Page 21 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

He stopped several paces away, just as rain began to spit through the branches. “I meant nae to frighten ye,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

Claire waved it off with the flick of her hand, her relief apparently greater than the fright he’d given her. “I feel like an idiot. I’ve been wandering around here for... I don’t know how long, and now you’re here—does that mean I’m, like, ridiculously close to the end of these stupid woods?”

A rumble of thunder underlined her words, and fat drops began to fall in earnest. Ciaran glanced upward, then back to her, the fine line of her shoulders already dampening through the fabric. “We’re nae that close.”

Claire glanced around. “Didn’t you bring your horse?”

“I dinna.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was no greater than his, his regret sharp once he realized how deep into the forest Claire had actually wandered.

“C’mon, then, let’s get back.”

He extended his hand, flicking his fingers to beckon her toward him, in his direction.

That was all, the only purpose for raising his hand. He didn’t expect that Claire would assume some other intention, or that she’d so willingly put her hand into his, curling her cold fingers around his.

He nearly pulled away on instinct, the jolt of surprise as sharp as the rain now pelting through the branches.

But he did not. Her grip was light, tentative even, but steady, and he found himself tightening his own just enough to keep her close as he turned and plodded forward, before she might have made anything of the initial reaction he wasn’t sure she hadn’t noticed.

It unsettled him more than he cared to admit, her palm pressed against his, her fingers slim and soft, her hand so small as to be nearly lost in his grip.

He should have pulled away, he decided after only a few steps.

God’s truth, he should have. He tallied the reasons why he didn’t want to have her hand in his.

He thought of her claim, that improbable tale of being torn from another time.

A lie, surely. Or the work of wicked magic.

And yet, the hand in his did not feel like deceit, it was solid, warmed now by his flesh, very.

.. un-fae-like. Ciaran’s jaw tightened. When was the last time he had taken a woman’s hand like this, without meaning for it to lead to coupling or even more rarely and much less recently, for a dance?

He could not recall. A long while, then. Too long.

Chagrin burned in his chest. He did not like her, not truly, he was certain—not her strange tongue, or the memory of her that wasn’t her, nor the disruption that she brought to his life. And yet he did not loose her hand.

The sky thickened above, cloudbanks rolling in from the west.

The forest closed around them as they walked, the canopy swallowing what little light remained.

The sun had only just slipped behind the hills, but beneath the trees and the heavy clouds, the gloom thickened fast, shadows layering until the path ahead was little more than shifting, rain-dancing shadows.

Claire’s voice broke the hush. “I am very grateful that you came to find me. I was pretty close to being terrified and this rain would have sent me over the edge—I didn’t think these woods were so dense.”

Ciaran cut her a sharp glance, his tone edged. “’Tis nae a thicket. ?Tis a forest. And a dangerous one, if ye dinna ken your way.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her press her lips together, basket hugged close, chastened but silent. He almost regretted the bite of his words—but nae, better she learn the weight of it than take the notion lightly again.

The ground beneath them was slick with rain, roots twisting like ropes across the path. They picked their way carefully, his stride shorter than usual to match hers. The scent of wet leaves clung heavy in the air, and now and again a gust sent water sluicing down from the branches above.

Already soaked to the bone, he was trying to gauge how much further they had yet to go when the earth shifted beneath his boots whilst in the midst of pulling weight off one foot, transferring it to the other. One step, then the next—and the ground gave way.

He wasn’t even given time to scramble out of danger, had only enough time to shove at Claire’s hand and release her before the forest floor collapsed beneath him in a sudden, gut-wrenching drop.

He crashed down into darkness, landing hard on his back, the breath knocked clean from his lungs.

Pain jolted through his arm as it struck stone, but worse came an instant later—his leg twisted beneath him, ankle wrenching with a sickening snap of pain.

He rolled with a groan, teeth clenched against the shock, every nerve screaming at once.

Above, Claire’s scream pierced the night. He twisted his head up, vision swimming in white hot pain, just in time to see her stumble forward at the edge of the pit.

“Claire—nae!” His voice was hoarse with warning, but too late.

Her foot slid in the slick mud, balance gone. She pitched forward, arms flailing, the basket tumbling from her grasp. He forced himself upright with his good arm, bracing beneath her even as she dropped.

The impact rattled his bones. She was slight of weight, but struck him directly in the chest, driving the breath from him a second time.

He caught at her instinctively, trying to shield her as she landed.

Agony seared through his arm, but he locked it tight around her waist, keeping her from striking the rock.

Her knee slammed against the top of his thigh, blessedly not any higher.

They came to a stop in a tangle, Ciaran on his back, her face pressed against his shoulder, her hair whipped across his face. For a moment there was only the sound of their ragged breaths, the patter of rain above, and the thud of small bits of earth still sliding down around them.

Ciaran clenched his teeth, forcing air into his lungs. “Are ye hurt?” His voice came rough, winded.

Claire pushed back enough to look at him, eyes wide in the dim light filtering down. Her hair was loose from its kerchief, damp strands clinging to her cheeks, other wet locks pulled away from his face as she reared up in his arms.

“I—I think I’m all right. Oh, God, I’m so sorry for landing on you,” she said, her thigh wedged between his legs.

He lay still another moment, with Claire pressed close on him in the dark pit, the rain trickling down through the opening above.

She smelled of crushed leaves and lavender, her breath warm against his jaw.

He shut his eyes briefly, fighting both the pain and the unnerving awareness of her body draped over his.

He had aches and pains that suggested he should be sorry, too, that she’d landed on him.

But he wasn’t, not really.