Page 21 of So Close To Heaven
“How do I... um, wash my face and brush my teeth? Stuff like that?”
For a moment he actually looked as though he might take the time to explain, but then his mouth closed on whatever thought he had. “Aye,” he said at last, “there is a guid reason to seek out either Kendrick or Blair.”
Ivy found herself staring, absurdly caught by the shape of his mouth. They weren’t polished lips by any stretch; they were roughened from weather and sun, a faint line of dryness at the edges, but they were full, firm, and commanding in a way that made it hard to look away. His upper lip had a stern cut, the kind that seemed to match his every clipped word, while his lower lip was broader, betraying a hint of softness at odds with the rest ofhim. She realized, with a quick flutter in her chest, that she was watching the way they moved when he drew a breath, and then when he set them tight again, clearly advising their conversation was done.
She blinked, heat rushing to her face, startled by her own wandering focus.
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” She tried to smile, though she imagined it must appear quite thin.
Again he shifted to leave, as if anxious to be gone, but she caught him once more. “Did you not sleep well?”
That made him pause. His brow furrowed, shadowing his already-dark expression.
“You have circles under your eyes,” she said quickly, trying not to sound as though she were criticizing him. She gave a little shrug. “You just look like you might’ve slept poorly.”
He seemed perplexed by the question, his mouth opening slightly as if unused to being asked something so ordinary. At last he answered, slow and reluctant. “Aye. I dinna sleep so guid.”
Ivy winced, her sympathy unfeigned. “Sorry to hear that.” She let her hand rest lightly against her belly. “Not surprisingly, I slept like a baby. And I think the baby did, too. Normally, she wakes me up a lot at night with her kicking, but last night she slept like the babe she is.” She smiled brightly at him.
Actually, she’d woken with some concern, wondering if something was amiss, if the trauma of yesterday had somehow harmed her baby. She’d lain rigid in the cot, waiting, listening, praying. And then, as if answering her fear, the baby had stirred quite a bit. Eventually, a flutter came, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that made her laugh softly. Hiccups. She’d read about them but had never felt them until this morning. Both hands pressed to her stomach, she’d smiled with such relief,joy swelling in her chest despite everything. Whatever else was unraveling around her, her baby was safe.
Alaric’s gaze dropped briefly to where her hand rested on her abdomen. “Ye are hoping for a lass?” he asked, the words tentative.
“I had no preference at all, I can honestly say that,” Ivy answered, always thrilled to talk about her pregnancy, her baby. A little smile tugged at her lips. “But I know it’s a girl—two different ultrasounds said so.”
His eyes flicked up sharply, confusion plain.
“Uh, I mean...” She fumbled, realizing too late what she’d said. “Yes. I’m hoping it’s a girl.”
Another curt nod from the laird and once more, he was gone.
Ivy sighed, realizing she really had to be more careful with her words.
Chapter Six
The convent no longer smelled of smoke so much as men. The burnt essence lingered, yes—charred stone and scorched wood—but the stronger scent was of unwashed bodies, sweat, leather, and blood. The corridor echoed faintly with snores, groans, and the muffled shuffle of boots from below as Ivy made her way along the hall and toward the stairs.
Below, the great hall where she’d seen the mouse skitter across the floor last night, had been transformed. The largest part of the undamaged priory had been claimed for necessity. Pallets of straw lined the floor, filled with men who bore the marks of yesterday’s fight. Slashes were bound in rough linen, legs were splinted, and shoulders were swathed in strips of cloth already stained dark. Voices muttered, prayers and curses, punctuated by the occasional raw groan while more than one able-bodied man walked and worked among them.
Taken aback by the sight but knowing she wouldn’t have the stomach to be of any use—and while yesterday’s wary stares were not forgotten—Ivy kept one hand pressed to her belly, a kind of shield, and shrank against the wall, careful not to draw attention. Some of the men looked up at her anyway—suspicious, hostile, or merely curious—and she ducked her head, suddenly conscious of her modern clothing, of how different she must appear to them.
She moved quickly, weaving past the wounded and the men tending them, until the door gave her blessed daylight.
Outside, the air was crisp, washed clean by the night’s rain.
Ivy paused in the doorway, taking in the scene. What she’d glimpsed in darkness last night unfolded starkly before her now. Though the convent’s stone chapter house still stood solid, if scorched in places, around it stretched the blackened skeletonsof additions and outbuildings, charred beams jutting like broken ribs, collapsed walls reduced to heaps of sodden ash. The ground between was littered with splintered timbers and shattered tiles, a graveyard of what had once been a holy community.
Yet life filled the ruins. Dozens of MacKinlay men moved about, their voices low, their boots crunching over wet stone and ash. Some hauled away charred debris, piling the wreckage at the edge of the yard. Another group of men were propping up a sagging doorway with salvaged timber, as if they might rebuild what appeared to have been the stables. Others swept out blackened debris from corners of the barn where the rain had not reached. Horses stood tethered beneath the dripping trees, their tack being scrubbed and mended, while outside the immediate yard, a few men tended kettles and appeared to have lain out plaid blankets to dry.
Out there near that fire, a few MacKinlay men sat in small groups, eating from wooden bowls. Laughter wafted through the air to Ivy, muted but unmistakable, as though battle and ruin had not managed to strip them entirely of spirit.
She tugged her jacket over her belly and scanned her eyes over the faces of the MacKinlay men, near and far.
She discovered Kendrick first, his shock of red hair easily recognizable. He was well beyond the inner yard, beyond the fire and the drying blankets. His sleeves were rolled back, shoulders bunching with every heavy swing of an axe. Logs split beneath his strokes, sharp cracks echoing into the morning. Without hesitation, Ivy made her way to him.
She ignored every glance thrust at her as she walked but then hesitated when she drew near to Kendrick, who had his back to her. She waited until he had completed a swing of the axe before she spoke. “Um—Kendrick?”
Still, the axe bit clean through another log before he turned, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. His expression softened when he saw her, though it carried a trace of caution.
