Page 26 of So Close To Heaven
The man gave a wheezy laugh, then winced, clutching at his side. “Aye, speak on the right side, lass. Safer, that.” His gaze lingered on her face, wide-eyed and far too admiring for someone in his condition.
“I’m Ivy,” she offered, realizing she hadn’t introduced herself.
“Malcolm,” he returned quickly, as though pleased she’d asked. “Malcolm Boyd. Where’d ye come from? I dinna recall ye ever.”
Ivy shifted, averting her gaze. “From around the Loch Katrine area,” she said, having since decided this was a reasonable and vague answer. “But I was only there the last year. Prior to that, I’m from very far away.”
“Nae south? England?”
“No. Much further. West.” Several times today, she’d adeptly shifted a man’s focus from her to him. She did the same now. “Does it hurt very much?” she asked, nodding toward his arm.
He shrugged, glancing down at it. “Hurts, aye,” he admitted, so casually she might have thought pain a familiar companion.Then his mouth curved. “But less when ye speak. Ye’ve a voice soft as a balm.”
Ivy had always considered herself pretty enough, though never beautiful. Still, she’d drawn her fair share of attention from boys and men over the years, and long ago had learned that humor was the gentlest rejection.
She grimaced playfully. “Wow. How long did it take you to come up with that cheesy line?”
The soldier grinned despite the effort it cost him, his gaze lingering far too boldly on her. “Nae a fib, lass.”
She gave a weak laugh, dismissive, and pressed her palms to her thighs as if to push herself upright. “Rest now. Talking won’t help you heal.”
He obeyed, sinking back into his pallet, though his eyes stayed fixed on her even as his lids grew heavy.
Just then, a prickle ran along the back of her neck.
Before the sensation fully registered, a hand closed rough around her arm and she was pulled to her feet with effortless strength. The suddenness of it wrung a short yip from her until she realized it was Alaric, who proceeded to drag her away from the soldier’s pallet.
“What are you—?” she gasped, trying to twist free.
He didn’t answer.
“Hey!” she protested further, her head spinning as he marched her out of the infirmary.
Malcolm blinked in alarm as she was manhandled out of the room, but of course could not or would not rise. Murmurs rippled through the room, the other men watching.
Ivy’s cheeks flamed.
Alaric wrenched her into the corridor.
He spun so suddenly she almost collided with him. The corridor walls closed around them, dim and narrow, his bodytowering over hers. His eyes were dark, as hard as bronze in the dim light, terrifying in their intensity.
“If ye’ve any sense at all, woman,” he growled, “ye’ll ne’er speak the madness again, nae that dangerous drivel ye fed to me yesterday. Nae to me, nae to my men, nae to anyone. Ye ken my reaction was brutal? Ye’ve nae notion what some men might do upon hearing such witch-talk—that devil’s prattle will earn ye a rope, or worse.”
Ivy’s heart thudded in her chest while tears pricked her eyes, hot and humiliating.
His grip on her arm was rock solid, his voice fierce enough to shake her bones. The fierceness in him was overwhelming, frightening—and yet she bristled at being manhandled like a misbehaving child.
His eyes were fixed on hers, and his lip curled. He gave her arm a small, sharp shake. “Tears willna save ye.”
The words landed like a slap. For an instant she was stunned, then fury surged. He thought she was pretending—pretending to cry—to win sympathy? She shoved herself up onto her toes, forcing herself closer to his height. She was still several inches short of his chin, but she glared at him all the same.
She yanked her arm free of him, snapping a linen strip she still held in her fist. The motion was meant to be sharp, decisive, but the cloth only floated to the ground in a pathetic drift. She ignored it, standing stiff and defiant.
“I knew it was a gamble telling someone,” she hissed, her voice ragged with hurt. “I had some foolish idea you would have reacted differently—maybe with a shred of compassion. I wasn’t looking for judgment, or accusation, or even—” Her voice cracked; her chin quivered despite her effort to hold it firm. “I’m lost and scared and simply needed guidance, or... or someone to help me make sense of it. Or Christ—just a way to get hold of a midwife!”
Her hands flew as she spoke, wild and angry, dissecting the air between them. His expression didn’t soften. He looked as ferocious as ever, and suddenly Ivy had had enough.
“Actually, you know what? I don’t need anything from you after all. I’m sorry I ever said a word. I didn’t make it up, but I should have kept it to myself.” She spun on her heel, stomping away down the corridor, her heart hammering, glad for once to be the one leavinghim.
