Page 12 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

Inside, sitting atop the bedside table, was a small squat taper in a metal holder, the wick blackened from previous use.

Ivy took possession of the candle and stepped out into the corridor, lighting the wick from the one of the torches in the wall before returning to the room she’d chosen.

The flame was weak, barely enough to push back the gloom but she had no intention of sitting or even sleeping in complete darkness.

She closed the door behind her, returned the candle to the table, and rubbed at her arms as she sat down gingerly on the cot. Her mind spun, sluggish and yet scattered, but she was too tired to chase answers. Outside, the rain tapped gently on the roof, a soft rhythm against the silence of stone.

Imagining that it must be near or past midnight by now, Ivy sighed and thought to catch what sleep she might.

She didn’t undress but did remove her boots and socks before she curled on the cot with the coarse wool blanket tucked beneath her chin, the small window offering a square of inky sky.

She thought the rain might have stopped, but that the wind had picked up.

And, as often happened, the moment she laid down her head, her mind began to churn. The ache in her limbs begged for sleep, but her thoughts were relentless.

Somehow—impossible as it seemed—the most unbelievable, dramatic event of the day hadn’t yet been fully examined. She hadn’t had the space, the silence, the stillness until now to let the thought in. Maybe because she didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it!

Because how did someone accept that she’d fallen through time?

How did a rational, modern woman—one who had driven stick-shift cars and filled out tax forms and read books about political theory in undergrad—suddenly nod and say, “Yes, that seems reasonable. A hike through the Scottish Highlands ended with me waking up in an actual medieval war zone.”

She closed her eyes, trying to slow her breathing, but the images and impressions flooded back—men with swords, horses with iron-plated tack, the press of Alaric’s arm across her body as they’d ridden through the dark.

Lifeless, bloodied bodies. The scent. The accents.

Even the cold, which felt different, deeper.

None of it added up unless she believed the only explanation that made any sense.

But how could she make sense of the senseless?

She rolled to her other side, ears straining in the silence.

Every little sound felt amplified—the tick of water dripping against stone, the wind's breath against the eaves, some distant clang she couldn’t identify.

A creak in the beams made her sit up slightly, heart kicking.

It was nothing, probably the wind. Or maybe one of the soldiers posted nearby.

But still, her ears stayed tuned to every faint shuffle, desperate to identify noises to know peace.

Her stomach turned. She pressed her palm to it, feeling the swell of her pregnancy, the undeniable presence of the baby who’d had no choice but to come with her through time.

Her mind tumbled over the questions again: Was she delusional?

Was this a coma? Some elaborate historical reenactment gone disastrously wrong?

But that didn’t explain how real everything felt. The ache in her joints. The smoke in her hair. The very elemental need to pee all day.

She stared at the stone wall, rough and ancient, perhaps older than anything she’d ever touched before. Her fingertips brushed the mortar. It was cool and solid, though little comfort it offered now.

She jerked her head around, toward the door, when another noise startled her, sounding entirely too close to the door to her cell. After a moment, when she heard nothing else, she settled again.

So what did it mean, if this was real, that she’d actually moved through time?

Her chest tightened. She simply had no idea.

If she was really in the first years of the fourteenth century, how was she going to survive? Good Lord, how could she possibly have a baby in the fourteenth century?

Time passed until her brain exhausted itself, and she began to drift off. She didn’t know if minutes or hours had passed since she’d laid down when she heard the faint creak of the door.

It opened just a sliver.

Ivy froze on the narrow cot.

A dark silhouette filled the gap, highlighted by those sconces in the corridor, and it took no time at all for her sleepy brain to recognize Alaric MacKinlay. She breathed again. He stood there a moment—silent, impassive. Maybe he was only checking that she was present, perhaps asleep.

“I’m awake,” she said softly, pushing herself upright on her elbows.

He paused a moment before the door opened wider, and he stepped inside just two steps.

“Did you find anything?” she asked, voice low. “Anyone?”

“Nae,” he said simply, the word as heavy as the stone walls around them. He didn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry.” She watched him for a moment.

His shoulders were damp with rain. His jaw was tight, the flickering torch behind him casting harsh shadows along the angles of his face.

“How far did you go?” she asked, uncertain why she felt so invested in strangers she had never met, nuns she couldn’t possibly know and the MacKinlay army, the laird specifically.

“Far enough for tonight. We’ll go out again in the morn.”

Ivy nodded.

He lingered a second longer, then stepped back into the corridor, murmuring something in Gaelic as he began to pull the door closed behind him.

“Wait,” she said, before she could stop herself.

She climbed out of the bed and approached him just as he paused and slowly pushed the door open again. The sharp iciness of the stone floor on her bare feet widened her eyes.

“Where are you going?” she blurted out and then caught herself, and asked a different question, to better get across what she really wanted to know. “Where are you sleeping?”

The question seemed to startle him.

“I just mean—you’ll be... close, right?” She was positive she would rest easier, sleep better, if she knew this strong, capable man were close by.

His scowl lessened, and he seemed to understand she was anxious. “Aye.” He paused and stared at her. “If ye...need, I can post a sentry just outside yer door.”

“Oh, gosh, no. I don’t need you to do that, but, um, maybe could you take this room right next door?

” She asked, feeling small and weak, but determined to know some peace with his close proximity.

Nervously, she pointed to the wall at her left, beyond which her nosing around had already shown her was another small cell like this.

Alaric hesitated, his expression unreadable in the dim light. Then, with a short nod, he said, “Aye. I’ll see that it’s occupied.”

She noticed that he hadn’t specifically said he would occupy the room.

He turned slightly, half ready to leave, but then his gaze dropped. His eyes fell to her bare feet, still pale and chilled, and he went suddenly still. And then his entire body jerked back a fraction, as though he'd just spotted a snake curled beside her toes.

“What is—?” His voice faltered, and he pointed abruptly, his brows knotting tightly. “Is that... is that blood?”

Startled, Ivy looked down, following his wide-eyed stare to her red-painted toes.

“Oh! No.” She huffed a small laugh, more breath than sound. “No, it’s not blood.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “It glints in the torchlight. Red... shimmerin’. Ye—ye’re not wounded?”

“It’s not blood,” she repeated, gentler this time, lifting one foot between them to show him. “It’s nail polish. You know—” She caught herself. “Well, no. You don’t know. It’s paint. For toes. A cosmetic thing. But not... not war paint or anything.”

She could see the confusion in his eyes, the effort it took while he attempted to categorize this strangeness. His gaze returned to her feet, then back to her face, then again to her feet.

Ivy grinned, rather amused by his befuddlement. “It’s just a thing some women do,” she added. “Paint their toenails. It’s pretty,” she informed him. She was and always had been a firm believer that unpainted toes were very unattractive.

He made a low sound in his throat—part grunt, part exhale—then slowly nodded, still clearly baffled.

The corner of her mouth lifted again, but her good humor didn’t last.

Because his face—that reaction, his bewilderment—was just more proof. Proof she wasn’t crazy, and she wasn’t merely dreaming. She was far, far from home, hundreds of years from anything familiar.

Her smile fell. The air between them cooled again.

Alaric seemed to catch the shift in her but said nothing. He gave another small nod, this time more to himself than to her.

“I’ll be nearby, if ye have a need,” he said at last, voice low and sure once again.

Then he was gone, the door closing with a whisper-soft scrape behind him.

***

Light spilled across the rough flagstone floor, bright enough to rouse Ivy from a fitful sleep. She blinked against it, her body heavy, her mouth dry. For a moment she lay still, remembering where she was, the stone cell, the narrow cot, the fourteenth century.

She closed her eyes and sighed, her hand reaching for her belly, concern etching her brow. She had to wait several minutes before she felt her stomach leap. Ivy smiled in relief. A moment later, she laughed softly when her stomach continued to move.

But then the other truth dawned on her and her smile slid away. Nothing had changed. Or rather, she hadn’t woken from this dream.

After another few minutes, she sat up. Being seven months pregnant meant that having to pee was a near-constant state of being. She cringed internally at the thought of making use of the garderobe during the day, possibly running into or being walked in on by a MacKinlay soldier.

She thought for a minute before she stood, having made a decision.

Though she had no idea how long they’d make use of this place, one thing was certain: men had less need of a chamber pot than a woman—especially a pregnant woman.

With that in mind, she tiptoed down the cold corridor to the garderobe she’d used yesterday.

The tiny room was dank, drafty, and as unappealing as the night before, but she found a chamber pot tucked along the wall.

Hesitating only a moment, she took it up, cringing as she dumped its contents out the glassless window before carrying it gingerly back to her little room.

She’d barely made use of the thing before a firm knock sounded at her door. Ivy startled, shoving the pot beneath the cot, and then took a second to make sure her jacket wasn’t accidentally tucked into her leggings before pulling the door open.

Alaric stood there, shoulders squared, though his eyes looked shadowed with fatigue. His nod was curt, more of an acknowledgment than a greeting.

“We’ll be out again today,” he said without preamble, his deep voice rasping with weariness. “I dinna ken for how long. Kendrick and Blair will remain behind. Ye seek them out if ye have a need.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Ivy replied, her tone a little brighter than she felt.

He gave another short nod and began to turn away, but she blurted, “Quick question before you go.”

He stilled, his head angling slightly back toward her.

“How do I... um, wash my face and brush my teeth? Stuff like that?”

For a moment he actually looked as though he might take the time to explain, but then his mouth closed on whatever thought he had. “Aye,” he said at last, “there is a guid reason to seek out either Kendrick or Blair.”

Ivy found herself staring, absurdly caught by the shape of his mouth.

They weren’t polished lips by any stretch; they were roughened from weather and sun, a faint line of dryness at the edges, but they were full, firm, and commanding in a way that made it hard to look away.

His upper lip had a stern cut, the kind that seemed to match his every clipped word, while his lower lip was broader, betraying a hint of softness at odds with the rest of him.

She realized, with a quick flutter in her chest, that she was watching the way they moved when he drew a breath, and then when he set them tight again, clearly advising their conversation was done.

She blinked, heat rushing to her face, startled by her own wandering focus.

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” She tried to smile, though she imagined it must appear quite thin.

Again he shifted to leave, as if anxious to be gone, but she caught him once more. “Did you not sleep well?”

That made him pause. His brow furrowed, shadowing his already-dark expression.

“You have circles under your eyes,” she said quickly, trying not to sound as though she were criticizing him. She gave a little shrug. “You just look like you might’ve slept poorly.”

He seemed perplexed by the question, his mouth opening slightly as if unused to being asked something so ordinary. At last he answered, slow and reluctant. “Aye. I dinna sleep so guid.”

Ivy winced, her sympathy unfeigned. “Sorry to hear that.” She let her hand rest lightly against her belly.

“Not surprisingly, I slept like a baby. And I think the baby did, too. Normally, she wakes me up a lot at night with her kicking, but last night she slept like the babe she is.” She smiled brightly at him.

Actually, she’d woken with some concern, wondering if something was amiss, if the trauma of yesterday had somehow harmed her baby.

She’d lain rigid in the cot, waiting, listening, praying.

And then, as if answering her fear, the baby had stirred quite a bit.

Eventually, a flutter came, a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that made her laugh softly.

Hiccups. She’d read about them but had never felt them until this morning.

Both hands pressed to her stomach, she’d smiled with such relief, joy swelling in her chest despite everything.

Whatever else was unraveling around her, her baby was safe.

Alaric’s gaze dropped briefly to where her hand rested on her abdomen. “Ye are hoping for a lass?” he asked, the words tentative.

“I had no preference at all, I can honestly say that,” Ivy answered, always thrilled to talk about her pregnancy, her baby. A little smile tugged at her lips. “But I know it’s a girl—two different ultrasounds said so.”

His eyes flicked up sharply, confusion plain.

“Uh, I mean...” She fumbled, realizing too late what she’d said. “Yes. I’m hoping it’s a girl.”

Another curt nod from the laird and once more, he was gone.

Ivy sighed, realizing she really had to be more careful with her words.