Page 38 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Down Came the Rain

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The days after Claire’s revelation, Ciaran’s nerves stretched thin as taut bowstrings.

Every hour seemed both too long and too short.

He told himself the lass was nothing to him.

A stranger—worse, a burden he had not asked for, and one he should have long since sent on her way.

She, with her implausible tale of traveling through time, with a husband it had taken her more than a month to recall, with her damnable bright eyes and her bluidy kissable lips.

Aye, she meant naught to him.

Yet he knew—he always knew—when she passed through the yard or the hall inside the keep, when she vanished into the sick house with the wounded, when she went in or out of the flu house with her pitcher of broth and clean linens.

Nae, he didn’t seek her out, he maintained, but aye, he was laird of Caeravorn; he had eyes on everything within its walls, everyone.

It was his duty to notice. That her comings and goings pricked sharper than others was only because he did not trust her. That was all.

Sure, and he told himself this as he trained with the men on the practice field, rebuilding strength lost to the fever.

Even as his blade rang against another’s, his gaze might catch on the flash of flaxen hair, disappearing inside the gates.

He told himself this when he stood with Mungan and Torcall in the granary, hearing the tally of stores, and happened to spy her far across the village, slipping into the trees, no doubt bent on refilling her supply of plants and roots.

He paused to wonder if he might be compelled to rescue her again, or if she’d found enough sense yet to find her way back this time.

Aye, and he told himself this when he passed her at a distance in the bailey, her gaze never meeting his, her chin lowered, her steps quicker, as though she too sought to avoid him.

Mayhap she did. The thought left him bitter, but not more so than the truth she’d kept hidden for far too long, that she was another man’s wife.

The knowledge sat like a stone in his gut, heavier than betrayal and sharper than disappointment.

What burned most was the anger. He had given her more trust than she had earned, had listened to her wild tale of time-travel and stared at her wearing the face of a ghost and had allowed her to pierce his mistrust, had allowed her at his side when he was weakest. He had kissed her—twice!

—and she had kissed him back. And all the while, she had held her silence.

It made a fool of him, and that he could not forgive.

Whatever foolish spark had passed between them, whatever devilment she had cast upon him, he was done with it, done with all the madness surrounding Claire. Her beguiling lips, her bonny smile, her bright eyes—he dismissed everything, wiping it all from memory. He would forget them, forget her.

He would try, at any rate. Shite, but nae luck thus far.

The memory clung like burrs to plaid: her lips soft under his, her breath catching, the way her body had leaned toward him before she’d drawn back, stricken.

He had kissed women before—more than one, though not so many as rumor might suggest. But never had a kiss unsettled him so, nor stayed so long in his memory, never had it stolen into his sleep or left him watching doorways like some untried lad waiting for only a glimpse of her.

Unwanted but not unsurprising, his thoughts wandered to Berwick.

But now he sought out differences, wanting to separate deceptive Claire from the haunting memory of the innocent woman whose blood had slicked his arms, whose gray eyes had dulled to lifelessness even as he watched.

For the life of him, he could not discern anything that set them apart, and worried that any memory of that woman at Berwick had been overshadowed, overtaken by Claire.

He caught himself one night standing on the battlements, looking down into the yard.

She crossed without a lantern to the sick house, pale hair gleaming in the moonlight.

Even from a distance he knew it was her.

He reckoned he could have picked out her stride from a hundred yards away, knowing instinctively the sure set of her shoulders, the soft sway of her hips, the easy grace of her skirts brushing against her legs.

The realization needled him. He hated that he noticed her at all but despised for certain that he was able to recognize the shape of her walk as though it belonged only to him.

And yet his gaze followed her until she disappeared into the sick house, leaving him with a sour twist in his chest and the knowledge that he was a bigger fool than he cared to admit.

And so the days went. He avoided her, and she avoided him. And yet, without trying, he knew where she was at all times.

***

The rain had come again, beginning yesterday, showering overnight, and turning relentless by afternoon of the next day, a cold, steady pour that drummed on slate and stone and seeped into every corner of Caeravorn.

Her day done, but restless still, Claire wandered the keep’s twisting passages, hoping to walk off the heaviness that had clung to her.

She wasn’t so much tired as she was drained mentally.

In truth, her duties had grown lighter. The flu house was now empty, soon to be returned to its former use as storage.

Ruth—the first to fall ill—had been the last to leave, full of gratitude for Mairi, Claire, and Cory, eager to hear what had passed while she’d lain fevered.

The sick house, too, had nearly emptied, three more soldiers discharged back to their duties.

And a fourth, gone for good. Callum would never return to his post. He had slipped away that morning, his body too battered to recover despite all her efforts. His death had broken her heart. She had tried so hard to keep him alive, to save him, but in the end, it hadn’t been enough.

The loss had left her gutted, simply broke her heart.

She had hardly been able to see to anything else all day, her eyes raw from crying, her hands clumsy with agitation.

It wasn’t the first death she had seen, but here as opposed to the hospital back home, it somehow hit harder.

Callum had trusted her. She had promised him he would get better. And now he was gone.

She found a narrow wing on the ground floor, one she hadn’t known existed, hadn’t yet explored, and faced now a low oak door banded in iron. Curiosity pulled her forward. She pushed the door open and discovered Caeravorn’s chapel.

It was smaller than she would have expected, even as she hadn’t thought on a chapel once, hardly more than a vaulted chamber, dim and hushed, the air faintly scented of beeswax and incense.

A low, narrow window admitted a slant of gray light, which cut across the flagstones and touched the edge of a worn wooden altar.

Candles sat unlit there, their wax long cooled in lopsided drips.

A carved crucifix hung on the wall above, its figure lacking great detail but still powerful, the eyes of Christ set deep in shadows.

Claire stood in the doorway a moment, feeling more out of place than she had in a long time. She hadn’t set foot in a chapel—any church—in years. She hadn’t prayed in years either, not since childhood, not since the heartbreaks of her teens had made her wonder whether anyone was listening at all.

But now... with Callum, something in her wanted to sit and pray.

She slid onto a bench near the front, the wood creaking beneath her, and folded her hands almost instinctively, though the posture felt foreign.

It took her a minute to put words together, struggling to remember how to pray.

“God... it’s been a long time. I don’t know how to do this.

” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “But I need to say something for Callum. He deserved better than what he got. He was brave, he fought hard, and I tried—” Her throat closed, and she had to draw a shaky breath.

“I tried, but it wasn’t enough. Please don’t let it be counted against him that I failed.

” She swallowed, blinking hard. “And please... help me forgive myself. I keep replaying what I could have done differently, what I might have missed. I don’t want to carry that for the rest of my life.

He deserves peace, and I hope he has it now.

If You’re there, if You hear me... please let him rest. He was. .. he was so afraid to die.”

She covered her face with her hands and wept—that was the worst part, how frightened Callum had been, so afraid of what lay beyond this life.

A single sob broke into another, and another, each one bigger than the last. Her shoulders heaved; her breath came in short, uneven gasps.

She couldn’t stop the sound from rising into the hush of the chapel, hiccups and wet, ragged sobs, the sort that shake the whole ribcage and leave your throat raw.

Her hands trembled over her mouth, and she felt as if she might be sick.

The grief wasn’t only for Callum. It spilled out for everything—this life thrust on her, the people she’d left behind, the choices she’d made.

She thought of her parents, of Jason, of a husband she barely considered.

And then for all the good she might have done, how she’d helped the Kerrs during a difficult time, she’d erred twice as much.

She should have gone with Ivy and Alaric to Braalach, she should be thinking more of her husband and her mom and dad, and sister and brother.

She shouldn’t have returned Ciaran’s kiss, absolutely shouldn’t wish that somehow, he might forgive her and kiss her again.

She sat with the shame of that and still with an aching need, and she knew, with a clarity that felt like a slap across the face, that she didn’t belong here. Not really. Not anymore. And she needed to stop pretending she did.