Page 27 of So Close To Heaven
“Where the bluidy hell are ye going?” His voice thundered after her.
“Away from you!” she snapped, tossing the words over her shoulder just as she marched into the hall.
Every head turned. Dozens of eyes followed her progress across the crowded infirmary, men’s gazes bouncing between her and Alaric like spectators at a tennis match. She lifted her chin and strode on, her fury carrying her forward.
Behind her, his voice lashed again. “Ye’re a fool. Ye’ll nae last half an hour by yerself.”
“I’ll revel in every minute past thirty that I prove you wrong!” she hollered back, her voice breaking but strong enough to carry.
The priory’s front door stood open, and she marched through it without slowing, the sudden daylight a blinding relief. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she certainly didn’t want to be around him. Honestly, she didn’t even care that he didn’t believe her—she didn’t blame him; it was alotto wrap one’s brain around—but geez, his very public heavy-handedness, his overblown anger—that caveman act, all snarls and rage—were really too much. Alaric MacKinlay was indeed a brute, a wall of fury and iron who seemed to think barking louder made him right. Maybe it worked on his men, but it wasn’t going to fly with her. She might be stranded in his century, barefoot and pregnant for all intents and purposes, and dependent on hisgrudging protection, but she still had her dignity. And he simply had no right to treat her so harshly.
***
Alaric stood rooted as she stormed across the hall, his chest tight with fury. The men’s heads turned with her, whispers pricking the air, and though he could not make out their words, his lip curled with fury all the same.
What manner of game did she play? Why invent such a tale as she had yesterday, so wild and implausible, unless to unsettle him? He had thought her strange from the first, aye—with her odd speech and queer clothing—but still, he had counted her mortal, flesh and blood, no different from any other woman. In truth, her expectant state aside, he had deemed her irrelevant. Harmless. Yesterday’s revelation had struck him like a mace to the skull, so hard he could scarce think past the madness of it.
And yet... she had not looked the liar. Frightened, aye, near undone—but not deceitful. Even now, marching away with her chin high and her eyes bright with anger, she did not wear the face of a woman playing tricks.
But more than her words, more than her wild claims, it was the way his men looked at her today that had set his blood to boil. He was ever, sometimes painfully, honest with himself. And he knew this truth: he could not abide their stares. The hall had fallen still, their eyes following her—some wary, some with the too-familiar hunger of men too long on campaign. And Ivy, in her strange garb that clung indecently to every curve, had today smiled as though she belonged among them. She did not see how perilous that was.
He dragged in a breath, clenching his jaw. Mayhap Mathar was right. Mayhap it was only her condition that made him give a damn about her in the first place. That round belly, thatbairn she carried—it softened a man against his will. A man could harden his heart against a woman’s tears, but not so easily against the sight of a mother-to-be, lost and alone.
Alaric’s thoughts shattered when he saw her drop.
Her silhouette framed in sudden brightness, Ivy’s knees buckled just beyond the doorway, folding to the ground with a strangled cry.
Alaric’s body moved before his mind did. He sprinted the length of the hall, leaping over startled and incapacitated men, and cleared the doorway, dropping to his knees beside her.
“Ivy?” His voice was harsher than he meant it, sharp with terror. “What?”
She gasped, clutching her belly, her face gone pale. Her mouth formed a circle of horror. “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I don’t know if she just kicked really hard, or if that pain is something to be alarmed about—”
Tàmhas appeared on her other side, dropping into a squat, calm as ever. “How far along are ye, lass?”
“Thirty-two weeks,” she croaked anxiously, eyes swimming with fear.
“Guid way along, then,” he murmured, setting his broad hands to her stomach. He pressed lightly here and there, listening with his hands as though the bairn spoke through flesh. After an interminable moment, his stern face broke into a smile. He looked between Alaric and Ivy, his voice gentle. “All is well, lass. Here.” He lifted Ivy’s hand, set it back to her belly. “Full alive and well, aye?”
Ivy’s relief came in a rush, her whole body softening as she smiled, radiant through her tears. Alaric could scarce draw breath for the sight of it. He didn’t know how Tàmhas could read the bairn’s health with naught but a touch—Tàmhas, who had ne’er once delivered a child, to Alaric’s knowing—but none of that mattered. Not when she turned that smile upon him, wideand shining, all fear forgotten now that she knew her child was safe.
“Strong one, this bairn,” Tàmhas said, his eyes glinting with a rare humor. He jerked his chin at Alaric. “Feel.”
Alaric drew back instinctively.
“Dinna be daft,” the surgeon growled, seizing Alaric’s hand and shoving it down over Ivy’s own.
Heat surged through him at the sudden contact, her small hand beneath his, her warmth seeping into his skin. And then—movement. A solid thump against his palm.
“Jesu,” he breathed. His eyes flew to Ivy’s. “That’s the babe?”
“Aye,” Tàmhas said with satisfaction. “Sturdy, aye?”
Alaric looked at her then, truly looked, and all the air seemed to leave his lungs. Her eyes glistened, her smile trembled, and for a moment it was only the two of them, bound together by the miracle beneath his hand.
He could not remember the last time he had felt such wonder. Years ago, Gwen had announced to him, with no small amount of sympathy, upon his return, that the bairn was too large to move anymore.
Alaric’s eyes widened again, and his lips parted in wonder as her stomach lurched again. The next kick came stronger, a rolling shift beneath his palm. Ivy’s breath hitched in a laugh that was half a happy sob. The sound wound through him like a cord, pulling tight. For an instant he forgot everything—the ruin of the priory, the danger of the English, the impossibility of her unholy tale yesterday. There was only the heat of her hand beneath his, the spark of life thudding steady against both of them.
