Page 43 of So Close To Heaven
Something in the woman’s certainty soothed her frayed nerves. Ivy nodded, repeating the motion of the breath, almost like a student eager to please.
They spoke a little longer, the midwife eventually introducing herself as Ruth. Actually, Ivy had been compelled to ask the woman to repeat her name several times, since she kept hearingRut.
Ruth managed to convey that she’d delivered forty-eight babies, and then pointed to several plants hanging overhead, naming a few Ivy recognized—“mint,” “sage”—before slipping into Gaelic, possibly unconsciously. Ivy didn’t stop her or ask what she was saying then, she simply nodded, understanding just enough, that the woman had knowledge, confidence, and, most important of all, kindness.
When at last Ivy stepped back onto the lane, she felt much better. She was still hopelessly adrift in time, still terrified of what lay ahead, but now she knew there was someone here, in this century, who could guide her through the ordeal. As much as anything could, it put her at ease.
Chapter Twelve
The loch’s water glinted pewter beneath the late morning sun when Ivy finally departed the midwife’s cottage. Ivy’s attention was caught by two small children toddling around the far bank of the loch. No older than three or four, they wandered dangerously close to the water’s edge, their chubby hands full of reeds and stones.
Ivy frowned. Where were their parents? She looked around but saw no one paying them the least attention, saw no one at all at the moment. A chill darted down her spine. What if one of them slipped? The water looked deep not far from shore.
She hesitated, then muttered under her breath, “Well, somebody has to do something.”
Gathering her skirts, she marched around the broad curve of the loch, the mud in spots sucking at her hiking boots, until she reached the children, a boy and a girl. They looked up at her with wide brown eyes, wary but not afraid.
“Hi there,” Ivy said, smiling. “Let’s get you back, okay? Away from the water.”
This was greeted with blank stares.
She tried again, gesturing toward the village. “Come on, this way. Back to... Mama?”
Nothing. The boy plopped down in the mud, shoving a stick into the water. The little girl, with her finger in her mouth, stared mutely between him and Ivy.
Ivy pressed on. “Okay, don’t do that,” she said to the boy, taking his arm, trying to pull him to his feet. “You’re way too close. I don’t know what you understand, but you can’t stay here.” Finally, he allowed himself to be brought to his feet, and Ivy collected the pudgy hand of the little girl. “Come on, guys. We’re going back.”
The little girl began to wail, a high, keening cry. Her brother soon joined, shrieking as if Ivy were dragging them to execution instead of safety. Ivy winced, guilt gnawing, but she pressed forward. “I know, I know, but you’re not safe here.”
The children’s howls carried across the water, and when Ivy glanced up, she saw a man barreling around the far side of the loch, his strides long and swift. Suddenly, it seemed there were several witnesses scattered around the edge of the village and the loch. Ivy felt decidedly conspicuous.
He came at her still, shouting, words sharp as whips. Ivy tried to explain, stumbling through her panic. “They were too close to the water—I was only trying to—”
The man’s face was twisted with rage. She kept talking, pleading, not understanding the man’s reaction, his rage, but he shouted right over her—again, the indecipherable Gaelic—spittle flying.
Then his hand lashed out.
The blow cracked across her cheek, snapping her head to the side. She reeled and landed hard on her hip, the world ringing as if a bell had been struck inside her skull. Dazed, she blinked up, seeing him looming, fist clenched, hollering down at her.
Shouts erupted from behind. Dozens of figures converged—MacKinlay and Kerr soldiers appearing out of nowhere, villagers rushing from their cottages. Hoofbeats thundered, and in the next breath a destrier skidded to a halt, its rider already leaping down.
Alaric hit the man like a falling tree. They went down in a tangle of fists and curses, Alaric’s bellow shaking the air as he drove his knuckles into the man’s face again and again. Blood sprayed, the man howled, and still Alaric struck until soldiers seized him from behind, three, and then four men straining to wrench him off.
Stunned, Ivy sat frozen in the mud, her cheek throbbing, her body trembling with shock, as Alaric fought like a madman to get at the man again, his eyes blazing murder.
“Hold him!” someone yelled.
“Christ’s bones, he’ll kill him—”
The world rang around her—men shouting, grunting, those two toddlers screaming louder now. Soldiers dragged Alaric back, their hands clamped on his arms and shoulders, yet he heaved against them like an enraged bull, eyes fixed only on the man he’d bloodied. Mathar was there, pushing at Alaric’s chest.
Alaric surged forward again, breaking free with a wrench of his shoulders that sent one soldier sprawling. He brushed Mathar aside and stalked, not toward his foe this time, but toward her.
Ivy stiffened as he dropped to his knees in the mud, his big hands bracketing her face with startling gentleness. His breath came hard, hot against her cheek, his eyes searing into hers. His touch was restrained, gentle.
“Bluidy hell,” His voice was rough, ragged with fury. “Ivy....”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. She could only blink up at him, dazed, heart hammering against her ribs. The bruising sting on her cheek flared where his thumb brushed, feather-light though he tried to be.
