Page 32 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Claire stopped short, staring. A drunkard?

She hadn’t known, though she remembered now—at the feast, she had seen him, wobbling on his feet, voice carrying too loudly across the hall, gesturing with his cup in a way that made people draw back.

She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, and she’d hardly been in a position to judge, not after stumbling up the stairs herself that night, but the memory clanged now like a warning bell.

Ruth was down with fever. Diarmad was off on a bender. There was no one left but her.

The realization struck her like a stone in the chest. It was her, alone, against all of it.

She prayed her body would hold out, that whatever immunity she’d built up over years in emergency wards and trauma bays might give her an edge now.

Nurses weren’t inherently stronger, but their immune systems carried a kind of memory.

After years of being coughed on, sneezed on, splattered with blood and other things she didn’t care to recall, her body had learned.

Sometimes it felt like she caught everything going around, but more often than not, she fought it off better than the people she cared for.

Please, God, let that be true now. She could not afford to go down herself—not here, not in this century. The thought of dying here, now, buried in some nameless patch of ground, was a terror she couldn’t let herself dwell on.

She turned, skirts brushing the mud, and saw a small party riding in through the gates.

At their head was Ciaran Kerr, astride his dark destrier, broad shoulders outlined against the gray sky. Behind him a pair of younger men urged forward a pack horse, a stag slung belly-down across its back, antlers bobbing with every step.

Ciaran swung down from the saddle, boots striking hard against the cobbles.

He barked an order in Gaelic, and the men continued on toward the rear of the keep with their prize.

For a heartbeat he looked every inch the laird—tall, vigorous, flushed from the hunt, and she was reminded of her ridiculous dream.

“Ye’ve a look,” he said when his eyes met hers as he tugged his gloves free. “What’s amiss?”

Claire drew a breath, announcing, “There’s sickness,” she said. “Fever. It started with the midwife this morning, and now... I’ve counted a dozen, maybe more.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “A dozen?”

She nodded grimly, stepping closer so that she didn’t need to raise her voice so much, but not too close, not wanting to infect him if she were already sick or carrying a bug. “I need help—we need to segregate the sick before all of Caeravorn gets sick.”

Ciaran nodded slowly, though his jaw tightened. “We’ll use the sick house,” he said practically, with a slight edge to his tone, as if wondering why she hadn’t thought of it.

“No, we can’t,” she argued wearily. “The wounded are there. They’re already compromised, fighting to heal. If they’re exposed to fever on top of their injuries, they won’t stand a chance.”

His eyes narrowed, simply in thought, not challenging his reasoning.

Claire lifted a hand, wiped sweat from her brow, and asked. “Is there another outbuilding? One that’s open, airy? Somewhere the sick can be together but not endanger the rest.”

He studied her for a long moment, then gave a thoughtful nod. “Aye. I’ll see to it.”

Relief eased her chest, but only for a heartbeat. She realized then that his gaze was too bright, the pupils sharp, and his color—not just the ruddy glow of a man flushed from the hunt, but deeper, hotter, as if the fire burned from within.

Her stomach dipped.

“You’ve been...hunting?” she asked carefully.

His mouth thinned. “Aye, since before the sun rose. ”

But she wasn’t questioning his schedule; she was looking at the sheen of sweat just visible along his hairline, the way his breath came heavier than the short walk from horse to her should have warranted.

“You’re sick too,” she guessed.

He bristled, the proud warrior flaring to life. “Nae,” he said curtly. “I’ve ridden hard. ’Tis naught but the wind and the hunt.”

Disbelieving, Claire closed the distance between them and lifted her hand. Ciaran caught her wrist.

“I’ve nae fever.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” she said, stubbornly refusing to back down, applying pressure to her hand until, with an annoyed twist of his lips, he released her. Her palm landed against his forehead, and the heat there made her curse aloud. “Shit. Ciaran, you do have a fever.”

“And yet, I dinna need coddling—”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” she snapped, lowering her hand.

“This isn’t about coddling—it’s about safety.

Pretending you’re fine only risks spreading it to every single person you come near.

You’re not invincible, and you’re not helping anyone by acting like you are.

” She shook her head, frustration sparking.

“Fine. Be stubborn if you want—I don’t have time to educate you.

But whatever you do, don’t get close to anyone else.

Better yet, lock yourself inside your chamber until you can’t light a fire with your skin. ”