Page 24 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

Her breath caught. His face was streaked with sweat and grime, but it was the line of red that stole her words—a vivid slash of blood running from his brow, down into his eye and around the outside of it. She flinched, her stomach twisting at the sight.

“You’re bleeding,” she blurted as he drew near.

He gave her the briefest glance. “A scratch.” He waved her forward. “Come.”

“Alaric, that is not a scratch—it’s a hole,” she protested anxiously, though followed obediently. “It needs to be stitched.”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “We’ve nae time for such fuss. It’s nae ever safe to remain too long near the fight.”

They rode for hours, the road they followed little more than a scar through endless pine. Ivy swayed in her saddle, weary, unable not to worry about Alaric’s cut, the blood that had dried dark along his brow and down the side of his eye.

He’d not touched it at all, hadn’t even swiped blood away, but seemed completely unbothered by it.

When at last he called a halt, the sun was a smudge of gold behind the trees. Men slid stiffly from their mounts, rubbing at knees and shoulders. Fires were struck, water carried from a nearby stream. Ivy slipped from her horse and nearly crumpled with relief to be on her own legs again.

Alaric stood a little apart, stripping his gauntlets, flexing his blood-stained hand. In the low light the cut on his brow looked worse, swollen and ugly, a crust of dried red pulling at the skin.

Decisively, Ivy drew a sharp breath and strode to the wagon that carried Tàmhas’s scant supply of tools.

Her hands moved quick, snatching up a clean cloth, a bone needle, and a length of silk thread—the very items she’d seen Tàmhas use back at the convent.

Before doubt could creep in, she turned and crossed straight to Alaric.

Back in vet school, she’d practiced sutures on pig skin, having been told it was the closest to human tissue.

She’d stitched torn pads on dogs, closed wounds on barn cats, even once helped with a gash along a horse’s flank.

Muscle was muscle, skin was skin, whether it belonged to a beast or a man.

The memory lent her a strange fortitude now—this was familiar work, however strange the circumstances.

“That’s getting stitched, whether you want it or not,” she said, when he realized her approach, going still.

His brows drew together. “I said to ye—”

“Yeah, I know what you said.” She held out the cloth. “Where’s your flask? Douse this with water.”

Alaric ground out from between clenched teeth, “It dinna need stitching.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word abrasively.

Employing the same harsh tone and annoyed cadence, Ivy gritted through her teeth, “It does need stitching.” When he only snarled at her, she shrugged.

“You can submit to it now, have it done in under five minutes, or you can stand here and argue with me for much longer, because I won’t take no for an answer.

” To further her cause, she said with frustration, “Alaric, it’s still actively bleeding. ”

For a moment he looked ready to roar at her. Instead, with a muttered curse, he glanced about, found a log, and dropped onto it with a heavy sigh that struck Ivy as more petulant than fearsome. She bit back a grin.

Ivy followed and once more held out the cloth. Without a word, Alaric brought his flask from his hip and uncorked it, tipping it and spilling water over the linen.

“Thank you.” She moved directly beside him, her thigh brushing his.

“Here, hold this,” she said next, giving him the needle and silk before leaning closer to assess the injury.

Up close, she could see the line of the cut.

A careful inspection showed it was indeed deep.

“Luckily, you’re hard-headed. Your thick skull likely prevented the blade from going deeper. ”

Her lips curved at her own jest, though she kept her eyes fixed on the wound.

Alaric jerked his head at that, giving her a hard glare, as if daring her to mock him further.

Ivy ignored it. Calmly, she set her fingers against the rough line of his cheek, firm but gentle, and turned his head back to where she wanted it. “Hold still,” she said briskly, angling his face to catch the light.

His jaw flexed beneath her touch, but he didn’t move again.

With careful fingers she pressed the cloth to it, wiping away the dried blood. He stiffened under her touch, his jaw working, but he did not move.

“See?” she murmured, her voice steadier than she felt. “Not so terrible.”

The log he’d chosen sat high enough that, even seated, Alaric’s face was nearly level with hers. She stood close, brushing against him, leaning in to reach the wound. Though she kept her attention on the cut, she didn’t need to feel the weight of his stare.

She lost a bit of her resolve, her steadiness. He was too close—the breadth of him filling her vision, the heat of his breath mingling with hers. Her hands faltered, the cloth dragging a little longer than necessary across his temple.

She tried to keep it matter-of-fact, but her fingers lingered, smoothing hair back from his brow. He went still, utterly still, his gaze pinned on her.

Ivy’s own breath shortened. She pulled her hand back at last, dropping the cloth onto the log at his side before holding up her hand for the needle and thread. Alaric transferred the implements from his hand to hers without taking his gaze from her face.

A heated blush rose under his unrelenting stare, creeping up her throat to her cheeks. Her fingers fumbled with the thread, trying to slip it into the eye of the bone needle. She clamped her teeth and focused, determined not to let him see how undone she felt.

“All right, here we go,” she said when she was ready.

With careful hands she set the needle to his skin, the first prick making her own stomach tighten even as he gave no sign of flinching.

The work was slow—pierce, draw, knot, again. Her breath caught each time she pulled the thread snug through his flesh, each stitch tugging the wound’s edges snug, the skin knitting tight beneath her hand.

He stayed silent, save for the long, even rhythm of his breathing, but his eyes never left her face.

She tried to ignore it, tried to keep her focus on the line of the wound, though his unblinking stare unsettled her more than the work itself.

Her blush deepened until she tied the last knot and asked for his dagger.

His other brow lifted but he did produce the weapon, its weight greater than expected. Ivy handled it awkwardly—it was too big for the task—but she managed to trim the thread and was finally able to step back, releasing the breath she was fully aware she’d been holding.

“There,” she murmured, inspecting her work with a mix of pride and satisfaction, the latter borne from having gotten her way for once. “Stitched tight. Easy-peasy.”

He nodded rigidly, didn’t even raise his hand to inspect her work for himself, and stood from the log.

Ivy sighed. No, she hadn’t really expected a spoken thank you .

***

The pathway became less friendly as the column wound its way higher into the hills the next day, the horses’ hooves ringing sharp against stone.

The air had cooled since midday, thin and brisk, carrying the damp tang pine and the scent of imminent rain.

Alaric lifted his gaze from the twisting road ahead and saw at last the crown of Caeravorn rising over the crag like a fortress hewn from the mountain itself.

Removed from the main roads and guarded by sheer slopes on three sides, Ciaran Kerr’s keep was as secure a stronghold as any Alaric had seen.

The approach curled around a dark loch, its still surface mirroring the sinking light, broken only by a line of waterfowl that lifted in startled flight as the riders passed.

Beyond the loch, scattered dwellings and barns crouched close together, their thatched roofs tucked low against the wind, which was fierce in these parts.

He caught sight of figures pausing in their labors, women herding children out of the road, men straightening from fence-mending to watch the riders climb.

The weight of their gazes followed, cautious but not unfriendly, likely having no cause for alarm as they began to recognize the MacKinlay plaids draped over so many men.

Caeravorn’s folk knew their laird kept his gates well and his allies close.

More importantly, few knew of the stronghold’s presence, nestled so securely beyond hard-rock beinns, with the Firth of Lorn at its back.

At the last bend, the keep revealed its full might.

Its curtain wall was high and thick, the stone dark with age and lichen, and towers jutted at the corners like blunt spears.

The gatehouse stood forward on its rock ledge, a choke point no army could breach without paying dearly.

Behind it rose the hall itself, a massive block of stone set near to the precipice.

He slowed his horse, letting the column draw closer, his gaze traveling the battlements.

Guards stood posted at every vantage, their cloaks snapping in the wind, and braziers burned along the wall walk, signaling readiness even as the day waned, but hardly signifying if the Kerr laird was in residence or not.

There was no need to announce himself, he was known to the Kerr army, had fought beside them often enough. He tipped his head upward, revealing his face, and soon a welcome was called down and the iron portcullis began its slow roll upward while cranks were heaved in the background.

Soon the gate was pulled open, and Alaric raised a hand, drawing the attention of the army behind him.

He turned in his saddle. “Ye ken the order,” he called, his voice carrying down the line. “Foot and rank’ll find quarter in the village. Post guards and make the camp in the south field, if it be fallow.”