Page 3 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Slowly, Claire turned, wondering if Scotland had earthquakes or other strange weather phenomena.

It seemed that the colors around her wavered; light bled strangely across the stones, sliding in unnatural patterns as if someone was shining a pale flashlight through the remains of the stained glass.

She reached for the nearest wall, which felt strangely warm where a moment ago it had been cool.

She gasped and spun, and her hand flew to her chest, confused by whatever was happening—even as it seemed nothing was happening.

Except that she could still feel the echo of that strange current thrumming inside her, which was reminiscent of a heavy bass felt during a live concert. But there was no music, of course.

Unnerved, Claire stepped outside the wall and glanced up at the ruins. She stared, baffled, and called again, wobbly now, for Jason.

This was not....it was different now.

The abbey walls soared intact above her, the roof was whole, and archways were unbroken. But...how? That was impossible. Claire blinked hard, certain she was concussed, that she’d fallen and hit her head.

She staggered backward. “Jason?” Her voice cracked, small and weak inside air that suddenly seemed to have its own voice. “Jason, where are you?”

She turned to where their rental car should have been parked on the narrow road, but saw nothing, no car, no Jason, saw only brighter and greener brush and plants and hardly any sign of the asphalt road.

Christ! Had he left her? Did he just drive away, leaving her in the middle of nowhere?

Even for Jason that was unexpected, very low.

Her nerves seized when she understood what she was seeing—or not seeing. There didn’t appear to be any road—where had the highway gone? Where the car and road and Jason should have been was nothing but an endless sweep of hills rolling green and untamed beneath the gray sky.

Claire’s chest tightened. She pivoted, scanning the horizon as if she could force the familiar to reappear, or as if something would suddenly make sense. But there was nothing, and she experienced a confusion greater than any she had ever known.

Her hands trembled. She curled her fingers into fists to steady them, dragging in a breath as panic began to crowd her. “This isn’t real,” she whispered.

Another sound stirred then, faint but distinct—the sound of a distant horn. A bugle? An animal?

Claire spun toward it, pulse leaping.

***

Caeravorn Keep

The Highlands, Scotland

Not 2025

––––––––

The clang of steel rang across the rocky meadow, a familiar cadence that might well have been the heartbeat of Caeravorn itself.

Ciaran Kerr stood near the worn posts of the practice lists, arms folded, his gaze sharp on the lads testing their strength with rounded blades.

Sweat gleamed on their brows though the morning air was cool, while their grunts and curses echoed across the expanse of Caeravorn.

The routine was familiar, the sounds nearly a repeat of yesterday or any other day while the army was at home. There was a steadiness to the familiar, readying for battle, becoming stronger so that Caeravorn was kept safe, whether keeping it so happened near or far away, as the war might need them.

And yet, despite the importance of this daily ritual of training, Ciaran’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Alaric MacKinlay had come to Caeravorn. That in and of itself, not so extraordinary, but aye, the woman he’d brought with him—one Alaric meant to leave at Caeravorn—caused Ciaran some concern.

Ivy, she was called. A strange lass with stranger speech, who carried herself as though she had come from some other world entirely.

At first Ciaran had thought Alaric mad to suffer her near, let alone keep her under his guard, and now request that Ciaran house and support her, allow her to birth a child here.

Ciaran hadn’t asked too many questions, had given his friend his assurance, aye, she would be welcome here, same as he’d expect Alaric to have agreed if Ciaran had brought a stranger to Braalach.

Nae, he hadn’t asked too many questions, but he wrestled with them all the same. That was, until he saw the way Alaric’s eyes softened when they rested on the lass, and how his voice, usually that of a gruff commander, was gentled slightly whenever he spoke to her.

In truth, it unsettled Ciaran. He’d known Alaric since they were boys, had been with him the day his wife and child had been stripped from him, had seen how the man had sealed his heart to stone thereafter.

Not once since Gwen and the bairn had died had Alaric turned his head for a lass, not to Ciaran’s knowledge.

But aye, it should have been expected, but still.

.. a widow of good birth might have suited him.

A marriage to bind clans, to bring strength—that would have been expected.

But to see him drawn close to a woman who seemed so foreign, and heavy with child besides? That was another thing entirely.

Mayhap it was the babe that drew Alaric’s.

..sympathy? Having lost his own bairn, it was not so shocking that Alaric would be moved by such a sight, a woman carrying life when the world around them dealt in death.

To guard her was natural, Ciaran supposed.

To wish her safe, aye, Ciaran could understand that as well.

But there was more in Alaric’s look than duty.

There was a gentling there Ciaran scarce believed still lived in him.

Wonders never cease, Ciaran mused, deciding it was none of his business anyway.

And yet, somewhat related, he supposed now, as he’d considered here and there recently, that he should likely be thinking about a wife and children of his own.

He grunted low in his throat and turned his gaze outward, across the hills, where the land was a patchwork of heather and field, the forests pressing dark on the ridges.

His land. Kerr land. It had been his father’s, and his father’s before him, and it must pass to his sons in turn.

That, of course, would require marriage. Or at the very least, planting his seed somewhere, with some one .

Marriage. The word sat ill with him, though he knew it must come. He was past thirty, and still his hall bore no lady, his hearth no wife. A Kerr must wed, lest Caeravorn slip from Kerr hands in a generation.

But what wife should he take? He had not met the woman who could stand beside him.

Not that he sought much. He had no need for soft words nor for a companion to share his mind.

A wife was for sons, for order in the hall, for alliance if need be.

In return he would give her his name, his protection, the keeping of his land.

Love was for songs and for lads too green to know better.

A laird could scarce afford such fancies.

Still, the way Alaric’s eyes had followed Ivy suggested tender feelings might be found even now, at his age, and in the midst of war, or in Alaric’s case, after grief. Strange woman that Ivy was, she had roused something in Alaric long thought dead. If Alaric could be moved so...

He cut the notion off with a sharp breath and straightened, returning his attention to the drills being practiced in front of him, pushing aside such pointless, fanciful ideas.

Curiously though, something in his bones whispered that change was riding toward him. Or maybe the whispers were directing that he needed to make a move, make changes, find himself a wife.

“Ye’re scowlin’ again,” came a familiar voice.

Ciaran glanced aside. Mungan, his captain, ambled up with his usual loose-hipped gait, squinting toward the practice lists as if he could see every flaw from fifty paces.

“Aye, I ken what ye’re thinkin’,” Mungan said, nodding toward the youngest of the lads.

“That Cameron boy—quick with his feet, though his head’s slower than a cart horse.

Forgets his guard every other swing. And Fergus?

Strong enough to knock the wind from ye, but he’s got all the subtlety of a drunk smith.

If he canna learn to hold a blade lighter than a hammer, we’ll be diggin’ him out of the mud soon enough. ”

Ciaran’s mouth twitched, though he didn’t quite smile. Mungan’s assessments were never less than colorful.

“And Ewan.” Mungan scratched at his beard.

“Thin as a whippet, but slippery. Nearly slipped past Hugh’s thrust yesterday.

Surprises me, that one. Aye, but then he spends half his time looking at the sky, or the loch, or the keep, wishing he were elsewhere and nae learning to kill.

” He shrugged. “He’ll either make a clever scout or get himself killed tripping over his own feet. ”

Ciaran’s brow eased, even as he was sorry that his own assessment of Ewan was confirmed by the captain.

“But dinna fash yerself,” Mungan went on, spitting off to his left. “We’ll have the lot of ’em sharp and steady afore long. Nae lad stays green forever.”

Ciaran kept his gaze on the lads a moment longer before sighing and admitting “Truth be told, I wasnae scowling at them.”

Mungan’s brow arched. “Nae? Then what had ye looking like thunder?”

“I was considering that it’s long past time I took a wife.”

For a heartbeat, Mungan only stared—then he barked out a laugh, rough as gravel. “Aye, I’d be scowlin’ too if that idea landed on me.” He shook his head, still chuckling, but his eyes held a glint of understanding.

Mungan had been with Caeravorn as long as Ciaran could remember, before Ciaran even.

He had served Ciaran’s father before him, and carried memories that Ciaran had no knowledge of.

Gruff, sharp-tongued, and at times altogether too free with his opinions, Mungan could be trying company.

Yet he was sound of mind, steady of hand, and knew better than most what was best for Caeravorn.

Ciaran valued him more than he often said aloud.

“Aye, about that time,” Mungan went on, sobering, “ye’ve the right of it. A wife keeps a hall in order, sons keep the name alive. Past a score and ten, are ye nae? It’s time. Long past, as ye say. Nae man builds a line alone, and nae laird holds land without heirs. Ye ken this.”

Ciaran grunted low in his throat. “Aye.”

“Best get to it,” Mungan said simply, as though the matter were no more complicated than sharpening a blade. And then he chortled again. “Ere ye talk yerself out of it, as I ken ye might’ve been hoping I’d do.”

Ciaran shrugged, almost sheepishly, but did not and would not admit that aye, that might have been his hope.