Page 29 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Ciaran hastened his step, before another might have aided her, and caught her arm, hauling her lightly to her feet. She swayed against him, warm and soft, her hair brushing his sleeve.

“Careful,” he said, being surprised by the roughness of his own voice.

“Oh, thanks,” she said automatically and then turned her face to see who’d come to her rescue.

He expected that she would have stiffened, would have yanked her arm from his grasp. But nae, her gray eyes sparkled up at him, showing no trace of coolness.

“Ah, the laird plays hero, rescuing the damsel in distress,” she mused, her words not quite slurred, but then not entirely sober. She gave a hiccupping laugh, then added, conspiratorially, “Not my most graceful exit.”

He let his gaze wander greedily over her flushed face.

“Ye’ve had too much wine,” he deduced, his voice low, a grin beginning to surface.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a careless shrug that set her hair swaying, “but it was good wine. Wilder than home.”

“Aye. Up ye go,” he said, guiding her with a hand at her arm.

“Yep,” she murmured, hiking her skirts with theatrical care, head bowed nearly to her chest, giving her full attention to each step.

She did not release her skirts at the top of the stairs, nor when they proceeded down the corridor. At the door to her chamber, she turned and faced him, swaying just enough that Ciaran kept his hand on her arm.

Her eyes softened on him, curious, almost tender. “Good night,” she said first. Then, tilting her head, her voice dropped. “Why do you deny knowing me? Why don’t you admit it—you’ve seen me before. I know you have. My face is familiar to you, same as yours is to me. Why deny it?”

For a moment he could not answer, save for what his sudden frown betrayed.

She had put words to the very thought that had plagued him not a quarter hour ago.

He saw her as he had all night—flushed and laughing, her smile brighter than the torches—but behind it lay another vision: a woman crumpled at Berwick, flaxen hair matted with blood, gray eyes fixed on his as life drained away.

“I dinna ken ye, Claire,” was all he said at last, imagining she’d remember little of this conversation come morning. His thumb brushed her sleeve before he let go, forcing space between them. “Nae before, nae now.”

Claire, even with the drink blurring her edges, caught it—the flicker in his face, the weight in his words. Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit—you’re lying again. You recognize me—but how? How can we possibly know each other? We were born in different centuries.”

“Ye imagine things,” he murmured, voice tight, irritated with himself for letting his expression give him away.

“No, no.” She shook her head too hard, the gesture sloppy, unbalanced. “I didn’t just imagine that look on your face.”

“Claire,” he said again, low and warning. “Ye’ve had too much. Best ye forget this talk.”

He braced a hand against the wall beside her head, and reached with the other past her arm, pushing at the latch of her chamber door. The timber creaked as it opened inward, but instead of easing her inside, the movement drew them closer, her back against the doorframe, his chest brushing hers.

She didn’t move away. Instead her palm rose, unsteady but certain, and came to rest against him, fingers splayed over the solid line of his chest. The touch was light, barely there, but it burned through the barrier of his tunic as if it were a flame.

“Don’t lie to me,” she beseeched, her eyes searching his. “I know you feel it, too.”

Ciaran’s jaw worked as he fought the urge to step back, to put an end to it.

Yet the warmth of her hand and the stubborn glint in her eyes stripped all good sense from him.

God help him, he wondered madly if a kiss might distract her, might silence her questions.

As soon as the idea entered his mind, he recognized it for what it was, a feeble excuse to kiss her again, a reason his starving mind conjured to give him leave.

But the thought burned hot all the same.

And before he might have talked himself out of it, he bent to her, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was nothing like the one they had shared in the pit.

There was no hesitation now, no tentative brush of lips.

This was hungry, raw, born of frustration and a longing he had no right to feel.

He wanted her—this woman who made no sense, who claimed to have come from a world he could not fathom, and who looked at him with eyes that made him half believe they had met before.

She responded at once, melting against him, her lips yielding, her hand curling tighter in the fabric of his tunic. The world narrowed down to her warmth, her breath, the maddening sweetness of her.

No sooner had she answered his kiss than she stiffened. Her head dropped against his chest, her voice a broken whisper. “Please don’t kiss me.”

Ciaran closed his eyes, dragging air into his lungs, fighting the desire clawing at him.

A pained expression darkened his face. They stood like that for a long moment until—God alone knew how—he found his restraint.

With a hand gentle at her shoulder, he turned her, guiding her into the chamber beyond.

“Find yer bed, Claire,” he managed, his voice rough with frustration.

He pulled the door closed between them, putting her out of his reach.