Page 22 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Into the Hollow

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She shifted, and he couldn’t stifle the hiss of pain that tore from him.

“Ciaran?” she ventured, freezing above him. “I’m afraid to move. I’ll get off you,” she said, a wince in her tone, “but just tell me what not to touch.”

“My leg,” he acknowledged. “Left leg, I’ve thrawn my ankle.”

“Oh, no. Okay,” she said, sitting up fully on top of him without using her hands to push against him.

Straddling him, she hesitated a moment, appearing to decide in which direction to move, the darkness obscuring the exact breadth and depth of the hole.

Ciaran gritted his teeth, the pain in his ankle and that in his left arm impossibly forgotten.

There was nothing wrong with his right arm or hand, and it was resting right now on the side of her thigh— Jesu , but her skin was soft!

—her skirt having ridden up in her tumble and scampering.

For the briefest moment, he let his fingers sink into her lean flesh, rolling his eyes with this new agony before he growled, “Just move.”

“All right, all right—sorry,” she said. She did, sliding off to his right. “Sorry, I can’t see—there’s probably spiders everywhere down here.”

“The absolute least of our problems,” he said, sitting up just as she scrambled to her feet.

His breath hissed again as he dragged his legs closer to stand, his left ankle throbbing like fire inside his boot.

He braced a hand against the wall of earth, careful of his left arm, and forced himself to rise.

The motion was slow, careful, his right leg taking most of the burden, until at last he stood, and glanced around more fully now.

The hole was no shallow pit but a gaping cavity in the earth, its walls sheer and damp, root-laced soil rising almost twice his height.

It stretched wide enough that four or five men could have stood shoulder to shoulder within it, the air close, heavy with the scent of loam and old rot.

The scant light from above revealed jagged edges where the ground had given way, the rim too high and too far to reach without aid.

Bluidy hell, and how were they to escape this?

“What is this?” Claire asked. “Some kind of sinkhole?”

Ciaran dragged in a breath, supporting himself with his right hand anchored to the wall, all his weight on his right foot. “Nae,” he said grimly, some long ago recollection coming to him. “I ken what this is.”

She turned toward him, eyes wide in the gloom.

His gaze lifted to the ragged circle of sky overhead, the rain falling through as memories stirred—old tales, told by his father when he was a lad.

“My da’ spoke of this glen, how our kin and the others roundabout warred over it for years.

A hundred years mayhap, maybe more gone now.

The land was a battlefield. They would trap one another in holes dug deep in the earth, hidden beneath brush.

A man would slink through the forest and fall straight to his slow grave. ”

Claire shivered, her fingers tightening on her skirts. “That’s awful.”

“Aye, at this moment, for ye and I,” he said flatly.

“But clever then. Better to let the ground swallow your enemy than meet him blade to blade.” His jaw tightened as he looked around the narrow pit.

“Da’ had said they’d been filled in decades ago, though I do recall another instance, in my youth, when a lad from the village went missing.

He’d been set to gather kindling for his mother and likely wandered too far into the forest. Weeks passed before they found him, down in one of these same pits.

By then...” His words trailed, the image rising too clear in his mind, standing beside his father when the lad’s body had been discovered.

Claire’s mouth formed a small o . “You mean...he died down there? Alone?” Her voice wavered, thin and small against the dripping silence.

He cursed himself inwardly. “I shouldnae have spoken it,” he muttered. “We’ll nae share such a fate. I’ll see us out.”

“How?” she asked, eyes darting to the sheer, rain-slick walls.

“My arm and leg are...” He clenched his jaw. Best not to name weakness, but there was no point in lying when the pain of it was likely etched plainly on his face. He held his left arm crooked against his chest. “I willna be able to climb out. I’ll have to lift ye up and ye can—”

Her head whipped toward him. “Is it broken?”

“I dinna ken it is,” he said dismissively. “I can still get ye up and—"

Ignoring him, Claire reached for his arm. Small hands found his wrist, then his forearm, despite his low growl of protest. “Claire, leave it.”

“No,” she said firmly, already probing gently, her fingers pressing along the length of bone, up to his elbow and beyond.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” she assessed, her brow furrowed.

She ran her fingers and palm over his shoulder.

“It’s not dislocated.” She moved her hands down his bicep and wrapped her fingers around his elbow, applying slightly more pressure.

Ciaran grimaced and pulled away. “Leave it, will ye?” His voice was harsher than he meant, but the intimacy of her touch unsettled him as much as the pain.

“Likely just sprained,” she diagnosed. “Painful, I’m sure, but not the worst thing.” She tipped her face up to him. “And is it your leg or your ankle that’s—”

“Ankle,” he cut in swiftly, grinding out the word, praying she wouldn’t lay hands on him again, for he knew full well that was a torment he’d have no defense against. “And it’s nae broken, likely only wrenched as well. But I can still get ye up and out.”

She glanced up and then back at him, pale hair damp against her cheeks, eyes wide.

“And then what?” Her voice wavered. “It’s dark, Ciaran.

Raining. I got lost in broad daylight—how would I ever find my way back to the keep in this?

” She swallowed hard, hugging her arms close.

“I can’t. I’ll end up more lost—or worse, dropped into another hole like this.

It would take me forever in the dark, having to gauge each step, fearful the ground would swallow me up—”

“Aye, aye,” he said, sensing her utter disquiet, moved by her raw admission, his stomach clenched by the image of Claire lying broken in some other long-forgotten trap, someplace where he was not.

His gaze lingered on her, searching. Foolish she might be, aye, but she was nae coward. Her fear was not born of weakness, but of sense.

Claire drew a shuddering breath, softer now. “I’m sorry I’m not braver, or sturdier—I can do it in daylight. If you point me in the right direction, I’ll go. But not now. Not at night.”

Ciaran’s chest rose, fell, his arm throbbing where he held it close. He exhaled hard through his nose, giving the smallest nod. “Aye. Ye’re right. Better to wait for the light than risk ye vanishing into the woods.”

She nodded quickly, latching onto his acceptance. In the dimness, her face was pale, her full lips oddly colored, Ciaran supposing they might be tinted blue with cold.

“We should...ah, we should try to get comfortable,” she suggested, glancing around as though one stretch of the mud floor might prove more appealing than another in their earthen prison.

Ciaran cast a look up at the ragged rim above, squinting against the falling rain.

His jaw set hard. “I’ll nae bide here like a penned beast,” he muttered, and turned to the wall.

He dug his good hand into the hard-earth sides and tried to haul himself upward, his ankle screaming protest with every push.

Twice he gained a few feet, only for the wet dirt to crumble beneath his grip, sending him sliding back down in a shower of mud.

“Ciaran—you’ll hurt yourself worse,” she warned softly.

Ignoring her, he swiped mud from his face and began groping along the wall, fingers searching through the slick tangle of roots for something thicker, something that might bear his weight.

At last he found one, thick as his wrist, jutting from the wall.

He tested it with a tug, then set his jaw and pulled, dragging himself upward—ignoring Claires’ cry of, “Ciaran, please stop!”—until his ankle buckled beneath him.

Pain seared white-hot, and with a snarl he lost his grip, crashing back into the muck.

He rolled onto his good side, chest heaving, fury and frustration burning through him. “God’s bluid,” he spat, voice raw.

Claire crouched near, extending her hand. “Stop it,” she begged. “You’re only hurting yourself worse. I’ll go.” She swallowed, steeling herself. “I can do it. Lift me, Ciaran. Just get me up and I’ll find a way back to Caeravorn if you point me in the right direction.”

With his head lying in a puddle of muck, he stared at her, disbelief and something softer warring across his face.

For a moment he considered the set of her jaw, where stubbornness warred with something fiercer — Claire’s own sense of protectiveness.

She would brave the night and the forest to spare him further injury.

“Nae,” he stated firmly. “Ye’d set oot in the night with nae light, nae path, and mayhap another pit waiting to swallow ye? I’ll nae have it.”

Claire’s stubborn frown deepened. “I can do it. It’s fine. I’ll go.”

Even had she sounded certain, he’d not have allowed it. But nae, she sounded only as if she wished to project a certainty she didn’t feel, for his benefit.

Ciaran sighed, shaking his head. “Nae, Claire,” he said again, resigned to what must be. He hauled himself to a half-sitting position, bracing one hand on a root, every movement a bargain with pain. “I’d sooner sit the night in this hole than watch ye vanish into the night.”

Her mouth opened and then closed. For a moment she looked as if she might argue, then the fear in her eyes won out. “All right,” she whispered.