Page 40 of I Loved You Then (Far From Home #12)

Reckonings

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Claire lay on her back in the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams above, thinking that time-travel involved way too many twists and turns, and now, apparently, great humiliations.

Of all the people to find her bawling in a chapel, of course it had been Ciaran Kerr.

If she’d been asked in advance what she might have expected from him in that moment, honest to God, neither sympathy nor kindness would have sprung to mind.

She might have guessed he’d have barked at her to get a grip, or maybe that he’d have turned himself right around, pretending he hadn’t witnessed the spectacle.

But no, he’d boldly sat right down next to her—for a split second she was sure he’d done so to heighten her anguish—and had taken her hand and calmed her, not so different from when she’d held his hand during his fever and delirium.

The memory still left her throat tight. Cold, impossible Ciaran Kerr, so quick to temper, had been kind to her. Gentle even. She would never have guessed he had it in him.

She should have been mortified all over again, but instead she felt wrung out in a strange, almost good way.

A little like she’d needed that storm to blow through.

Still, the images wouldn’t leave her: the green of his eyes locking on hers, the solid warmth of his shoulder under her cheek.

She’d needed it badly enough that she hadn’t questioned it in the moment.

And no lie, part of her wished she could go back and stay there longer.

Sleep eluded her for hours, and her thoughts wandered, covering a lot of territory.

Are ye nae yer own person here, Claire?

Yes, she certainly was, but more by necessity than by anything else.

And now, what? With the fever broken, Caeravorn had returned to its usual rhythm, and only four men remained in the sick house.

She didn’t so much believe she’d been needed, that Caeravorn and its wounded and fevered people wouldn’t have survived without her, but it had given her purpose, or basically, a reason for being here.

She hadn’t gone to Braalach with Ivy because she’d had some wild, half-formed idea that she was meant to be here—right here at Caeravorn, not only in this century.

Here with Ciaran.

But she was beginning to believe that wasn’t true.

She might never know what—if any—purpose was attached to her being moved through time—certainly Ivy hadn’t seemed to want or need one.

Despite that insistent notion of déjà vu regarding Ciaran, one of the things that had kept her here when Alaric and Ivy had left, Claire wasn’t sure there was anything to it after all.

She stared at the ceiling beams, teeth pressed into her lip, and tried to untangle her thoughts.

Ciaran’s kindness inside the chapel notwithstanding, there was nothing there anymore.

Or rather, confessing that she was married had effectively killed it.

And rightly so, she assumed. After she’d cried herself out hours ago, Ciaran had quietly suggested she find her bed and get some sleep.

He’d drawn his arm away from her and had stood before she had, stepping out into the aisle.

When she’d gotten shakily to her feet and had sidled along the pew toward him, he’d taken a step back, as if he didn’t want to be close to her again, more, as if standing face to face was dangerous and he would avoid it at all costs.

The warmth of the moment was over. What remained was the laird she’d known before, cold and guarded.

What am I doing here?

Aside from the very obvious fact that she didn’t want to live in the fourteenth century, she didn’t want to live here, like this, adrift in a castle with no real place or purpose, and with Ciaran keeping her at arm’s length.

The thought of day after day under the same roof, nodding politely while he remained stony in her presence, waiting for scraps of acknowledgment, clinging to the memory of a kiss he clearly regretted, was almost worse than the time-travel itself.

The truth was, she could go. Nothing held her here, not really. Ivy was only a half day’s ride north at Braalach. Claire could join her there, fold herself into the warmth of that little family, and try to make something of this new life.

I should go to Braalach.

Wouldn’t that be better than this? She should be with Ivy, with sweet Lily, rather than here.

And yet... she rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes shut, hating herself for it... she didn’t want to leave.

But maybe, the time had come. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be here after all.

I should go.

In the morning, she sought out Ciaran first thing, finding him in the hall, standing at the high table with a pair of his men, their voices low as they bent over scraps of heavy parchment splayed out on the table.

Having learned her lesson only days ago, she didn’t interrupt, but stood about a dozen feet in front of the table, waiting until his eyes lifted to hers.

She craned her neck a bit, nosy, trying to see what they were looking at; it looked like a very crude map.

But they spoke in Gaelic, so she had no idea what they were saying.

At length, Ciaran straightened. He gave a final nod to the men, who nodded in turn, one of them gathering up the parchment. Ciaran finally lifted his gaze and found her waiting.

Their eyes met across the short distance, and for a long breath they only stared.

Claire remained perfectly still, gauging his mood, wanting to know if anything had changed after last night.

Ciaran did not smile a greeting, and there was no softening, only the weight of his emerald gaze holding hers, steady and scrutinizing, as if he, too, was measuring her attitude this morning.

“Might I have a moment?” she asked quietly.

Nodding again, he stepped around the table and off the dais, and approached, towering over her as he did. Mindlessly, she pulled the wool plaid tighter around her shoulders, and Ciaran beckoned her toward the hearth.

She followed, the warmth of the fire failing to ease the knot in her chest, and faced him squarely before the flickering flames, her hands fisted around the folds of the wool.

“I would like to go to Braalach,” she announced.

His brow furrowed. “Braalach?”

“Yes,” she replied, nodding. The words she’d rehearsed tumbled out.

“I should have gone with Ivy and Alaric when they left, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience of it now, but I think it would be best if I went there.

With the fever gone from Caeravorn and the sick house emptying a little more every day, there’s really. .. nothing for me here.”

A shadow crossed his face, darkening his already stern expression.

Claire stumbled on, adding, unrehearsed, “I miss Ivy and Lily. I didn’t realize until they were gone how much I’d feel that, or how thoughtless it was not to go when I had the chance.”

His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “Nae only to visit, then, but to...abide?”

She nodded rigidly, not sure if she should read anything into his reaction, being that he seemed so displeased.

Meaning to sway him, she said spontaneously, “I stayed, when they left, because I thought or I felt, anyway—I know it makes no sense, but I felt that I was supposed to be here, because, you know....” She didn’t finish, unwilling to mention again how she was so sure they shared some connection, that somehow they knew each other, since he’d previously and harshly denied any such possibility.

His face was etched in angry furrows, the firelight carving harsh lines across his face. “The roads are nae safe,” he said at last. “The rains have made the fords treacherous, the rivers high. It would be folly to send ye off now.”

Her chest tightened. Oh. He wasn’t bothered that she wanted to leave, only that the timing was inconvenient, that getting her to Braalach would put him out.

Send ye off.

That stung. He wouldn’t take her himself. Instead, he’d wash his hands of her, foist her on some small unit of soldiers, maybe ones she didn’t even know, strangers who would see her out of his hair.

Hurt stiffened her spine. She raised her chin. “Maybe I could write to Ivy? I suppose I should first ask if I’d be welcome.” Lord only knew what might become of her if she weren’t. “And maybe Alaric could send an escort or a wagon for me?”

He nodded, seizing on this. “Aye, write first. See Seoras in his office for ink and parchment—he’ll get the missive off.” A grimace briefly twisted his lips before he said, “Wait on that response—travel is nae feasible at the moment.”

Nodding stiffly at his decision, Claire murmured her thanks and left him, not releasing her breath until she stepped outside.

***

Ciaran urged his horse down the muddy slope, the gray light of morning filtering through the mist that hung heavy over the river.

Days of rain had swelled the burn into a fast-moving torrent, and he’d wanted to see with his own eyes whether the ford still held or if it was too dangerous to cross.

Though he’d advised Seoras to hold off sending Claire’s letter bound for Braalach, he still thought he should test the roads himself to see if they were passable or not.

She was no prisoner. If she wanted to depart Caeravorn and take up at Braalach, he could not and would not stop her. He leaned forward in the saddle, studying where the water lapped at the stones, higher than he liked with travel in mind.