Page 47 of So Close To Heaven
Stricken by his manner and his contrary response, Ivy’s mouth hung open.
Ciaran thrust himself into the cart, sweeping aside pots and cloth with brute force until he could gather the woman into his arms. She sagged limply against him, her head lolling against his shoulder, her pale hair spilling from under his arm. For a heartbeat he did not move, only stared down at her with a look that hollowed his face, as though he’d been struck through the ribs. Then, jaw clenched, he turned to descend.
By now several soldiers surrounded the cart, having come from the gatehouse, Ivy presumed. A couple of them, wide-eyed at the sight, stepped forward instinctively, steadying Ciaran as he climbed down from the cart with his burden.
“Summon the healer,” Ciaran barked suddenly, his voice hoarse but commanding, shattering the hush. He pushed past the remaining gawkers, carrying the stranger toward the keep with a grim urgency.
Ivy scrambled after him, weaving between villagers and sidestepping a bit of donkey dung as she hurried to keep pace.
Another woman—another time traveler? There could be no other explanation. But why had Ciaran’s face gone so pale? He’dbeen staggered—Ivy would have sworn that he recognized the woman.
At the keep’s doors he shouldered his way inside, his tread echoing off the stone floors of the great hall. He did not pause, did not look right or left, but mounted the stairs with grim determination. Ivy’s heart hammered as she lumbered along behind him.
He shoved open the chamber door just next to hers, the hinges protesting, and carried the woman inside. Almost reverently, as though afraid she might shatter, he lowered her onto the bed. For a long moment he did nothing else—just stood above her, staring down in a silence heavy with awe, his chest rising and falling as if he’d run miles.
Ivy, a bit breathless from the climb, moved first. She edged closer, sliding around Ciaran toward the head of the bed and bent to touch the stranger’s forehead. Her palm met with violent heat. “She’s burning up,” Ivy murmured.
The woman gave no sign of hearing, her ash-blonde hair spread in a pale halo against the rough-spun pillow.
Again, the Kerr laird stood unmoving, simply staring. Ivy was alarmed, for both the woman and the laird.
Deciding to make him busy, to distract him from whatever tortured him, Ivy touched his arm. “Sir, I can’t do the stairs again,” she lied, laying her hand over her stomach. “But while we wait for the healer, we need cold water and clean cloths to try and get her fever down.”
Her words seemed to jolt him. Ciaran blinked hard, drew in a sharp breath, and shifted his weight as though startled awake from some deep reverie. He tore his gaze from the bed, cleared his throat, and gave a short, brusque nod. “Aye,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual. He moved toward the door with sudden purpose, though a faint flush crept along his neck as if he regretted having been caught so undone. He did not look atIvy again as he strode out, leaving her with the woman and the silence that followed.
Ivy heaved in a large breath and exhaled, her attention returned to the woman in the bed, wearing clothes from the twenty-first century.
“Whoareyou?” she whispered.
Chapter Thirteen
Ivy sat at the bedside, watching the shallow rise and fall of the woman’s chest beneath the woolen blanket. The last hour had been a blur. The healer had come quickly, a hard-eyed woman who wasted no time in grinding leaves and powders into a pungent slurry that she’d thinned with water. With a firm hand, she tipped it between the stranger’s lips, muttering under her breath as the poor girl choked and swallowed by reflex. “It will bring down the fever,” the healer had promised, before gathering her satchel and vowing to return.
The maids had descended soon after, bustling with their basins of water and linen towels and cloths. They’d clucked and whispered as they peeled away the woman’s strange clothing, piece by piece—garments so alien that even the maids’ chatter had faltered. When they reached the underthings, Ivy had stepped in sharply, refusing to let them strip her entirely bare. “She wouldn’t want that,” she’d insisted, her cheeks burning but her voice firm. “No,” she said, shaking her head at them.
Instead, they bathed the woman as best they could in cool—but not cold—water, sponging her pale skin and combing tangles from her hair. When at last they’d dressed her in a pale chemise and tucked her beneath a clean sheet, the chamber smelled faintly of herbs and damp linen.
Now Ivy remained, unwilling to leave the stranger alone. Once or twice she stirred, a faint murmur on her lips, but never fully woke.
Ivy sat forward, watchful, nervous. A dozen tangled thoughts warred inside her. She wanted—needed—this woman to live. For her own sake, yes, but mostly for the girl herself, who couldn’t be much older than Ivy and who surely had her whole life beforeher. She deserved more than this, to wither and fade in some drafty keep centuries away from the world that had raised her.
And selfishly, yes, for herself, borne of a desperation to not be the only modern woman in this century. Questions buzzed like bees in her mind: How had she come here? Was it by choice, or had it been done to her the way it had to Ivy? How long had she been trapped in this century? Did she know a way back?
The longing for answers clawed at Ivy’s insides. At last, here was proof—solid, undeniable proof—that she wasn’t alone in this. Someone else had made the same impossible journey. Someone who might understand what it meant to be ripped from everything familiar, forced to scrape together sanity in a time so far removed from her own.
Ivy reached out, brushing her fingers across the back of the woman’s hand, which was—she assessed hopefully—not as heated as it had been an hour ago.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking, though whether she spoke to God, fate, or the woman herself, she couldn’t be sure. “Please live.”
Throughout the day, Ciaran had come and gone, never lingering long. Each time, Ivy gave what little report she had: no, the woman had not spoken and no, she hadn’t even opened her eyes. He only nodded, his expression unreadable, before striding out again.
When the door creaked open once more late in the afternoon, Ivy expected Ciaran—but it was Alaric. He stepped inside, his presence filling the chamber, his gaze sweeping from Ivy to the bed and back again. Something inside her lifted at the sight of him, enlivened by the fact that he sought her out.
Without thinking she rose and went to his side, whispering urgently, “Alaric, you have to see this,” before taking his large hand and dragging him toward the chest tucked near the wall where the woman’s folded jeans and blouse had been laid. Shepicked them up, squeezing the garments in her excitement, and looked up at him. “Look at these.”
“Ye should be resting,” he countered firmly, though he did keep his voice low.
“No, listen.” She cast a glance over her shoulder to be certain the woman still slept, then lowered her voice even further. “She’s like me. From the future.”
