Page 11 of So Close To Heaven
Still, it was inconceivable.
The forest closed in. The ache in her feet and legs and chest vanished behind the ringing in her ears.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.” She shook her head, almost vehemently, as much as her waning energy would allow. “No,” she whispered again, the word barely escaping her lips.
Her arms, once tight around Blair’s waist, slackened. Her spine went soft, her head tilting backward before her vision turned an unnatural gray. A rushing sound filled her ears, like wind through a tunnel.Thirteen hundred and five.It couldn’t be. Could not be.
She heard Kendrick’s voice, which suddenly sounded as if he were very far away. “Lass?”
She slipped sideways from the saddle, her body a loose bundle of limbs. Kendrick reached for her, but she was already sliding.
“Shite!” she heard him curse as he twisted around.
She dropped like a rag doll into the cool bracken of the forest, a hard fall broken only by Kendrick’s hand grabbing hers at the last moment.
When next she had a conscious thought, it was of a vicious voice. Loud, harsh, thunderous. It pierced the fog that held her under. She tried to blink, but her lashes felt weighted. Her limbs wouldn’t respond. Something warm cradled her head, and somewhere close by, the forest echoed with anger.
“What in the name of Christ is this?”
The roar came from above and slightly behind her, snapping through the air like a whip.
Another voice, panicked and younger: “She just... she collapsed—”
“Collapsed?” That same deep, growling voice again, fury woven through every syllable. “And nae shite! Yer burden, I said to ye, and ye left her to march for all those miles—she’s carryin’, damn ye!”
She flinched mentally, even if her body couldn’t manage it. Her pulse pounded weakly at her temples.Carrying?The word echoed somewhere inside her brain, as if she’d forgotten for a moment.
Bootsteps thundered against the forest floor, each one thudding closer. Then... silence.
The air shifted, becoming warmer, closer. And then a callused thumb brushed her temple, sweeping aside the hair clinging damply to her flushed face. A hand touched the side of her head, her cheek.
“She breathes steady,” came the muttered observation—rough, low, angry still.
The fog ebbed and light broke through her lashes. Ivy’s eyelids fluttered open, sluggish and heavy, blinking against the blur of light and shadow until the shape above her sharpened. A face hovered in close—sharp angles, bronzed skin, and eyes that burned a rich golden brown, flecked with darker notes that should have frightened her, but strangely didn’t just now.
Alaric MacKinlay. Son of Torcull. Laird to all MacKinlay kin. Mormaer of Braalach.
She’d known it even before she’d opened her eyes.
As soon as she met his gaze, he averted his. With practical motions, he shifted his weight and began checking her limbs, his touch clinical but never careless. His large hands skimmed over her arms, pressing gently along the length of each bone, apparently seeking any sign of swelling or tenderness. He did the same to her legs, his fingers firm and methodical as he assessed her knees, ankles, and shins.
Ivy held her breath, not from fear exactly, but from the strange intimacy of it. He wasn’t caressing her—far from it—but something about the way he handled her made her pulse thud harder. Not once did he pause, hesitate, or glance at her belly.
His palm flattened lightly against her calf and stroked evenly downward, and she flinched—not from pain, but from what seemed a lover’s touch. His eyes flicked up to hers then, a question in his sharp gaze, and she shook her head faintly, indicating no pain. He moved on, his fingers grazing over the laces of her boot, turning her ankle just slightly to test the joint. She exhaled sharply, a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Nothing seems amiss,” he murmured, half to himself.
Despite everything—the confusion, the humiliation of fainting, the sheer madness of whatever she’d learned that hadmade her pass out, his way-too-disturbing touch—Ivy found her voice.
“I’m...fine,” she whispered, though it was hardly true.
He sat back on his heels, his gaze flicking once more to her face. “Nae blood. Nae broken bones,” he said. “Aye, ye’ll be sore come nightfall, mayhap, but nae more.”
Her brows pulled together faintly as she looked at him, confusion flickering across her face. There was a strange tenderness in his tone, one she hadn't thought him capable of. For a long moment, she didn’t blink, just stared—her gaze full of disoriented questions.
Then, as if realizing how closely he’d been studying her, or maybe how gentle he had been, he looked away and stood in one smooth motion.
Hovering just behind him, the boys were strangely quiet until a rough, nervous laugh came from Kendrick, following whatever the laird murmured heatedly to him.
