Page 24 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Fire and Fury

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The night stretched long, heavy, and damp.

Above them the ragged circle of sky had long since darkened to black, rain still dripping in a steady rhythm through the torn earth.

Every time Claire shifted, the wool plaid tugged or bunched, scratchy and suffocatingly warm in one spot, threadbare in another.

She hugged her knees tight, trying to fold herself into the smallest shape possible, but the chill crept in anyway, persistent as the rain itself.

Sleep came in fits, never more than a few minutes at a time before some ache or shiver snapped her back awake.

She tried not to move too much, tried not to disturb him.

Beside her, Ciaran leaned back against the wall, head tipped slightly forward, his breathing uneven—too shallow to be proper sleep.

Every so often a rough sound escaped him, whether from pain or dream she couldn’t tell.

The guilt gnawed at her afresh each time.

This was her fault. His arm, his ankle, the fact that they were sitting like half-buried corpses in this godforsaken pit—every bit of it traced back to her.

She pressed her forehead to her knees and blinked hard, wishing she could will herself into warmth, or into courage, or maybe into any century but this one.

Another shiver tore through her before she could stop it.

There was movement at her side. Apparently, Ciaran wasn’t fully asleep either. The weight of the plaid shifted as he raised his arm, curving it around her shoulders, settling it warm and solid around her.

She stiffened, but only with surprise, not anything else.

It wasn’t tender, not exactly, not affectionate at all.

But it was shelter, and kindness, and it stunned her all the same.

He said nothing, did nothing more than pull her into his side, sharing his body heat.

To Claire, in that moment, in that bleak darkness, it felt like an epic gesture.

“Thank you,” she murmured, less weary than even thirty seconds ago.

Claire allowed herself to lean, just a little.

Her head came to rest against the curve of his shoulder, the hard muscle beneath his tunic gorgeously unforgiving.

The warmth radiating from him seeped slowly into her bones, and she breathed more easily for the first time in hours. Oh, this was so much better.

The minutes trickled past, and nothing more was said. His breathing deepened, though she suspected he still wasn’t truly asleep, just resting with the vigilance of a man who had spent a third of his life in war.

She dozed again herself and when next she woke, she realized the rain had finally stopped.

She turned her face against his shoulder, whispering, “It’s not raining anymore.”

He was awake again or still, it seemed, and nodded against the mud wall. “Nae. Stopped about a quarter hour ago.”

“What time do you think it is?” She asked, letting her head fall back more on his shoulder, still looking up at him.

“I’m nae sure,” he admitted. “Well past midnight, I imagine, even though my arse says several days have gone by.”

Her lips curved faintly at his answer, since her butt was cold and numb as well.

Her gaze lingered on his face in the dimness.

For a long while he didn’t move, only sat with the stillness of a man used to keeping vigil.

And then, slowly, he turned his head, the faintest motion, until she felt the weight of his eyes upon her.

She tipped her face further upward. In the dark she could scarcely see more than the pale glint of his gaze, yet the moment stretched, seemingly momentous, all things considered.

She felt it more than saw it, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the awareness of being pressed so close, wrapped in the same length of wool, breathing the same chilled air.

Her chest tightened with a breath of anticipation, her pulse beginning to thrum.

Then he bent his head, hesitant at first, pausing for a long moment, before he lowered his mouth to hers, brushing hers in a touch so fleeting it might have been imagined.

But it wasn’t. She felt the warmth of him, the tremor of restraint.

Claire froze. She totally hadn’t seen that coming.

My God—had it been that long since she’d had a first kiss from a man that she hadn’t picked up on the vibe?

Her stomach swooped, her breath snagged.

She hadn’t kissed another man in ten years, none but her husband.

And those had been few and far between of late, almost perfunctory—certainly not like this, with the thrill of anticipation.

He was as still as she after that first cautious foray.

But she didn’t turn away; their mouths remained only an inch apart, and Claire’s pulse leapt when he read into her invitation—if she hadn’t wanted him to kiss her more, again, better, she’d have turned away from him, would have lowered her face.

His lips found hers again, still in exploration mode, learning and feeling, this kiss slow and thoughtful, in complete contrast to the thudding of Claire’s heart.

The kiss deepened an instant later, tentative giving way to hunger, his lips pressing harder, coaxing hers apart.

Her breath caught, then fled entirely as she leaned into him, answering with equal fervor.

Claire didn’t want him to stop. She opened her mouth and covered his lips and felt she should thank him at some point for acting on such a fabulous idea.

With a gruff snarl, he turned into her, opening his mouth, driving his tongue against hers.

She answered eagerly, swirling her tongue around his, breathing something—joy? desire? thankfulness?—into the kiss.

Heat surged through her, chasing away the chill. Her hand rose, fisting lightly against his chest, seeking more, craving the solidity of him. The plaid shifted as she angled closer, caught up in the sudden, breathless fire of it.

Without thinking, she slid her hand along his arm, wanting to crawl up against him.

The response was immediate. His body jerked, stiffened; a sharp sound tore from his throat. He wrenched back just enough, and cursed, low and ragged. “ Jesu !”

The word shattered the fragile cocoon of heat between them, leaving only the harsh rasp of their breaths and the echo of what had almost been.

“Oh, shit—I’m sorry.” The apology tumbled out unconsciously, her voice breathless and unsteady. She winced at the sharpness of his curse, at the pain she’d caused him yet again, having pulled at his injured arm. Trouble seemed to trail her at every step, and now she’d managed to ruin even this.

And still... still, her heart thundered.

Beneath the guilt and self-reproach was a wild, undeniable thrill.

He had kissed her. Ciaran Kerr, all scowls and steel, had actually kissed her.

For one crazy, impossible moment, he hadn’t been untouchable.

He’d wanted her. The thought sang through her veins even as so much guilt cluttered her brain as well.

Oh, but she’d definitely ruined it.

He shifted away, careful of his injured arm, the plaid pulling loose between them. His breath was a bit ragged, as was hers, but his voice came out low and steady, very firm. “Best ye get some rest.”

Claire’s eyes widened as she jerked her face from him, sitting stiffly, his arm still draped around her.

Oh, my God. And now they were going to pretend that hadn’t just happened?

She was expected to ignore the way the ground had all but tilted under her?

Shit, how utterly humiliating.

She sat frozen, her lips still tingling, her heart drumming in her throat. His kiss had been a gut-punch, in the best, most confusing way.

Her lips quivered now, but not from cold. Ciaran sat mutely beside her, acting as if nothing so monumental had just happened—at best! At worst, it was possible that the interruption of her accidentally grabbing his arm had brought reason to him, and now he regretted what he'd done.

Claire wondered if the ground beneath her would be so kind as to open again, and this time swallow her whole.

Curling back into the heavy folds of the plaid, stung but silent, she wrestled with the spark and fire of the kiss—God, could he kiss!—and with a silent but enthusiastic wish that he hadn’t just kissed her.

***

Shite. I’m an eejit.

Ciaran sat rigid against the damp wall, the plaid pulled close again, cursing himself in silence.

Jesu , what madness had seized him? He’d meant only to give her warmth, a small kindness for the shivering she couldn’t hide.

But one long look in the dark, the feel of her pressed against him, and his restraint had splintered like rotten timber.

It had to be excused, of course; he could not be held fully and solely accountable, not when there was something so compelling in her trusting gaze, something so arresting in the delicacy of her features.

Having raked his gaze over her face dozens of times since she’d come to Caeravorn, having seen that same face a thousand more times in his memory, he still could not have said, not under the threat of a sword, what had compelled him to kiss her.

Aye, she presented herself in contrary measure—fragile and yet stubborn, ethereal and yet so earthly, frightened and then so strong—but, truth be known, ?twas in part those lips of hers that tempted a man beyond reason.

So...how could he not have kissed her?

But aye, he was an idiot, to have been driven by desire, sharp and restless, when discipline should have ruled.

He dragged in a breath through clenched teeth, his right hand fisting and relaxing over and over again, trying not to recall her lips beneath his, the small sound she’d made, the way she’d leaned into him. ?Twould haunt him, he was sure, worse than battle and its scars.