laugh. His cart rattled and groaned under the weight of his wares—pots clanged, scraps of tin and iron glinted in the sun, bundles of rags and oddments swayed precariously with each jolt of the wheels.
The man himself was as loud as his cart, calling greetings left and right in a rough, cheerful brogue, grinning through a gap-toothed smile. His patched coat flapped behind him, and a hat far too large for his head wobbled with every step as he trudged alongside the mule.
Ivy might have smiled at the comic figure—might even have laughed—but then a shrill cry split the air.
A peasant woman, pressing too close to the cart, suddenly stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. She wailed something in Gaelic, her tone suggesting pure horror.
“A body?” Ciaran questioned, possibly repeating what the woman had just shrieked.
The crowd pressed tighter, murmurs rising in alarm. Ivy shoved closer, morbidly curious.
The tinker raised his hands as if to defend himself, babbling loudly, surprisingly in English now, as if under pressure, he reverted to his native language. His voice cracked with exaggerated outrage. “Found her, I did! In the mountains, sprawled like the dead across the heather. Thought her a ghost myself, till I felt her still breathing. I’ve brought her here for the laird to deal with, same as any honest man would!”
Ivy gasped. He might have mentionedthatfirst thing, rather than wasting all that time with greetings, collecting what he might have believed was the villagers’ adoration.
Ivy pushed her way to the fore and then was almost shoved into the side of the cart. She went up on her toes, curling her fingers around the wooden board of the wagon, and glanced down, half-expecting to see a decomposing corpse.
Another gasp was wrung from her.
Half-hidden between a jumble of rags and a dented kettle lay the form of a young woman. Crumpled and motionless, yes, but not merely a decayed body, but a woman, flesh and blood, alive it seemed if the heightened color of her cheeks should betrusted. Her head lolled to one side, a tumble of dark blonde hair catching the light as it spread in tangled strands against the rough wood of the cart. Beneath the flush of her cheeks, her skin was so fair it looked almost translucent. Her lips were faintly parted, giving her the fragile air of someone just barely clinging to wakefulness—or worse. Pretty, though, undeniably pretty, even in her disheveled state.
In the next instant, Ivy’s breath fled her chest. Her mouth went dry. She clutched at the nearest arm in shock but the woman wearing the sleeve she’d grabbed yanked it free with a snarl at Ivy. Ignoring her, Ivy stared at the sleeping woman in the cart and whispered, “Oh my God,” as comprehension dawned.
She stared at the woman’s clothes. Not wool, not linen. A blouse of unusual cut, seams too neat, fabric far too fine, dyed a shade of soft yellow Ivy knew had no place in this century. And she was wearing jeans—torn at one knee, but unmistakable.
As Ciaran approached from the open end of the bed of the wagon, Ivy’s eyes were locked on the woman’s slack face, the rise and fall of her chest that said, yes, she lived.
Then, something drew Ivy’s gaze to Ciaran, who hadn’t moved in many seconds at the end of the cart, his right hand very near to the woman’s left foot—a foot encased in a teal ballet flat, which was caked with mud. He stood very still, his expression unreadable, the line of his jaw cut in stone. His gaze raked across the limp figure once, twice, and then lingered. Color drained from his face as though he had seen not merely a stranger, but something long buried that had come clawing back to life.
Around them, the first stir of shock was already thinning; the clamor of discovery gave way to impatience. Several of the women who had shrieked moments before were already trailing after the tinker, thrusting bent spoons or dented pots in his direction, less concerned about the unconscious woman in thecart than they were with their household utensils. The press of bodies about the wagon eased, allowing Ivy to slip along the wagon’s side, until she rounded the corner and stood at Ciaran’s side.
Ivy stared at him, startled by the change in him. His hands, so steady a moment before, had curled into fists.
“Do...do you know her?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes flicked to hers then, wild with some emotion. He looked at her as if he’d forgotten others were about. “Aye,” he said, the word breathed slowly. A beat later, almost brokenly, “Nae. Nae, I dinna.”
