Page 31 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)
The noise at the gates swelled, then parted like a tide as the cart finally creaked its way through the arch.
The mule pulling the rickety cart tossed its head, ears flicking, as the tinker cracked a worn length of leather against its rump and shouted something coarse in Gaelic that made several villagers laugh.
His cart rattled and groaned under the weight of his wares—pots clanged, scraps of tin and iron glinted in the sun, bundles of rags and oddments swayed precariously with each jolt of the wheels.
The man himself was as loud as his cart, calling greetings left and right in a rough, cheerful brogue, grinning through a gap-toothed smile. His patched coat flapped behind him, and a hat far too large for his head wobbled with every step as he trudged alongside the mule.
Ivy might have smiled at the comic figure—might even have laughed—but then a shrill cry split the air.
A peasant woman, pressing too close to the cart, suddenly stumbled back, her hand flying to her mouth. She wailed something in Gaelic, her tone suggesting pure horror.
“A body?” Ciaran questioned, possibly repeating what the woman had just shrieked.
The crowd pressed tighter, murmurs rising in alarm. Ivy shoved closer, morbidly curious.
The tinker raised his hands as if to defend himself, babbling loudly, surprisingly in English now, as if under pressure, he reverted to his native language.
His voice cracked with exaggerated outrage.
“Found her, I did! In the mountains, sprawled like the dead across the heather. Thought her a ghost myself, till I felt her still breathing. I’ve brought her here for the laird to deal with, same as any honest man would! ”
Ivy gasped. He might have mentioned that first thing, rather than wasting all that time with greetings, collecting what he might have believed was the villagers’ adoration.
Ivy pushed her way to the fore and then was almost shoved into the side of the cart. She went up on her toes, curling her fingers around the wooden board of the wagon, and glanced down, half-expecting to see a decomposing corpse.
Another gasp was wrung from her.
Half-hidden between a jumble of rags and a dented kettle lay the form of a young woman.
Crumpled and motionless, yes, but not merely a decayed body, but a woman, flesh and blood, alive it seemed if the heightened color of her cheeks should be trusted.
Her head lolled to one side, a tumble of dark blonde hair catching the light as it spread in tangled strands against the rough wood of the cart.
Beneath the flush of her cheeks, her skin was so fair it looked almost translucent.
Her lips were faintly parted, giving her the fragile air of someone just barely clinging to wakefulness—or worse.
Pretty, though, undeniably pretty, even in her disheveled state.
In the next instant, Ivy’s breath fled her chest. Her mouth went dry.
She clutched at the nearest arm in shock but the woman wearing the sleeve she’d grabbed yanked it free with a snarl at Ivy.
Ignoring her, Ivy stared at the sleeping woman in the cart and whispered, “Oh my God,” as comprehension dawned.
She stared at the woman’s clothes. Not wool, not linen. A blouse of unusual cut, seams too neat, fabric far too fine, dyed a shade of soft yellow Ivy knew had no place in this century. And she was wearing jeans—torn at one knee, but unmistakable.
As Ciaran approached from the open end of the bed of the wagon, Ivy’s eyes were locked on the woman’s slack face, the rise and fall of her chest that said, yes, she lived.
Then, something drew Ivy’s gaze to Ciaran, who hadn’t moved in many seconds at the end of the cart, his right hand very near to the woman’s left foot—a foot encased in a teal ballet flat, which was caked with mud.
He stood very still, his expression unreadable, the line of his jaw cut in stone.
His gaze raked across the limp figure once, twice, and then lingered.
Color drained from his face as though he had seen not merely a stranger, but something long buried that had come clawing back to life.
Around them, the first stir of shock was already thinning; the clamor of discovery gave way to impatience.
Several of the women who had shrieked moments before were already trailing after the tinker, thrusting bent spoons or dented pots in his direction, less concerned about the unconscious woman in the cart than they were with their household utensils.
The press of bodies about the wagon eased, allowing Ivy to slip along the wagon’s side, until she rounded the corner and stood at Ciaran’s side.
Ivy stared at him, startled by the change in him. His hands, so steady a moment before, had curled into fists.
“Do...do you know her?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes flicked to hers then, wild with some emotion. He looked at her as if he’d forgotten others were about. “Aye,” he said, the word breathed slowly. A beat later, almost brokenly, “Nae. Nae, I dinna.”
Stricken by his manner and his contrary response, Ivy’s mouth hung open.
Ciaran thrust himself into the cart, sweeping aside pots and cloth with brute force until he could gather the woman into his arms. She sagged limply against him, her head lolling against his shoulder, her pale hair spilling from under his arm.
For a heartbeat he did not move, only stared down at her with a look that hollowed his face, as though he’d been struck through the ribs.
Then, jaw clenched, he turned to descend.
By now several soldiers surrounded the cart, having come from the gatehouse, Ivy presumed. A couple of them, wide-eyed at the sight, stepped forward instinctively, steadying Ciaran as he climbed down from the cart with his burden.
“Summon the healer,” Ciaran barked suddenly, his voice hoarse but commanding, shattering the hush. He pushed past the remaining gawkers, carrying the stranger toward the keep with a grim urgency.
Ivy scrambled after him, weaving between villagers and sidestepping a bit of donkey dung as she hurried to keep pace.
Another woman—another time traveler? There could be no other explanation. But why had Ciaran’s face gone so pale? He’d been staggered—Ivy would have sworn that he recognized the woman.
At the keep’s doors he shouldered his way inside, his tread echoing off the stone floors of the great hall. He did not pause, did not look right or left, but mounted the stairs with grim determination. Ivy’s heart hammered as she lumbered along behind him.
He shoved open the chamber door just next to hers, the hinges protesting, and carried the woman inside.
Almost reverently, as though afraid she might shatter, he lowered her onto the bed.
For a long moment he did nothing else—just stood above her, staring down in a silence heavy with awe, his chest rising and falling as if he’d run miles.
Ivy, a bit breathless from the climb, moved first. She edged closer, sliding around Ciaran toward the head of the bed and bent to touch the stranger’s forehead. Her palm met with violent heat. “She’s burning up,” Ivy murmured.
The woman gave no sign of hearing, her ash-blonde hair spread in a pale halo against the rough-spun pillow.
Again, the Kerr laird stood unmoving, simply staring. Ivy was alarmed, for both the woman and the laird.
Deciding to make him busy, to distract him from whatever tortured him, Ivy touched his arm. “Sir, I can’t do the stairs again,” she lied, laying her hand over her stomach. “But while we wait for the healer, we need cold water and clean cloths to try and get her fever down.”
Her words seemed to jolt him. Ciaran blinked hard, drew in a sharp breath, and shifted his weight as though startled awake from some deep reverie.
He tore his gaze from the bed, cleared his throat, and gave a short, brusque nod.
“Aye,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.
He moved toward the door with sudden purpose, though a faint flush crept along his neck as if he regretted having been caught so undone.
He did not look at Ivy again as he strode out, leaving her with the woman and the silence that followed.
Ivy heaved in a large breath and exhaled, her attention returned to the woman in the bed, wearing clothes from the twenty-first century.
“Who are you?” she whispered.