Page 19 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)
Lost and Found
––––––––
Claire happened to spot Ciaran crossing the yard through one of the newly opened window bays. She didn’t think of them as true windows—there was no glass, only a rough opening in the wall with a hinged panel of planks that could be dropped down or propped up beneath the low eaves.
The rain had eased, leaving the ground slick, but Ciaran strode across the muck as if it didn’t suck at his boots, maybe even as if he dared it to try.
For a moment, she found herself transfixed by the breadth of his shoulders and the long line of his back, and the way the sun caught on the red glints in his dark auburn hair.
She shook off the foolish fascination quickly enough and hurried after him, only to find the yard’s muck far less intimidated by her.
It clung greedily to her poor, abused sneakers, releasing each foot with a wet, sucking squelch that made her grimace with each step.
“Ciaran,” she called out, when she feared her mud-hindered progress might mean he reached the keep before she reached him.
He turned at once, pausing and waiting for her, though she couldn’t tell whether the faint pinch at his brow was annoyance in general or irritation at being hailed by her.
She quickened her pace, but then paid for trying to hurry just as she reached him.
Her foot slid along a smooth rut in the muck, and she let out a little yip as her balance tipped.
Instinct had her hand shooting forward, grasping for his arm at the same instant he reached out to catch hers.
Their grips locked—his strong and steady, hers flailing and desperate —God!
Imagine the humiliation she would know if she wiped out literally at his feet; her brain would torture her for all eternity.
But she did not fall, though likely this was owed mostly to his strong grip, as his other hand clamped on her other arm to steady her.
Claire glanced up at him, wincing at how near she’d come to falling.
For one suspended moment, she was close enough to see the green in his eyes flare vivid and hard, sharp as glass, gorgeous in sunlight, before she straightened herself, smiled, and murmured a weak, “Thank you.”
“Um,” she began, briefly forgetting why she’d sought him out, why she’d been watching for him from the sick house half the day.
Her brain wasn’t cooperating, but honestly, how could it?
Why did he have to look like that? All medieval handsome and scowl-y—like, seriously, how did women get anything done in the fourteenth century?
And why did he get to look like that —granite chin, hair perfectly tousled, mesmerizing eyes, and all—when she looked as she did, her apron heavy with grime, her sleeves damp to the elbows from today’s scrubbing, and oh, yeah, super attractive with her hair pulled back beneath a kerchief, while her hands were chafed and raw from the last week of hard labor.
She had never felt less womanly in her life.
Nervously, she adjusted the kerchief a bit and then thought to hide her reddened hands behind her back.
“Oh yes, I want to ask for something to be made by the blacksmith,” she said at last, “but I wanted your permission first. To approach him, that is.” In truth, she was hoping he would escort her there, to the blacksmith’s barn.
Not only for translation purpose, but also because quick glimpses inside the smith’s shed showed that the man looked, believe it or not, twice as angry and intimidating as his laird. .. only he wasn’t half as handsome.
Claire could never be sure how Ciaran accomplished it, but he had a way of lifting one brow quizzically at the same time a frown was insinuated.
“Permission, is it? At this stage? Can ye nae simply march up to him, same as ye did the carpenter?”
Her mouth dropped open, indignation and guilt leaping first, certain she was about to be scolded for overstepping boundaries. “I, well, I mean, I didn’t ask him for myself but for—”
She faltered when he lifted his hand, waving off her bumbling explanation about having put the carpenter to use.
And then her mouth hung open a bit—so attractive, she would think later when she reviewed every word and expression exchanged—when he showed her an entirely new countenance, this one suggesting. .. a smirk?
“Holy sh—” she paused and clamped her lips, staring at him. “Are you teasing me?”
So stunned was she—and then doubly so when he didn’t deny it but actually allowed his lips to curve just a smidgen more—Claire glanced all around, truly astounded but happy to play with it, looking pointedly up at the sky, putting her hand to her forehead as she scanned the endless blue.
“Huh. I thought for sure the sky must have fallen,” she said, lowering her gaze to him. “Either that or the end times are near, if Ciaran Kerr is smiling.”
Color crept along the edges of his ears, betraying him even as he tried to school his face.
He didn’t answer her directly, not with words, but the faintest lift lingered at one corner of his mouth, as though her playfulness had caught him off guard.
His gaze flicked over her, then away, quick as a man unwilling to be caught enjoying himself.
And even as the amusement slowly faded, the image of it remained, subtle but undeniable for how it had softened the fierce lines of his face in a way that made her absurdly proud to have teased it out of him.
“Nae with any intention to gainsay yer plans,” he said, “but aye, a wee curiosity begs me ask, what need have ye of the smith?”
––––––––
She let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, the tension slipping from her shoulders.
“All I need is a spit installed in the hearth. Something sturdy enough to hold a large pot of water, so it can be kept boiling every day. Clean water, ready when we need it.” She bit her cheek and then wondered, her eyes brightened with a flicker of hope.
“Unless there’s any way you would approve the addition of another hearth so that I—no?
” she gathered as his jaw tightened. “All right, just the spit over the existing hearth.”
Ciaran nodded. “Aye, ye’ve leave to speak to the smith on that matter.” He tilted his head and cautioned her. “And good luck with that, lass. Seems the carpenter kens the sway of yer tongue, but ye’ll find much less an eager ear in the smith.”
Disappointment sagged her shoulders a bit. “Oh, really? Maybe...would you consider asking him?”
Lo and behold, another grin—seriously, was the world spinning in a different direction?
“I ken ye’ll get what ye need, lass,” Ciaran advised, “in the end.”
Claire nodded, her disappointment fading quickly as she stared into the green of his eyes, clear as new leaves, staring at her for the first time, it seemed, without suspicion, causing her heart to flutter ridiculously.
She tucked her hands into her apron, girlishly wishing she had even a fraction of Ivy’s poise around him.
Or at least cleaner hair.
At last, he gave a short nod.
For a fleeting moment, Claire thought he wasn’t in any hurry to leave, that he might even say something more.
But he didn’t. The scowl didn’t return, no new frown cut across his brow, but his shoulders drew taut, a small, almost imperceptible stiffening, as if he regretted already the rather friendly quality of their exchange before he took his leave.
She watched him stride away, and knew she’d have been lying if she said she wasn’t at least a little swayed by the maddeningly athletic way he moved, so confident and sure, as if he knew but didn’t care that she watched him go.
Hm , she thought, maybe the Middle Ages weren’t so bad after all.
***
After parting ways with Ciaran, Claire collected a basket from the kitchen stores and wound her kerchief a little tighter against the growing breeze.
The thought of slipping beyond the walls no longer unnerved her as it once had, even though the sight of the MacKinlay army camped out in a meadow beyond the village was still surreal.
Rows and rows of canvas tents dotted the field, smoke drifted across the air from cookfires, and the noise—and scent—of men and horses carried on the wind.
It was like stepping into a living museum, something she had only ever known from movies, sprawled before her in full color, in sound and smell, impossibly real.
She walked on by, along a well-worn path through the village.
This morning, she’d spent more than an hour inside the tiny and cramped cottage of Ruth, the midwife, as the older woman sifted through bundles of dried herbs, plants, and roots.
Ruth had allowed Claire to inspect all of it, naming each plant and its purpose—feverfew and willow bark for fever, bog myrtle if those two couldn’t be found, yarrow for disinfecting, and meadowsweet for both fevers and pain.
She had pressed leaves into Claire’s palms, made her rub them, crush them, and smell the bitter oils produced by this.
Her visit to Ruth had been instigated by the new shelves in the sick house, shelves that held tools, utensils, cloth, and basins, but no medicine.
With Cory hovering dutifully between them, she’d discussed with Diarmad what was needed.
The surgeon had grumbled and muttered a bit, but he had answered when pressed, what he gave for fever, what he packed into angry wounds, what he lacked in his dwindling private stores.
And Claire, ignoring his absolute refusal to show even a speck of affability, told him nicely that she would forage around Caeravorn to help restock his supply.
Or learn to forage, as it was—hence her visit to Ruth, to know what she was looking for.