Page 37 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Ciaran exhaled through his nose, a thread of weariness tightening behind his eyes.

“The glebe belongs to me, to Caeravorn—the cleric had nae right to give it away.” He chewed his lip thoughtfully, however, and decided, “But aye, split the kirk’s strips in half between them, and I’ll fine both sides if they squawk on.

As for Gavan, he kens well the Sinclair woods are nae ours.

He’ll pay his fine, or he’ll feel the lash. ”

The two men bent again to their parchments, notes scratching, voices low.

The great door creaked then, heavy on its iron hinges, and a rush of cold air stirred through the hall. Ciaran glanced up, watching as Claire entered, her expression mild until she spotted him at the front of the chamber.

She strode with purpose across the flagstones, a few wayward strands of blonde hair tumbling loose from her kerchief, framing her face.

She looked straight at him, ignoring the startled glances of the steward and baillie, and spoke before she’d even reached him.

“What are you doing out of bed?” She asked, her gray eyes flashing.

“You’re as white as a ghost. If you push yourself like this, you’ll relapse. ”

Seoras choked, quill freezing in midair. Torcall gawked openly, his jaw half-hinged. No one interrupted laird’s business—not a soldier, not a servant, not even kin. Even Mungan wouldn’t have dared.

Ciaran’s back stiffened. The heat rising in his face was not fever this time, but the sting of her impertinence in front of his retainers.

His hand had been sitting idly upon the table but now he flattened it against the worn wood, his fingers splayed.

“’Tis nae for ye to interrupt the laird’s business,” he instructed her coolly.

Her eyes widened in dramatic fashion. She gaped and then pointed to her chest. “Not for me ? Are you serious? Um, quick reminder: that was me , working myself to the bone to make sure that you didn’t—”

She stopped abruptly, possibly aware of the utter astonishment on the faces of Seoras and Torcall—both of them likely expecting more than only a sharp rebuke—or made silent by the darkening of Ciaran’s countenance, for her daring to challenge his statement.

“Aye, enough,” he said, stating what she was already realizing.

Her mouth remained open in shock, then pressed into a line.

He thought she might continue to admonish him—God help her if she did—but instead she swallowed, color flooding her cheeks.

Without another word she turned on her heel and strode back the way she’d come, skirts snapping.

As shocked as he was that she hadn’t argued further with him, he then wasn’t surprised to hear her grumbling as she marched off.

He caught only a snippet, something that began with, “Don’t come crying to me. ..”

Silence settled like a stone at the table, until at last, Torcall cleared his throat and muttered, “Bold one, that lass—nae to be tolerated, Laird.”

Ciaran ignored him, turning his attention to Seoras with a hard look.

“Carry on.” His voice was cool, controlled, but inside, something twisted disagreeably.

For all her impertinence, her words had struck home.

He’d thought almost exactly the same, knew his strength of this morning was failing fast.

***

By evening, the mood at Caeravorn had shifted.

Like the laird, some of the sick were on the mend as well.

Two young mothers and a soldier had been able to leave the flu house that afternoon, weak still but without fevers.

Only two new cases of fever had appeared all day, and the steady trickle of broth and clean linens was beginning to feel less desperate, more manageable.

For the first time since the illness had struck, Claire felt a measure of relief.

Thus, she should have been in a good mood.

Instead, the memory of that morning still burned hot.

She was furious with Ciaran for treating her so rudely in front of those men—so rudely at all—and for dismissing her concern as though she had overstepped, as though she hadn’t nearly broken herself keeping him and half the keep alive.

His cool, clipped rebuke replayed in her head, simmering all day until she was taut with what she felt was righteous anger.

She pulled close the door to her chamber and turned into the corridor and startled as she nearly collided with him.

Ciaran filled the narrow space, broad-shouldered and imposing even with weariness dragging at his frame. His dark hair was damp at the temples, as if he’d just come from a bath, though he was fully dressed, braecan and sword affixed to his person as they normally were.

“I—sorry,” she stammered, instinctively stepping back. “I was just going down to get something to eat,” she said, expecting him to move.

He didn’t, only looked at her, his green eyes forest dark in the barely lit corridor.

“I owe ye an apology,” he said.

Her brows lifted. That was the last thing she expected. Ever, from him.

Despite the anger that bristled all day inside her, she refrained from retorting, Damn right you do.

“For this morning,” he said unnecessarily. His words were stiff, awkward, as if any apology would have to fight its way out. “I was... abrupt with ye. Ye meant only concern, and I gave ye frost for it.”

Against her better judgment, her anger diminished slightly.

“Well, thank you for that. And I apologize in return,” she said tightly—she wasn’t going to let him off that easy— “for interrupting you in the middle of...well, whatever the medieval version of a board meeting is.” A frown still knit her brow. “I shouldn’t have barged in.”

He inclined his head. “All the same. I shouldnae have bitten.”

“Apology accepted,” she said simply, giving a brisk nod, wanting it done. She meant to move past him then, to be gone before the awkwardness thickened even more, but he didn’t step aside. Her heart gave a hard thump. “Was there...something else?” she asked.

His gaze held hers, sharp and searching. “Aye. I should also...apologize for another matter. For kissing ye.”

“Kissing me?” Her pulse leapt. Good Lord. He was going to apologize now? After all this time?

“The night of Last Plenty.”

Claire blanched, hazy memories flooding her. Oh, shit. She hadn’t dreamed it. The memory flared, hot and vivid now, the press of his mouth, the fire it had sparked, her own eager response.

“Oh, I thought you meant...” She trailed off, confusion rushing in. “Wait. You kissed me at Last Plenty? After all that...business—that disaster—in the pit? Why in God’s name would you kiss me again when you were already furious with yourself for doing it the first time?”

Ciaran’s frown deepened, mirroring hers. “Ye did nae...ken the kiss at Last Plenty was real?”

Heat climbed her neck. She lifted a hand, shrugged, meaning to skate past it. “I thought I’d dreamed it. You can imagine how that might seem possible, right? Since after the first time, you...well, you regretted it. Or didn’t like it. Or...” She waved her hand vaguely. “I don’t know. Something.”

To her surprise, he looked stunned. “I dinna ken whether to be offended ye couldnae tell the kiss was real,” he said slowly, steel threaded through the words.

“or because ye imagined I regretted the first one. Out in the forest, I was angry with myself—nae with the kiss.” He paused, jaw tight, then redirected his thoughts and words.

“I’ll nae apologize for wanting it. Only for troubling ye with it.

Ye seemed...displeased. On the night of Last Plenty, mayhap on both occasions. ”

Displeased? Dear God, if he only knew ! Her stomach fluttered with the memory of his touch.

“I wasn’t displeased,” she said quickly, too quickly, and bit her lip. The words hung between them, bare and unexplained.

His head tipped slightly, his eyes narrowing, waiting.

Her chest constricted. She had to say it now.

“I’m married,” she whispered.

Silence fell hard. His eyes changed, became darker, harder, like ice forming over deep water.

“I’m married,” she repeated, stronger this time, though her throat burned with the words. “Five years. My husband, he’s...ah, he’s back in that other time...where I come from.” She swallowed. “I shouldn’t have let you—”

A faint scoff left him, humorless. His mouth twisted with distaste and Claire’s heart cracked a bit.

“Ye are another man’s wife,” he said, each word clipped.

Claire nodded, her eyes watering. She wanted to defend herself, to explain how dead her marriage had become, how cold, how long it had been since her husband had touched her with even a fraction of the desire that had burned through Ciaran’s kiss.

But the words curdled before they reached her tongue.

What kind of defense was that? To admit her vows had long since withered, that she had kissed another man because she was starving for something her husband didn’t give freely or feel?

It made her feel cheap, grasping, desperate for crumbs of tenderness.

She bowed her head, fisting her hands at her side, and said, “I’m sorry. I should have told you—I didn’t mean to keep it from you or...”

She paused when she saw Ciaran’s booted feet move, taking him away.

Claire closed her eyes and stood there unmoving, long after Ciaran had left.