Page 25 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

And now? Now there was nothing he could say that would not worsen it. He could no more apologize than he could unsay a vow; words would be futile, clumsy, an insult to her dignity. He had yielded to weakness, and there was no apology to cover that.

Fortunate it was, her having clutched at his arm. The jolt of pain had saved him from himself. Better that than to have gone further, to have lost himself entirely in her, a woman either from another time or mad enough to believe she was.

Even as he told himself that, and the silence stretched heavy and awkward around them, he couldn’t definitively decide if the gnawing regret he felt at the moment, sharper even than the ache in his ankle, was because he’d kissed her or because he’d stopped.

Damnable eejit.

With a near violent determination, he shoved it from his mind, turning his thoughts to their predicament, over which he’d stewed and dwelled before he’d lost his mind and kissed her.

He had imagined that—hoped, actually, and would be taking someone to task if he were wrong—that a search was under way by now, mayhap for several hours already.

Ivy knew he’d gone after Claire; though she might not be waiting on him , or might not notice his absence, he knew for certain she would be concerned yet about Claire being missing still.

She would have brought her worry to Alaric when he returned to the keep, or to Mungan if she feared too much time had passed but Alaric was not yet returned.

Aye, even now they were out there, units of his army, maybe MacKinlay men as well, he was certain of it. Alaric or Mungan would have organized them efficiently, the search party.

He looked again to the sky through the open hole above his head as he had over the last several hours, looking for the slightest orange glow, expecting they’d have brought torches. He strained his ears, listening for the sound of his name, shouted through the dense trees.

The hours crawled, marked only by the steady drip of water into puddles all around them and the dull throb of his ankle.

Claire dozed again, her head against his shoulder once more, her breath soft and even.

He envied her the escape of sleep, though he suspected it was more exhaustion than ease.

For him, there would be no rest. He kept his eyes fixed upward, watching the black sky lighten by degrees to the faintest grey, then vanish again beneath thick clouds.

At last, when his patience was near to fraying, he noticed a faint glow, orange and shifting, not moonlight but firelight. Frustration eased in his chest, so acutely it might have been the glimmer of cavalry banners cresting a hill after all hope had thinned. Rescue was near.

“Claire,” he said, nudging her by flexing his shoulder.

“Hmm,” she murmured sleepily.

“Wake, lass. They come.”

“Who?”

“Rescue.”

“Oh.”

She rubbed sleep from her eyes, and yawned through a “Thank God,” and seemed only then to recall the kiss and the uneasiness that followed. She stiffened, easing herself away from him without so much as a glance.

“Up,” he instructed, his tone brisk. “I dinna want to call out into your ear.”

She pushed to her feet, not hastily, and stumbled once as if her joints were as stiff with cold as his own.

“Here!” His shout rang up into the night. He braced against the wall and forced himself upright, biting back a curse at the pull in his ankle.

Claire added her own call, her palms flat against the wall, her face tipped up toward the opening and the forest and sky above.

They fell silent then, listening. For a long breath, nothing answered but the drip of water and the faint rustle of leaves above. Then a shout, and the bark of a hound. A man’s voice carried through the trees, indistinct but answering.

“They’ve heard,” Ciaran muttered, relief tight in his chest.

The forest noise grew, deliberate now as boots thudded over sodden earth and branches snapped beneath hurried strides.

More voices rose, calling back and forth, guiding each other through the dense wood.

Claire’s hand pressed against the wall as though she would climb to meet them, her breath coming quick.

“You’ll be out first,” he said to Claire.

“Good.” Her reply was quick, clipped, and she didn’t look at him.

Ciaran’s jaw tightened. Aye, she was angry still, or wounded, mayhap both. He didn’t blame her.

This, he thought grimly, could very well explain why he had never honestly pursued a wife, why marriage had always been duty in the abstract and not made anything more.

He was unfit for wooing, for softness, for the careful tending women seemed to need.

He had been bred for war, raised to command, trained to fight.

In those things he did not falter. But here, in this—God help him—he blundered.

He forced his mind toward the practical, barking a warning up to the searchers about the pit’s edge.

“Mind your steps!” He bellowed upward. “There’s a cavity here—deep enough to swallow ye whole. Keep back from the edge!”

The noise above shifted—men muttering, boots grinding to a halt, a torch held higher to cast its light fully down into the pit. At last, faces loomed above, grim with relief as they spotted the pair below.

He felt relief, aye, but more sharply he felt the silence between himself and Claire, and the sorrow of knowing it would follow them long after they were pulled from the earth.

The ache of it was too familiar. For nine long years the face of the woman at Berwick had stayed with him, etched sharp in his memory, though her voice had not.

He had forgotten the sound of it, forgotten the strange warmth and serenity of her small voice.

Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, he had given her Claire’s voice—had bound the two together in his mind. And now, it would be lost again.

***

Two mornings later, while Alaric and Ivy, and the entire MacKinlay army prepared to leave for Braalach, Claire, with little to do for having so few possessions to pack, approached the sick house, meaning to say goodbye.

The yard was alive with sights and sounds, the snort of horses, the creak of leather, the din lively, the MacKinlays anxious to be going home.

The MacKinlay banners stirred in the stiff breeze, crimson against the blue sky.

Men were already mounted, and lines of foot soldiers had formed just beyond the gate, their voices raised in good humor as they waited on their laird.

Claire paused just inside the door, breathing in the scent of peat smoke and herbs.

Her gaze drifted around the long, narrow space, taking in the changes, it being a far cry from the drafty, dim place she’d first walked into weeks ago.

A small but proud smile curved her mouth when she spotted two men, Will and Malcolm, leaning over the space between them, using sticks to carve out Xs and Os on the tic-tac-toe board they’d scratched into the dirt, just as she had taught them.

A week’s worth of victories lived inside this place, and now she was about to abandon it all, and was filled with a niggling fear that all of her hard work would be erased as soon as she was gone.

Her sad reverie was broken as Cory appeared at her side, buckets in hand. Claire scooted out of the way, as she’d been half blocking the doorway.

The young boy eyed the plaid she was wearing—a gift from Ivy just last night—and a frown scrunched up his face. He set down the buckets.

“Ye’ll be a MacKinlay now,” he surmised, referring to the red, gold, and beige of the wool.

Claire nodded and shrugged at the same time. “I guess so.” She wasn’t so sure, though; she had no idea where she belonged, if anywhere.

As always, she was touched by the earnestness on his young face. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” she said. “You’ve been the best translator and a very good friend.”

His ears went red, but he grinned a bit. “I just said what you said.”

“And you said it perfectly.” She offered her hand and then had to lift his into hers when he didn’t seem to understand, and then gave it a firm shake, surprised by the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Cory. I will miss you.”

His grin softened into something shy and proud. “Aye, it willna be the same here when ye’re gone,” he said.

When Cory had retrieved the buckets and moved on, Claire moved to the corner where Callum lay.

His breathing was steady this morning, though still not robust. Once more, she wondered how he was alive at all.

She lifted the blanket covering him and inspected the bandage covering so much of his midsection, which was still holding though still precarious, though he had a chance if someone kept on with him, cleaning, dressing, watching.

He stirred when she reached out to swipe the pale hair away from his eyes, his eyelids heavy but struggling open.

“You’re awake,” she said softly.

“Aye,” he rasped, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

She couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye, and said only, “I just wanted to check in on you.”

He nodded, barely, and closed his eyes again.

Claire stood there for a long moment, her throat thick, before she finally turned.

She crossed the room slowly, making eye contact with several others, giving a small useless wave, her sadness increasing.

She was sorry Diarmad wasn’t here at the moment, as she’d have liked to say goodbye to him as well, even as she was half-certain he’d be pleased to see the back of her.

She paused at the door, her hand on the jamb, scanning the sick house one last time.

And then her feet refused to move. Her chest tightened, the thought of leaving wrenching in a way she hadn’t expected.

Callum’s pale face, the other men, the work she’d begun here—she didn’t want to leave.

Not now. Every improvement she had fought for—all of it would be abandoned if she walked away now.