Page 39 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

She cried until her vision blurred and her throat burned, until finally she knew she needed to pull herself together. But it was clumsy work, wiping her eyes with her fingers, her nose with her sleeve, and coughing to clear her throat even as a fresh set of sobs threatened.

She glanced up at the crucifix, uneasy.

“God, I’ve made a mess of things. I’m not even sure You had anything to do with me being here, but if You did—if You’re watching—could You maybe show me a way back?”

Time travel. She almost laughed. She was pretty sure that God didn’t shuttle people back and forth through centuries. That was the work of myths, sci-fi, the stuff of fairy tales. And yet, here she was, in the fourteenth century, begging God for direction, because who else was left to ask?

The absurdity of it tightened her chest. She buried her face in her hands again, exhaling shakily.

Maybe it isn’t God. Maybe it’s fate. Or some Highland goddess, some ancient pagan spirit that delights in tangling people’s lives. Whoever—or whatever—it is... please, just give me an answer.

The door creaked behind her, and Claire startled, half-turning.

Ciaran.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! she thought frantically, whipping back around to hide her surely blotchy, snot-streaked face. Her breath stalled in her chest and heat crawled up her neck. She kept her eyes fixed on the hands in her lap, nervously wringing the folds of her skirts.

Of all people—of all times—seriously?

She hadn’t spoken to him in days, not since she’d confessed she was married.

She thought now of the last prayer she’d just given, right before he’d shocked her by coming into the chapel—asking whoever was responsible for tossing her around in time to just give her an answer.

Seriously! She’d meant about how to get home!

She kept her head bowed, not moving at all, even as her hair fell down around her face, obstructing most of her peripheral view.

Still, she saw his boots come into view, in the aisle to her right.

Claire held her breath, waiting for him to take a seat, politely across the small aisle.

She would make her escape as soon as he sat over there—

To her growing horror, he did not sit in the set of pews across the way, but sat down literally right next to her, the old wood of the seat groaning under his weight.

Christ! Was he trying to torture her? Was this some kind of bitter payback for not having told him she was married? He’d heard her crying and decided to humiliate her by coming for a front row seat?

What a jerk!

She swallowed desperately and refused to lift her face. He was too large for this tiny chapel, and now entirely too large for this small pew. His thigh brushed against her until she jerked hers away. He rested his forearms on his thighs, his hands loose between his knees, and looked at her.

She still didn’t look at him. But she felt the weight and power of his stare.

The silence stretched until she wanted to scream just to break it. Her face burned, but there was no escape. The pews went directly to the wall on her left, leaving no room for her to scoot out in that direction.

Just when her shoulders began to tremble with her efforts to keep in a new wave of tears—because this humiliation was absolutely the last thing she needed right now—Ciaran finally spoke.

“Why do ye weep, lass?”

The words were simple, but they cut deeper for what they implied, that he had clearly heard her obnoxious sobbing of moments ago. And now she was trapped in the wreckage of her own mortification, with no clean escape.

Screw it, she thought, wrapping her fingers around the top of the pew in front of her, pulling herself to her feet. She faced him then, letting him see the disaster of her face, not caring what he thought.

“Why am I crying? Why am I—? The list might shorter, Ciaran, filled with things that wouldn’t make me cry,” she fumed, her voice breaking sharp in the stillness of the chapel.

“Everything is awful—nothing is right! Callum is dead and I couldn’t save him, and I don’t belong here.

” Her chest heaved as the words tumbled out.

“I hate this century. I shouldn’t even be here, and I can’t go home—I don’t even know if home still exists for me.

I should’ve gone with Ivy to Braalach, shouldn’t have put so much store in some stupid memory—or dream, whatever it was that made me think I knew you, that we shared some connection.

” More tears fell, unchecked, though she paused to wipe her sleeve under her nose again.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you—or kissed you back.

Yes, I’m married but my marriage is dead, and I wonder if my husband is even looking for me, or if he flew straight back home to his mistress.

” Her voice cracked and tears dripped down off her cheeks, and she flailed her hands in time to her words.

“And I have only one pair of underwear,” she informed him, trying to name everything that sucked, “and I have to wash them each evening, hoping they dry by morning. And Callum is dead,” she repeated, flustered, “and Old Donal. And you hate me, so I don’t understand why I was dragged across seven hundred years if I have no purpose here, if everything is awful.

I want my mother.” She lifted her hands to her chest, fisting them in front of her, filled with so much rage for how unfair it all was.

“I want to go home. I can’t do this anymore.

I hate it, all of it. But I don’t know how to go back.

That’s why I’m crying, Ciaran!" And with that, she moved, staring at his long legs, needing them out of the way so that she could now, finally, make her escape.

Ciaran lifted his hand and caught one of hers, his grip firm. She jerked instinctively, trying to pull away, but he didn’t let go. His hand was rough and warm, holding hers steady. His eyes locked on hers, intensely green, pinning her as surely as if he’d spoken a command aloud.

The breath stuttered in her chest. She couldn’t look away.

In that gaze she thought she saw something more than steel, something that unsettled her even more than his anger ever had.

It couldn’t be compassion—not from him, not from this hard, guarded man.

But the longer his eyes held hers, the harder it was to name what she saw, only that it quieted the storm inside her better than any words could have.

Of course, the very idea of it, compassion from him, brought even more tears, but the fight bled out of her under the force of that gaze and the beautiful heat of his calloused hand wrapped around her trembling fingers.

Softly, he tugged, encouraging her to sit down again.

Drained, unable to resist, Claire flopped gracelessly beside him.

He shifted, lifting his arm in a quiet offer. She stared at him, bewildered and then stunned as she understood, and let herself lean sideways until her head rested against his shoulder. He said nothing, only dropped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

Claire closed her eyes, pressing her face into the crook of his arm, and wept—exhausted, humiliated, yet too desperate for comfort to question the kindness of it, even from him.

“I hate it here,” she admitted in a small, broken voice.

“Aye, nae doubt,” he said mildly, his rough palm moving up and down her arm in steady strokes.

“Why was this done to me?” she whispered, not caring how pitiful she sounded.

“I wasn’t happy in my life at the moment, but I was looking forward to being happy,” she rambled.

“I was going to get divorced, make my own life away from Jason, finally be my own person. I found a nice little house I was going to rent, close to my parents. I thought about going back to school for my nurse practitioner’s license.

” Her voice broke, muffled against his shoulder.

“I just don’t understand. Any of it.” She added, after a moment, more pathetically, “I want my mother.”

An entire minute of silence followed, Claire slowly calming down.

And then Ciaran tilted his head down a bit; she felt his chin scrape against her hair.

“Are ye nae yer own person here, Claire?”

The question caught her off guard. She lifted her head just enough to look at him, blinking through watery eyes. His green eyes, dark within the gloom of the chapel, held hers steadily.

Her own person . The words struck her hard. She had wanted that so badly back home, had told herself over and over that once she left Jason she would finally be free, finally belong to herself. And yet, she hadn’t even noticed—right here, right under her nose—that she already was.

Claire was staggered by the realization, but then not quite willing to concede his point—she wasn’t quite ready to abandon this long-overdue breakdown—she ducked her face again and murmured petulantly, “I still want my mother.”

His hand moved again on her arm, rubbing swiftly again, and Claire interpreted that as another nae doubt .