Page 13 of So Close To Heaven
She shook her head, and the loose ends of her russet-gold hair brushed against his chest.
“Then why do ye weep?”
A long moment passed. He felt her chest rise with a deep breath, as though she were trying to steady herself. She gave a small shake of her head again, sharper this time.
“It’s nothing,” she murmured, voice thick. “I’m fine—sorry, I didn’t mean to...”
The words trailed away, and the silence stretched between them, filled only by the muffled sound of hooves on damp earth. He let her be, unwilling to press. But then, after a dozen heartbeats had passed, she spoke again.
“Am I hearing this right?” she asked, her voice smaller now. “That only pain or injury is cause for weeping?”
Alaric stilled at the question.
It had been a long while since he'd sat this close to a woman. Longer still since one had spoken to him in tones that weren’t hushed, deferent, or guarded. And he couldn’t recall the last time he'd been asked such a question—a question, he sensed immediately, with a trap beneath its surface, like a snare hidden beneath leaves. A man might step wrong and not know until the teeth clamped shut around his leg.
So he tread carefully.
“If ye say ye’re fine, I’ll nae press,” he said after a moment, carefully evasive. “But I’ve learned folk say such things when they’re anything but.”
She said nothing to this, but did not cry anymore, not that he was aware.
And yet he had to wonder about her odd query, asking the year, and then considered Kendrick’s remark—taken by madness—when he, apparently had told her the year as well.
Alaric scowled over the top of her head.
They rode in silence for the next few miles.
By the time the MacKinlay captain, Mathar MacCraith, eased his horse alongside, Alaric was nearly certain the woman had fallen asleep. Mathar matched the stallion’s pace and leaned slightly, no doubt checking for himself to determine whether she slept or not, his gaze dipping to the face tucked against Alaric’s chest.
A quiet sound escaped the woman—something between a sigh and a soft hum—but she did not stir. Her lashes lay fanned over pale cheeks, and her brow was finally smooth, her earlier tension eased in sleep.
When Mathar straightened, he gave Alaric a look that needed no translation, though he spoke anyway, his voice low and urgent in the old tongue.
“She’ll not make it another day in the saddle, not in her state.”
Alaric’s eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, though the tension in his jaw betrayed that he was listening. Of course, Mathar’s unflinching indifference, his hard-edged practicality came as no surprise to Alaric.
Mathar continued, as he always did when he thought Alaric too stubborn to hear the captain’s wisdom. “Coire Sionna lies ahead. No more than a half-turn east of the river bend. Barely an hour out of our way. Let the sisters see to her. Letthemsee her to the main road, to safer lands.”
Alaric protested mildly. “The pass at Caol Glen is more direct than the priory.”
Mathar huffed softly and gave a dry snort. “And yet I cannot see you abandoning the lass even then, certainly when thenearest burgh or house is still miles away. Put her into safe hands and be done with it.”
When Alaric said nothing, only clamped his lips, Mathar pressed with startling insight.
“I saw how you leapt at her when she fell,” he said, his voice quieter, “saw the look in your eyes. She’s not Gwen, lad. This lass, whatever her woe, is not yours to save.”
Alaric’s grip tightened, almost imperceptibly, around the sleeping woman. He’d already reckoned as much. Knew well enough what had stirred him the moment her body had crumpled from the back of the horse, when he’d gone tearing through the ranks like a man possessed. It wasn’t Gwen, he knew that, but there was something in the sight of her, lost and fragile, belly full with child, that had struck like a blade between his ribs when he’d witnessed her tumbling off the horse.
For one terrible breath, he’d seen another woman entirely. Though the circumstances were wholly different, worlds apart in context, the memory of it had flashed through his brain.
Just as quickly, the old guilt had resurfaced, not that it was ever far from reach, not that it didn’t plague him with maddening frequency.
He’d made the choice once—wife or child—and had lost both. The memory of it never dulled, only lingered, deep and bitter. And maybe that’s what had spurred his reaction before his thoughts had caught up—some cursed piece of him still trying to atone for what couldn’t be undone. Aye, the lass in his arms wasn’t Gwen. But that hadn’t stopped his blood from turning to ice when she fell.
Mathar’s voice lost its brief gentleness, reminding Alaric of their purpose. “There’s vengeance to be had, lad. A reckoning. We’re the last thorn in Edward’s bloody side, and he kens it. While other men bend the knee and feast under false banners, we bleed in the hills. That was the pact. That was the oath. Donot forget it now. It takes precedence over all else, including things that are none of our business and lost causes—even bonny ones.”
Alaric finally exhaled through his nose, slow and steady. “We’ll take the eastern fork at the river,” he said, his tone clipped. “If the sisters are willing to accept her, then so be it.”
