Page 60 of So Close To Heaven
Ivy covered her face with her hands, laughing through her fingers. “Oh heavens. How embarrassing.” She lowered her hands, blowing out a thoughtful breath. “Not that I’m even sure—I mean, I don’t know if Alaric...” she broke off, her cheeks growing warm again.
“Oh, trust me, Ivy,” Claire teased, leaning against the tapestry beside the window. “I wasn’t born yesterday—actually, it was seven hundred years from now—” she paused while they both laughed at her quip. “And I never met Alaric MacKinlay before today, but that man wants you. Badly. I saw the way he looked at you—shit, the way he consumed you with that kiss.” She grinned again and slanted her head. “Well done, you little twenty-first century minx.”
Another round of laughter followed. She got the biggest kick out of Claire sometimes.
When the laughter faded, Claire looked thoughtful, reflective.
Ivy ventured, “Are you thinking about your husband now?” Ivy had asked this question several times over the last month.
Claire straightened and forced a small smile. Then she grimaced, admitting, “Actually, no.”
Ivy wondered aloud, quietly, “Are you...thinking about Ciaran Kerr?”
The question definitely startled Claire, but Ivy couldn’t tell if it were genuine surprise or guilt that colored her cheeks now. “What? No.” Claire answered, folding her arms across her chest.
Carefully, Ivy pressed on, “Claire...earlier. In the bailey. When you saw Ciaran. You looked—” she searched for the right word “—I don’t know, surprised, but almost as if you recognized him.” She didn’t mention that Ciaran had twice now had the same reaction, didn’t ask if Claire had noticed it as well in the Caeravorn laird.
Claire made a little face and shook her head dismissively. “He reminded me of someone, that’s all.” She shrugged it off, though her fingers plucked restlessly at her skirt. Then, with a wry grin she added, “Besides, it’s not like Iknowanyone in this century.”
Ivy gave a soft laugh, though she tucked the moment away. Perhaps it was better not to press.
Their baths arrived shortly thereafter, and they watched and waited while the wooden tubs were filled, again and again, with steaming buckets of water. When the last of the servants departed, Ivy closed the door and set the latch.
Funny, how she’d been so opposed to stripping in front of the medieval household women but wasn’t in front of Claire. With Claire, it felt like being back in the high school locker room, and at least she didn’t have to worry about Evir or any other staring in horror at her modern bra and panties.
“Actually, this is a perfect idea,” Claire allowed. “A leisurely afternoon bath.” She sent a teasing glance at Ivy, her gray eyes dancing. “So you can clean yourvirginia.”
Ivy sputtered a laugh. “My what?”
Claire’s smile was very pretty, so relaxed now. “I have this elderly aunt—Aunt Pat, though we call her Pitty Pat. Remember that ditsy character fromGone with the Wind? Anyway, Pitty Pat has this wonderfully entertaining habit of misusing words. So, your lady bits, if you will,” Claire said, smirking cheekily at Ivy as they continued undressing, “is yourvirginia. She’s got a million of them. My cousin once had to get a testicle shot—tetanusshot, we figured out. And she once said to me—I swear to god—that this guy, some friend of her son, wasarrangedin court.”
Arranged!Arraigned. Ivy nearly doubled over, laughter bursting out of her until her eyes watered. “Oh, my God—I want to meet her.” She wiped at her face, still gasping. “No, even better—remember those word-of-the-day calendars? I wantyouto deliver me a daily Pitty Pat-ism. Just one a day, every day.”
Claire slunk down into the tub a moment after Ivy had. “Consider it done.”
Ivy sighed, her smile serene as she let her head fall back. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard—full-bodied and delighted. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, as though some piece of herself she’d long forgotten had come tumbling back.
Chapter Seventeen
Ivy had fallen asleep, waiting for Alaric to return from whatever had taken him out of doors in the evening. Tired and restless at the same time, she’d lain on the bed, only comfortable on her side these days, and had waited. Having fallen asleep, she was woken when a soft kiss touched her lips.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she found him bent over her, his dark hair hanging over his face a bit, the hard planes of his face softened by shadows and weariness. Ivy reached up her hand, laying her palm against his cheek. Another kiss followed, lingering this time, then another, until the tenderness gave way to something hungrier. His mouth deepened over hers, and Ivy sighed into it, her fingers curling into his tunic, clinging to him, drawing him down to her.
The kiss built, heated, until her heart raced and her body ached with the simple need of him. But then he pulled back, his breath ragged. “Rest, lass,” he murmured. “Ye need your strength.”
Ivy gave a plaintive little whine at the sound of his retreat, tugging lightly at his tunic. “Don’t go. Please. Just—lie down with me.”
For a moment, he hesitated. And then he gave in, shucking his boots, and stretching out beside her on the bed. She nestled into him at once, her cheek against his chest, his arm coming around her as if he’d done this a thousand times before.
God, he felt good!
For a time, both were content with silence.
Ivy lay quiet for a time, her fingers idly tracing patterns across his chest. Then, softly, “How old are you, Alaric?”
His chest rumbled with a faint chuckle. “Past thirty summers.”
“What of your family?”
