Page 27 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

The latch scraped softly a short while later, and Evir slipped back inside, her arms laden with folded cloth. She set the items neatly upon the bed and shyly made motions with her hands as if pulling something over her head.

“Oh, I see,” Ivy acknowledged with a fresh surge of joy. A fresh set of clothes. “Thank you, Evir.”

When the door closed again, Ivy got to the business of bathing. The faintly scented soap waited on the stool beside the tub. It was gritty, rougher than anything she’d known, but when she lathered it in her hands, a soft fragrance rose. Roses, she thought, or close enough.

She scrubbed every inch of herself, determined to erase two weeks of grime and sweat, and then worked the same soap through her hair.

The suds felt too thin, nothing like the careful products she once lined along the edge of her shower, but she nearly groaned with happiness all the same.

Her strict routine was gone, her conditioners and rinses possibly lost forever, but for now, her body and hair finally clean, she felt a little more like herself again.

When the water had cooled and her fingers had wrinkled, Ivy finally climbed from the tub.

The towels that waited for her were rough cloths, coarse against her skin but absorbent enough.

She dried herself briskly, shivering as the air closed in on her bare skin, then turned to the folded garments on the bed after she’d wrapped a second towel around her hair and flipped it over her head.

Two gowns were included in the stack, it seemed.

Or maybe a chemise and gown, she decided.

One was sleeveless, the other long-sleeved and heavier.

Beside them lay a pair of thick woolen tights.

Ivy lifted them, incredulous. In August?

They looked better suited for trudging through snow than for summer.

Still, she pulled them on, the wool not as scratchy as she’d expected and undeniably warm, reaching to mid-thigh before she knotted the ties.

She tugged the creamy chemise over her head and smoothed it down. Then she wrestled into the long-sleeved gown, which was rather a dull light brown, and adjusted the low round neckline until the chemise didn’t show. It felt bulky, layered, and heavy, but not awful. At least she was covered.

She gave herself a little turn toward the fire, smoothing down the drab brown skirts. It was fine. She’d get used to it, she determined.

A tray arrived as she was combing out her damp hair with her fingers, yet another young girl setting it down on the table near the stool and fire before quickly disappearing.

Roasted meat, a hunk of coarse bread already slathered in butter, and a small wedge of cheese were easily identifiable.

What looked like a puffed pastry square and had brown gravy oozing out the top, some kind of meat pie, she assumed.

But most suspicious—a brown and gray lump that Ivy eyed with deep distrust as she approached.

Still, the full plate of food beckoned her, and she ate slowly, savoring each bite—though that brown lump remained pushed to the edge of the wooden platter.

She’d eaten only the dense, savory bread when a knock sounded at the door.

The door creaked open then, and she startled, having expected yet another servant.

Alaric’s head appeared around the jamb, his eyes sweeping the chamber quickly before settling on her.

“Oh, hi,” she greeted him, rising to her feet though she didn’t know why she did that.

“Come on in,” she said, twisting her hands with a bit of nervousness then as his brooding gaze raked her from head to toe.

Ivy dipped her face and splayed out the skirts a bit.

“It’s super comfortable but it... feels awkward. ”

“Ye are well enough?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze lingering briefly on her stomach, which expanded the skirt below the empire seam beneath her breasts.

“Oh, God yes,” she said, smiling despite herself.

“Honestly, Alaric, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the last two weeks—a lot of it reluctantly, I believe, which makes me appreciate it all the more—but this.

..? Look at this—the bed, the bath.” She smiled brilliantly at him and ran her hands through her wet hair.

“My hair is clean,” she said with some excitement.

Many other parts were blessedly clean as well.

“I have this fire, apparently all to myself. This place is incredible.”

Before he could respond to that, Ivy gestured to the tray on the table. “Alaric, look at the crowded plate—have you ever seen anything so fabulous? Oh, gosh, did you eat? Do you want some of this?”

“Aye, I’ve eaten, lass.”

She had a niggling suspicion that he was holding back a smile, maybe only a grin, but whatever it was—or might be if he let it be—it amazed her.

She drifted next to the bed, the skirts of her gown floating around her legs, and smoothed her hand over the luxurious pelt. “Look at this fur. Have you ever seen anything so extravagant? But Alaric, is this from a real wolf?” She glanced back at him, half-horrified and half-enchanted.

Alaric’s mouth twitched again, still only almost a smile . “Aye. Real enough. Likely brought down by your host or his father before him.”

Ivy gave a small laugh, still stroking the pelt. “I can’t decide if that makes me want to curl up in it, or apologize to the wolf.”

He only shook his head, though the glimmer in his eyes betrayed amusement. His gaze flicked to the table then, to the plate she’d abandoned. “Ye’ve eaten little.”

“Oh, I’m getting to it, don’t you worry. But come and look at this, Alaric,” she requested, crossing the room again. “What’s this brown blob? It looks weird and doesn’t smell too appetizing.”

Alaric sidled up next to her, peering over her shoulder.

“I’ve heard of haggis,” she said, “but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve—or the stomach—to try it since I’ve been in Scotland,” she confessed. “This isn’t haggis, is it?”

“?Tis pudding—offal and oats boiled in a stomach.”

Ivy recoiled. “Oh, Jesus,” she gasped, wrinkling her nose. “That’s...so much worse.”

This time his lips did curve, faint but unmistakable.

Her shoulders sagged a bit in a mock sigh, his amusement at her horror made inconsequential in the face of his unexpected smile. Then she realized he was watching her more closely than before, his fleeting smile fading as quickly as it had come, his thick brows slashing downward.

“Why do ye stare?” he asked.

Ivy shook herself. “Sorry. Nothing. It’s just... I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, Alaric. It’s...nice.”

It wasn’t merely nice. It was transformative, breathtaking.

Strange, though. She had admitted to herself that she was drawn to him, and yet she hadn’t specifically thought about his looks, not in a way that measured handsomeness.

But—wow!—when he smiled, even just that fleeting curve of his lips, he was super hot.

His gaze dropped, and he shifted as if suddenly restless. “I’ve been given a chamber just down the hall,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “I’ll be near if ye have a need.”

Sensing an imminent departure, Ivy realized she didn’t want him to go. But she nodded all the same. “All right.”

He lingered a moment longer, then gave a curt dip of his head and turned for the door. The latch clicked softly behind him, leaving Ivy alone with the warmth of the fire, and the greater warmth still lingering from the memory of his smile.

***

Ivy woke later than she had in weeks. No men snored nearby, no commands were barked out to get the army on the road, no horses snorted and pawed the earth nearby.

The silence pressed soft against her ears, decadent in its strangeness.

For once, no one was rushing her to mount up, and she harbored no fear that the MacKinlays would move on without her.

The older woman with the careful English appeared not long after Ivy stirred. She carried in a trencher of warm oatcakes and cheese, and when Ivy asked after Alaric, the woman shook her head.

“MacKinlay laird...with Kerr laird. Gone before sun.” She set the tray down and straightened, folding her hands over her apron. “He say...you find Mathar, or Ewan, or Kendrick. If need.”

Ivy smiled her thanks before the woman slipped back out. Did Alaric ever allow himself to rest? She wondered if he even knew how to simply...be.

She made use of the chamber pot she’d found under the bed yesterday and had her breakfast at the small table by the hearth.

Noticing that her own clothes seemed to have disappeared but that her short boots remained, she tugged them on, grateful for their familiarity, even if they looked oddly out of place beneath the brown wool gown that brushed her ankles with each step.

Venturing into the corridor, she paused, uncertain, her hand brushing the cold stone of the wall as she listened.

The hall below was quieter than she expected, only a few quiet voices were heard.

Ivy walked further and then down the stairs, reaching the cavernous hall.

The long trestle tables stood empty, the fire on the hearth burned low, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and grease.

Gathering her courage, Ivy crossed the flagstones and found the great doors at the far end.

She pushed one open, blinking against the sudden daylight.

The bailey beyond was alive with sound and motion.

Blacksmiths hammered at glowing metal while two women—dressed as she imagined peasants would be— seemed to be arguing over a basket, while chickens squawked underfoot.

Unable to understand the language used by the women—and thus unable to eavesdrop—Ivy glanced around, spotting Ewan straightaway. He was crouched near the stables inside the courtyard, a hand steadying the flank of a MacKinlay horse while a Kerr farrier worked the nails into its hoof.

Ivy hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. “Ewan?”