Page 50 of So Close To Heaven
The word lodged between them, soft and disarming. He stilled, his gaze fixed on her as though he meant to brand her into memory. The hue of her hazel eyes, amber and green, shifting with the light, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the faint bruise still shadowing her cheek—he found himself memorizingit all, knowing that ever encountering her again was not promised to him.
He nodded tightly and turned to go, taking two full strides, when something checked him—something fierce and reckless that surged before he could master it. In two strides he was back, his hand closing around her wrist, pulling her hard against him.
The kiss crashed down between them, rough at first, born of all he had bitten back for too long—longing, suspicion, desire. His mouth claimed hers, demanding, desperate, until he felt her soften, until the tremor in her lips answered his own. Then the storm gentled. His hold eased, his mouth lingered, slow and searching, tasting her, learning the feel of her. His teeth teased at her full bottom lip, coaxing her to open for him. She obliged without hesitation, and liquid fire sang through his veins. Alaric framed her face in his hands and took her mouth again, his kiss deepening, his tongue sweeping in slow, possessive strokes.
When at last he tore his lips from hers, they were both unsteady. Ivy’s eyes were wide, her breath quick, her fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic.
“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, as though it were the only thing her stunned mind could summon.
He blinked, his brow furrowing as he glanced down at her. “And a kiss will harm the babe?”
Her cheeks flamed. “No—oh, God, no. But...why would you kiss me if I’m pregnant?”
His frown deepened, his confusion plain. “I dinna...understand what ye are asking?” His voice was low, roughened, as though he feared she might snatch the moment away with whatever her answer might be.
Her cheeks flushed hotter, and she shook her head. She pushed backward, putting a wee bit of space between them, but still clutched at his tunic. Words tumbled softly, unevenly. “Because I’m carrying another man’s child, Alaric. I’m not—”she broke off, searching his face, then pressed on, steady if soft. “I’m not pure—I thought that was something that was important in this century. I didn’t think anyone would want me. Not like that.”
For a moment his gaze burned into hers, while he weighed something heavy he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to say. His hand lingered against her cheek, his rough thumb brushing gently over her skin.
“Ye have curious notions, Ivy Mitchell,” he said quietly, the words almost gruff, the response intentionally vague, holding back the truth he wasn’t ready to give voice to. Now, as he prepared to depart, was not the time to confess how little her past—or her child—deterred him. Still, he owed her at least part of the truth. “Such a consideration matters less than ye apparently believe.” He added one more instruction. “Be safe, Ivy.”
And before she could answer, he released her and turned, striding toward the door once more. Despite the difficulty of leaving her, despite the tumult hammering in his chest, a grin tugged at his mouth when her voice reached him in the corridor.
“Seriously? You kiss me now?” She grumbled to herself. “Right before you’re leaving?” she demanded, sounding thoroughly exasperated. A second later, her voice dropped, more to herself than to him. “He should’ve kissed me weeks ago.” A huff followed, sharp and indignant. “Medieval men!”
Alaric’s grin evolved into a full-blown smile.
***
Ivy slumped back into the chair, her knees wobbling as if they’d carried her across miles instead of only backward a few paces. She pressed both hands over her face, trying to cool the flush that had stolen into her cheeks. Good Lord. Alaric MacKinlayhad kissed her. Not a brush, not a slip of impulse easily forgotten—but a real kiss, a glorious one—one that left no doubt he had meant it.
She hadn’t seen that coming. Not at all. Of course, if she was honest with herself, she’d imagined it, foolish daydreams tucked away behind closed eyes as she lay awake at night. But this—this had been no dream. He had kissed her.
Kissed her!she mused.
Everything else was forgotten for a moment, while Ivy considered the enormity of this—the thrill of it!
But oh—she was quickly brought back to worrying reality—Alaric was going off to war. The thought pressed into her chest, heavy and unrelenting. She was proud of him—how fearless he was, how steadfast in his duty—but the pride did nothing to soften the sharp edge of fear. What if he didn’t come back? What if that kiss had been a beginning and an ending in the same breath?
She thought suddenly of mothers, wives, and sisters from her own century, waving men off to wars across oceans. The grainy black-and-white photographs she’d come across in history books and even on social media had always struck her as poignant, yes, but safely distant. Now she felt the reality of it: the ache of being left behind, the helplessness of not knowing if someone you loved would ever walk through the door again.
And it wasn’t only confined to any one century. Even in her time, wars dragged on for years, decades, swallowing up entire generations. She remembered reading about it, about women waiting while their husbands and sons vanished into deserts or jungles, never the same when they returned—if they returned at all. She knew from everything she’d read about the war going on now with England, that it lasted for decades.
The parallels unsettled her. Different century, different weapons, same gnawing fear. Now she understood. Now sheknew what it meant to watch a man you cared for shoulder a sword, climb onto a horse, and ride into danger with no promise of coming back.
Ivy’s heart twisted again in her chest.
So deep in tormented thought was she—caught between the memory of Alaric’s kiss and the dread of his leaving—that at first she almost missed it, the flicker of movement, the bare shift in the bedclothes.
Ivy blinked, refocusing, and her breath caught.
The woman’s eyes were open. Wide and startlingly clear, fixed right on her.
For one stunned second Ivy only stared back, frozen in place. Then she jolted upright, nearly upsetting the chair, and stood over the woman, her smile broad. “Oh my God—you’re awake!” she exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a rush. She pressed her palm to the woman’s forehead, expecting heat, but finding only cool, damp skin. Relief poured through her. “No fever,” she informed her, “we’ve been fighting it for days. You should’ve seen the awful draughts they made you drink, and I’ve been at you with cool cloths day and night. The healer’s been here three or four times, I can’t remember—”
Her voice caught, relief and joy tangling in her throat, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed.
The woman’s lips moved, a rasp of sound escaping. “Where...am I?”
