Page 33 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

“Aye.” Alaric’s blood surged hot, the old hunger for battle rising in him. “We ride, then. I willnae be caught sleeping while the lion passes by—the MacKinlays can be ready to march within the hour.”

The hall stirred as men caught the sound of steel in his voice, their mood sharpening to match his own.

Ciaran nodded and seemed to calculate his own readiness before advising, “The Kerr army can march today as well, within hours.”

Immediately, orders began to fly, men scattering to see to wagons, arms, and provisions. The air grew thick with urgency.

Alaric strode from the dais and the hall, calling sharply for Mathar.

The captain appeared from outside the gate and Alaric wasted no time.

“The English march north in force,” he told him grimly.

“Three thousand, mayhap more. We’ll nae stop them, but we’ll slow their stride.

Rouse the men. See every mount watered and shod.

We march as soon as all is in readiness. ”

Mathar bowed and hurried off, shouting for soldiers, armorers, and smiths.

The next hour vanished in a blur. The bailey of Caeravorn was stirred to a mighty din, horses whinnying and armorers, saddlers, and farriers busy attaching heads to spears, shoeing destriers, and outfitting supply wagons.

Alaric and Ciaran oversaw it all, walking the yard, calling out commands.

The smithy’s forge was kindled and not allowed to die so long as there remained a blade to be sharpened.

The ruckus was not filled with dread, but was merry; a group of Kerr men even sang in their delight to escape the listless idleness of peace.

But when there were no more orders to give, when preparations sustained without him, Alaric found his steps turning toward the keep, where Ivy likely sat unknowing at the far side of the keep.

Alaric found her where he half-expected—seated once more at the stranger’s bedside.

Unlike so many sickrooms he’d visited, dark and depressing, the chamber was bright and airy, the door cracked open, the shutters thrown wide.

The coarse blanket had been straightened, the pillows fluffed, and Ivy herself sat close, bent forward, her chin propped in her hand, her other hand resting lightly atop the quilt, stroking the back of the woman’s hand.

There was nothing of death’s shadow here; Ivy had somehow made the chamber feel almost hopeful.

She startled when Alaric pushed the creaky door open further, then sagged back with a weary exhale. He saw it then, instantly—the faint shadows under her eyes, the pallor of sleeplessness.

“Ye stayed here the night.” His tone was more accusation than question.

Ivy rubbed at her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I didn’t want to leave her alone. I didn’t want her to wake alone.”

He stepped nearer, the boards under his boots groaning. “Ye shouldnae be running yerself ragged. Ye’ve the bairn to consider.”

Her lips pressed thin, as if offended by the insinuation that she didn’t take care for her babe.

“My baby is fine. But if I were in this woman’s place, sick and confused and in a world I didn’t understand, I wouldn’t want to wake up either alone or with strangers hovering over me. I need to be here when she wakes.”

Alaric’s jaw set, but he did not argue further. A familiar light sparked in her eye—that stubborn spark that no command could quench.

Instead, he got on with the purpose of his visit.

“We ride before the sun sets,” he said. “Word came—an English host, three thousand strong, pushing north. They dinna march with fire and sword this time, but they’ve already clashed with one village.

” He paused, shrugging, while Ivy’s mouth fell open. “We have to go,” he said simply.

Her hazel eyes locked on his. He did not miss the flicker there—fear.

“Caeravorn will be well guarded,” he told her, softly but firmly. “The house guard remains. And I’ll leave Kendrick and Ewan with ye. Naught will touch ye here.”

Ivy rose to her feet, a wee bit less graceful than she’d been even weeks ago. “I’m not worried about me,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m worried about you. ”

The words filled him with a heat he hadn’t felt in years, a sharp, heady mix of wonder and something dangerously close to joy. He stared at her, at the truth plain in her face—she was concerned for him.

No one had ever said that to him. Not once. Not even Gwen—stoic Gwen, who had stood tall beside him, who had spoken always of honor and the will of God, but never of fear for him.

To be worried for Alaric himself—as if he were more than his duty, more than his sword—that was something wholly new. And it tugged, hard, in some place he hadn’t even known existed.

He forced in a slow breath, but his voice came rough all the same. “Dinna fear for me, lass, but keep guid energy for the babe—”

“Oh,” she gasped. “You won’t be... you don’t think you’ll be back in time for the birth?”

“I canna say,” he answered, though her quiet disappointment rattled him more than he cared to let on.

He shook himself, as though casting off the poignancy of her words, and straightened to his full height.

The commander returned, hard-eyed and unyielding.

“While I’m gone, ye’ll heed me, Ivy,” he said, his voice clipped.

“Dinna wander without escort—dinna leave Caeravorn at all, dinna go further than the village. Dinna speak with any soul ye dinna ken. If aught seems amiss, ye go straight to Kendrick or Ewan. Keep to yer chamber at night, bar the door.”

Ivy’s brows lifted at the litany, but she seemed to bite back a smile. “Yes, sir,” she murmured, half-teasing, though her eyes betrayed the sting of worry. “And you—just...be careful, Alaric. Please be safe.”

The word lodged between them, soft and disarming.

He stilled, his gaze fixed on her as though he meant to brand her into memory.

The hue of her hazel eyes, amber and green, shifting with the light, the stubborn tilt of her chin, the faint bruise still shadowing her cheek—he found himself memorizing it all, knowing that ever encountering her again was not promised to him.

He nodded tightly and turned to go, taking two full strides, when something checked him—something fierce and reckless that surged before he could master it. In two strides he was back, his hand closing around her wrist, pulling her hard against him.

The kiss crashed down between them, rough at first, born of all he had bitten back for too long—longing, suspicion, desire.

His mouth claimed hers, demanding, desperate, until he felt her soften, until the tremor in her lips answered his own.

Then the storm gentled. His hold eased, his mouth lingered, slow and searching, tasting her, learning the feel of her.

His teeth teased at her full bottom lip, coaxing her to open for him.

She obliged without hesitation, and liquid fire sang through his veins.

Alaric framed her face in his hands and took her mouth again, his kiss deepening, his tongue sweeping in slow, possessive strokes.

When at last he tore his lips from hers, they were both unsteady. Ivy’s eyes were wide, her breath quick, her fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered, as though it were the only thing her stunned mind could summon.

He blinked, his brow furrowing as he glanced down at her. “And a kiss will harm the babe?”

Her cheeks flamed. “No—oh, God, no. But...why would you kiss me if I’m pregnant?”

His frown deepened, his confusion plain. “I dinna...understand what ye are asking?” His voice was low, roughened, as though he feared she might snatch the moment away with whatever her answer might be.

Her cheeks flushed hotter, and she shook her head.

She pushed backward, putting a wee bit of space between them, but still clutched at his tunic.

Words tumbled softly, unevenly. “Because I’m carrying another man’s child, Alaric.

I’m not—” she broke off, searching his face, then pressed on, steady if soft.

“I’m not pure—I thought that was something that was important in this century.

I didn’t think anyone would want me. Not like that. ”

For a moment his gaze burned into hers, while he weighed something heavy he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to say. His hand lingered against her cheek, his rough thumb brushing gently over her skin.

“Ye have curious notions, Ivy Mitchell,” he said quietly, the words almost gruff, the response intentionally vague, holding back the truth he wasn’t ready to give voice to.

Now, as he prepared to depart, was not the time to confess how little her past—or her child—deterred him.

Still, he owed her at least part of the truth.

“Such a consideration matters less than ye apparently believe.” He added one more instruction. “Be safe, Ivy.”

And before she could answer, he released her and turned, striding toward the door once more. Despite the difficulty of leaving her, despite the tumult hammering in his chest, a grin tugged at his mouth when her voice reached him in the corridor.

“Seriously? You kiss me now?” She grumbled to herself. “Right before you’re leaving?” she demanded, sounding thoroughly exasperated. A second later, her voice dropped, more to herself than to him. “He should’ve kissed me weeks ago.” A huff followed, sharp and indignant. “Medieval men!”

Alaric’s grin evolved into a full-blown smile.

***

Ivy slumped back into the chair, her knees wobbling as if they’d carried her across miles instead of only backward a few paces.

She pressed both hands over her face, trying to cool the flush that had stolen into her cheeks.

Good Lord. Alaric MacKinlay had kissed her.

Not a brush, not a slip of impulse easily forgotten—but a real kiss, a glorious one—one that left no doubt he had meant it.

She hadn’t seen that coming. Not at all. Of course, if she was honest with herself, she’d imagined it, foolish daydreams tucked away behind closed eyes as she lay awake at night. But this—this had been no dream. He had kissed her.

Kissed her! she mused.

Everything else was forgotten for a moment, while Ivy considered the enormity of this—the thrill of it!

But oh—she was quickly brought back to worrying reality—Alaric was going off to war.

The thought pressed into her chest, heavy and unrelenting.

She was proud of him—how fearless he was, how steadfast in his duty—but the pride did nothing to soften the sharp edge of fear.

What if he didn’t come back? What if that kiss had been a beginning and an ending in the same breath?

She thought suddenly of mothers, wives, and sisters from her own century, waving men off to wars across oceans.

The grainy black-and-white photographs she’d come across in history books and even on social media had always struck her as poignant, yes, but safely distant.

Now she felt the reality of it: the ache of being left behind, the helplessness of not knowing if someone you loved would ever walk through the door again.

And it wasn’t only confined to any one century.

Even in her time, wars dragged on for years, decades, swallowing up entire generations.

She remembered reading about it, about women waiting while their husbands and sons vanished into deserts or jungles, never the same when they returned—if they returned at all.

She knew from everything she’d read about the war going on now with England, that it lasted for decades.

The parallels unsettled her. Different century, different weapons, same gnawing fear. Now she understood. Now she knew what it meant to watch a man you cared for shoulder a sword, climb onto a horse, and ride into danger with no promise of coming back.

Ivy’s heart twisted again in her chest.

So deep in tormented thought was she—caught between the memory of Alaric’s kiss and the dread of his leaving—that at first she almost missed it, the flicker of movement, the bare shift in the bedclothes.

Ivy blinked, refocusing, and her breath caught.

The woman’s eyes were open. Wide and startlingly clear, fixed right on her.

For one stunned second Ivy only stared back, frozen in place.

Then she jolted upright, nearly upsetting the chair, and stood over the woman, her smile broad.

“Oh my God—you’re awake!” she exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a rush.

She pressed her palm to the woman’s forehead, expecting heat, but finding only cool, damp skin.

Relief poured through her. “No fever,” she informed her, “we’ve been fighting it for days.

You should’ve seen the awful draughts they made you drink, and I’ve been at you with cool cloths day and night.

The healer’s been here three or four times, I can’t remember—”

Her voice caught, relief and joy tangling in her throat, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed.

The woman’s lips moved, a rasp of sound escaping. “Where...am I?”

Ivy went still. Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t rehearsed this part, hadn’t even considered this question though she realized she certainly should have.

But no, not once had she even thought about how to explain to another lost soul what had happened, or where she’d landed.

“Oh, gosh,” she stammered, her hands tightening on the blanket.

“That’s...that’s kind of complicated. I don’t even know where to begin.

But listen—” she leaned closer, earnest, “you’re safe.

And you’re not alone. I promise you that. ”

The woman’s lashes fluttered, her strength already spent. She closed her eyes, her breathing evening out as if sleep had already called her back.

Ivy sank back slowly into the chair, her heart pounding, staring at the pale face against the pillows. She didn’t know who this stranger was or what her story might be—but she knew one thing with sudden, unshakable certainty. She wasn’t the only one out of place in this century.

Her smile returned, though, as certainty gripped her. The woman, whoever she was, was going to be fine.