Page 59 of So Close To Heaven
Ciaran approached the keep at the same time as Alaric and Ivy did, coming from a different angle, tall and commanding. Even wearied by the march as Alaric appeared, his dark hair damp with mist, Ciaran’s stride was steady as he headed toward the keep. He paused, though, mid-step, as his eyes fell on Claire. Something unreadable flickered across his face.
Ivy’s eyes flickered between Claire and Ciaran, half a dozen feet apart, curiosity piqued despite herself. Something about the way Ciaran stood so still, his expression taut but veiled, brought to mind that first moment weeks ago when he had seen Claire unconscious in the wagon—how his face had sharpened then, too, in a way that had unsettled Ivy enough to remember it. Now, seeing them face to face, Ivy thought Claire’s reaction mirrored his own.
Ivy opened her mouth to speak, meaning to bridge the inexplicable awkwardness with an introduction, but she never got the chance.
Claire’s gaze had locked on Ciaran, wide and unblinking. She took a quick breath of what seemed utter astonishment. Her lips parted, breath catching, and in a voice hushed and dazed, she whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Ciaran froze, every line of him tightening; his shoulders squared, his jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed with sudden intensity. He did not speak, but the tautness in his stance and the sharp focus in his gaze unsettled Ivy. Even Alaric seemed to stiffen at her side, as if he, too, was disturbed by Ciaran’s reaction.
Ivy looked from one to the other, startled by the strangeness of it, before she gently ventured, “Claire?”
Claire blinked, as though roused from a dream, and flushed to the roots of her hair. “You must be the laird,” she said quickly, her voice thin. “I’ve been waiting to meet you, to thank you for allowing me refuge in your home.”
The silence pressed on, the faintest edge of unease prickling over Ivy’s skin. Claire’s flush lingered, and Ciaran’s gaze had not left her, nor had he moved.
Ivy disengaged from Alaric and stepped forward, meaning to dispel the awkwardness. “Ah—Ciaran,” she began, her voice catching before she steadied it. “This is Claire. She... she came with the tinker, if you recall, and has improved greatly...as you can see.” Her hand gestured faintly, as though that might smooth the moment, though it hardly did. She pressed on. “Claire, this is Ciaran Kerr, laird of Caeravorn.”
Claire dipped her head in acknowledgement, her composure returning with almost deliberate care. “My lord,” she murmured, the words even enough, though her color still burned high.
Ciaran inclined his head in return—too sharp, too curt, Ivy determined—his gaze lingering on her longer than politeness required before he brushed past her and stepped inside.
Ivy exchanged a questioning glance with Alaric before they fell in step behind Ciaran. At the door, Alaric paused and extended a hand, a silent courtesy that implied Claire should enter ahead of them. Distractedly, Ivy introduced them as well, each of them murmuring likewise distracted greetings before Ivy moved, slipping her arm through Claire’s, steering her gently forward, the two of them stepping together into the keep’s shadowed hall with Alaric following.
***
The day had unfolded in a rush of noise and motion, the keep stirring to life with such force that the quiet of the last month was quickly forgotten. The return of a laird and his men after a month away was no quiet matter. The laughter of men glad to be home echoed through the hall. Servants hurried to and fro with buckets of water and armloads of linens. Smoke thickened from the kitchens, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the keep.
Ciaran had scarcely crossed the threshold before duty called him away again. A laird’s absence apparently left matters to fester, and no sooner had he greeted his household than word came from the village. An accusation of thievery had boiled over to shouting, and one man had drawn steel. He went at once, grim-faced, and Alaric—still weary but unwilling to idle under another man’s roof—went with him, sending Ivy an apologetic grimace.
Ivy and Claire, in the last month of peacefulness about the keep, had become friendlier with the household staff and had offered themselves in the kitchens, extra hands for labor.
The men of Caeravorn dined early, shortly after midday, the household staff having worked tirelessly over the preceding few hours. Trenchers of venison, dense rounds of oat bread, and pigeon pies were laid out. Casks of ale and wine were carried up from the cellars, and the hall rang with voices. Soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder at the tables, eating hungrily, their faces ruddy from the march and brightened by relief. The scrape of knives, the rise and fall of laughter, the deep voices rolling beneath the beams was almost overwhelming to Ivy, who had grown used to the hush of a half-empty keep, and hadn’t before witnessed a meal partaken in the hall. She thought Claire, too, looked startled by the press of bodies, though like Ivy, she tried to mask it.
When the meal was done, Ciaran excused himself again, summoned by his factor to hear accounts left waiting these many weeks. Alaric trailed after, lending an ear as matters of tenants, tithes, and border-watch were sorted—that had been his brief explanation to Ivy as he’d excused himself. Ivy suspected he’d gone along same as he had earlier, to be less a burdensome guest and more a useful friend.
When the hall had cleared, and after Ivy and Claire had once more made themselves useful with the clean-up, Ivy suggested they return to Claire’s chamber for a little while.
“I need to put my feet up,” she said. But then, rather struck by inspiration, she ducked back into the kitchens and begged a favor of the servants who would have an early day since supper had already been served.
She rejoined Claire a moment later and they climbed the stairs settling in Claire’s airy chamber, Ivy flopping on her back on the foot of the soft bed, her feet on the floor, while Claire paused to gaze out the window.
“We should have returned outdoors,” Claire said. “Before the rain returns.”
Ivy had learned that about Claire—she loved being outside, loved most of all being near the water.
Her eyes closed, Ivy grinned. “You’d have to help me up. If we did, that is, but we can’t now, because I just bugged Evir and the kid, Pàdair, to start boiling water and set up two tubs in here so that we could have baths.”
She sat up then, not without difficulty, just as Claire turned from the window.
“A bath? Now, in the middle of the day? With everything going on—oh, I think I might know why.” With mock severity, she asked, “Why, Ivy Mitchell, have you something planned for your reunion with the strapping Alaric MacKinlay?” Her grinnedwidened. “Something that makes you want to be fresh as a daisy? I saw that kiss—wow.”
Ivy rolled her lips inward as heat blossomed in her cheeks. “I might be.” Anxiously, she pulled her hands from behind her and rubbed them up and down her thighs. “That’s all right, isn’t it?” Ivy bit her lip, words tumbling awkwardly. “How far can I—we—what I mean, is, you know, how... far can a woman go with a man when she’s this far along? Without harming the babe? Is it... dangerous?”
Claire blinked, then burst out laughing, not unkindly but bright, surprised. “Oh, Ivy. Honestly? As long as things are healthy—and they seem to be—you can do it right up until the baby comes. You’re fine.”
Ivy stared, half-scandalized, half-thrilled. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Claire said, still grinning. “If anything, it might even help when you’re ready to deliver. Nature’s funny that way.”
