Page 29 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

The loch’s water glinted pewter beneath the late morning sun when Ivy finally departed the midwife’s cottage.

Ivy’s attention was caught by two small children toddling around the far bank of the loch.

No older than three or four, they wandered dangerously close to the water’s edge, their chubby hands full of reeds and stones.

Ivy frowned. Where were their parents? She looked around but saw no one paying them the least attention, saw no one at all at the moment. A chill darted down her spine. What if one of them slipped? The water looked deep not far from shore.

She hesitated, then muttered under her breath, “Well, somebody has to do something.”

Gathering her skirts, she marched around the broad curve of the loch, the mud in spots sucking at her hiking boots, until she reached the children, a boy and a girl. They looked up at her with wide brown eyes, wary but not afraid.

“Hi there,” Ivy said, smiling. “Let’s get you back, okay? Away from the water.”

This was greeted with blank stares.

She tried again, gesturing toward the village. “Come on, this way. Back to... Mama?”

Nothing. The boy plopped down in the mud, shoving a stick into the water. The little girl, with her finger in her mouth, stared mutely between him and Ivy.

Ivy pressed on. “Okay, don’t do that,” she said to the boy, taking his arm, trying to pull him to his feet.

“You’re way too close. I don’t know what you understand, but you can’t stay here.

” Finally, he allowed himself to be brought to his feet, and Ivy collected the pudgy hand of the little girl. “Come on, guys. We’re going back.”

The little girl began to wail, a high, keening cry. Her brother soon joined, shrieking as if Ivy were dragging them to execution instead of safety. Ivy winced, guilt gnawing, but she pressed forward. “I know, I know, but you’re not safe here.”

The children’s howls carried across the water, and when Ivy glanced up, she saw a man barreling around the far side of the loch, his strides long and swift. Suddenly, it seemed there were several witnesses scattered around the edge of the village and the loch. Ivy felt decidedly conspicuous.

He came at her still, shouting, words sharp as whips. Ivy tried to explain, stumbling through her panic. “They were too close to the water—I was only trying to—”

The man’s face was twisted with rage. She kept talking, pleading, not understanding the man’s reaction, his rage, but he shouted right over her—again, the indecipherable Gaelic—spittle flying.

Then his hand lashed out.

The blow cracked across her cheek, snapping her head to the side. She reeled and landed hard on her hip, the world ringing as if a bell had been struck inside her skull. Dazed, she blinked up, seeing him looming, fist clenched, hollering down at her.

Shouts erupted from behind. Dozens of figures converged—MacKinlay and Kerr soldiers appearing out of nowhere, villagers rushing from their cottages. Hoofbeats thundered, and in the next breath a destrier skidded to a halt, its rider already leaping down.

Alaric hit the man like a falling tree. They went down in a tangle of fists and curses, Alaric’s bellow shaking the air as he drove his knuckles into the man’s face again and again.

Blood sprayed, the man howled, and still Alaric struck until soldiers seized him from behind, three, and then four men straining to wrench him off.

Stunned, Ivy sat frozen in the mud, her cheek throbbing, her body trembling with shock, as Alaric fought like a madman to get at the man again, his eyes blazing murder.

“Hold him!” someone yelled.

“Christ’s bones, he’ll kill him—”

The world rang around her—men shouting, grunting, those two toddlers screaming louder now.

Soldiers dragged Alaric back, their hands clamped on his arms and shoulders, yet he heaved against them like an enraged bull, eyes fixed only on the man he’d bloodied.

Mathar was there, pushing at Alaric’s chest.

Alaric surged forward again, breaking free with a wrench of his shoulders that sent one soldier sprawling. He brushed Mathar aside and stalked, not toward his foe this time, but toward her.

Ivy stiffened as he dropped to his knees in the mud, his big hands bracketing her face with startling gentleness. His breath came hard, hot against her cheek, his eyes searing into hers. His touch was restrained, gentle.

“Bluidy hell,” His voice was rough, ragged with fury. “Ivy....”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She could only blink up at him, dazed, heart hammering against her ribs. The bruising sting on her cheek flared where his thumb brushed, feather-light though he tried to be.

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the gathering crowd. Villagers had come, pressing in close, whispering sharply in Gaelic, some with hands to their mouths. The Kerr soldiers stood tense, waiting.

Then a new voice cut through, calm but iron-edged. “Enough!”

Ciaran Kerr strode forward, green eyes blazing as he cast his gaze over the scene—the bloodied man held back by villagers, Alaric crouched in the mud before her, the soldiers caught between restraint and confusion. “Stand down, all of ye.”

The murmurs ebbed.

Alaric ignored them all, still bent over her, still searching her face as though he could will the pain from her cheek. His own lip bled, split from the one wild swing the man had landed, a crimson smear against his stubble.

Ivy lifted a trembling hand without thinking, her fingertips brushing his mouth. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered.

The contact stilled him. His eyes locked on hers, the brown fire of his gaze softening by degrees.

For a heartbeat, the shouting, the crowd, even Ciaran’s commanding presence faded to nothing.

There was only his hand cupping her jaw, her touch against his lip, the storm of rage in him giving way to something else entirely.

Ciaran’s voice cut through again. “Drag him to the byre,” he commanded, staring daggers at the man who’d smacked Ivy. “Lash him to the great beam and leave him there under guard.”

When the man had been escorted away, protesting loudly and struggling against the many hands that dragged him off, Alaric lifted Ivy himself, scooping her up as though she did not actually bear the weight of two.

Her cheek brushed the rough wool of his plaid, her body pressed close against the breadth of his chest. Heat radiated from him, steady and solid.

He smelled of horse and heather, of smoke and sweat, the scent of a life lived outdoors.

Ivy’s breath caught as she curled instinctively against him, the chaos of the last minutes fading beneath the thunder of his heartbeat in her ear.

But she was safe now. That was the word her rattled mind kept circling back to—safe—even as her cheek smarted and her body trembled.

However terrifying the fury in him a moment ago had been, it was a more powerful fury now shielding her, holding her, carrying her away from danger.

***

Alaric carried her straight through the gates and into the hall, his jaw locked so tightly it near split his teeth.

He did not trust his own voice, for if he loosed it now, he’d roar the walls down.

He set her gently upon the nearest bench, his mind replaying the moment he’d witnessed her being struck as he, Ciaran, and a handful of others had come upon the loch.

“Cold cloths—quickly!” His shout snapped across the hall, sending the two milling servants scurrying away down the corridor.

Ciaran’s boots scraped the flagstones as he approached, his tone maddeningly calm.

“Settle yerself, Alaric. The man’s a hothead, aye, but he’ll be dealt with. He doesnae strike without cause. What did she do to—”

“I dinna care if she carved up his bollocks, Ciaran!” Alaric roared, spinning toward him. “He struck her. She is heavy wi’ child, and he laid a hand on her.”

A plum-faced maid returned, anxiously presenting a cool wet square of linen to him, and then hovering near Ivy like a nervous sparrow.

Alaric crouched low, holding the cloth to Ivy’s cheek himself. His thumb brushed against her soft skin, the sight of the red and already swelling bruise causing his rage to simmer anew.

“Bluidy hell, I canna trust that Caeravorn is safe for her, can I?” He spat at his old friend when Ciaran came into view beyond Ivy.

“Alaric,” Ciaran growled, the tone suggesting Alaric proceed carefully.

Ivy took the cloth from Alaric and kept it pressed to her cheek, her eyes downcast.

Alaric stood straight and rounded on Ciaran. “He bluidy struck her—would’ve done more had we not arrived!—and I want to ken what’s to be done about it!”

“Can I hear what—” Ciaran began.

“There’s nae way I can entrust her safety to ye now!” Alaric carried on, his blood only boiling more for Ciaran’s irrational calmness.

The maid gave a small squeak and retreated to the shadows.

Ciaran’s gaze slid past Alaric’s shoulder. Alaric turned as well, to find that Ivy had come to her feet, pale but composed. She lowered the cloth to her side.

“I feel terrible—this was all my fault,” she blurted, voice tight with guilt, her gaze on Kerr. “I’ve caused so much trouble—it’s just...where I come from, those kids—those babies—would never be left alone near water, let alone water so deep.”

Ciaran folded his hands behind his back, his head canted. “And where is it exactly ye come from, lass?”

Alaric stiffened, every muscle locking. He shot her a warning look, but she only glanced nervously at him before producing an answer.