Page 39 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)
Ivy disengaged from Alaric and stepped forward, meaning to dispel the awkwardness.
“Ah—Ciaran,” she began, her voice catching before she steadied it.
“This is Claire. She... she came with the tinker, if you recall, and has improved greatly...as you can see.” Her hand gestured faintly, as though that might smooth the moment, though it hardly did.
She pressed on. “Claire, this is Ciaran Kerr, laird of Caeravorn.”
Claire dipped her head in acknowledgement, her composure returning with almost deliberate care. “My lord,” she murmured, the words even enough, though her color still burned high.
Ciaran inclined his head in return—too sharp, too curt, Ivy determined—his gaze lingering on her longer than politeness required before he brushed past her and stepped inside.
Ivy exchanged a questioning glance with Alaric before they fell in step behind Ciaran.
At the door, Alaric paused and extended a hand, a silent courtesy that implied Claire should enter ahead of them.
Distractedly, Ivy introduced them as well, each of them murmuring likewise distracted greetings before Ivy moved, slipping her arm through Claire’s, steering her gently forward, the two of them stepping together into the keep’s shadowed hall with Alaric following.
***
The day had unfolded in a rush of noise and motion, the keep stirring to life with such force that the quiet of the last month was quickly forgotten.
The return of a laird and his men after a month away was no quiet matter.
The laughter of men glad to be home echoed through the hall.
Servants hurried to and fro with buckets of water and armloads of linens.
Smoke thickened from the kitchens, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the keep.
Ciaran had scarcely crossed the threshold before duty called him away again.
A laird’s absence apparently left matters to fester, and no sooner had he greeted his household than word came from the village.
An accusation of thievery had boiled over to shouting, and one man had drawn steel.
He went at once, grim-faced, and Alaric—still weary but unwilling to idle under another man’s roof—went with him, sending Ivy an apologetic grimace.
Ivy and Claire, in the last month of peacefulness about the keep, had become friendlier with the household staff and had offered themselves in the kitchens, extra hands for labor.
The men of Caeravorn dined early, shortly after midday, the household staff having worked tirelessly over the preceding few hours.
Trenchers of venison, dense rounds of oat bread, and pigeon pies were laid out.
Casks of ale and wine were carried up from the cellars, and the hall rang with voices.
Soldiers sat shoulder to shoulder at the tables, eating hungrily, their faces ruddy from the march and brightened by relief.
The scrape of knives, the rise and fall of laughter, the deep voices rolling beneath the beams was almost overwhelming to Ivy, who had grown used to the hush of a half-empty keep, and hadn’t before witnessed a meal partaken in the hall.
She thought Claire, too, looked startled by the press of bodies, though like Ivy, she tried to mask it.
When the meal was done, Ciaran excused himself again, summoned by his factor to hear accounts left waiting these many weeks.
Alaric trailed after, lending an ear as matters of tenants, tithes, and border-watch were sorted—that had been his brief explanation to Ivy as he’d excused himself.
Ivy suspected he’d gone along same as he had earlier, to be less a burdensome guest and more a useful friend.
When the hall had cleared, and after Ivy and Claire had once more made themselves useful with the clean-up, Ivy suggested they return to Claire’s chamber for a little while.
“I need to put my feet up,” she said. But then, rather struck by inspiration, she ducked back into the kitchens and begged a favor of the servants who would have an early day since supper had already been served.
She rejoined Claire a moment later and they climbed the stairs settling in Claire’s airy chamber, Ivy flopping on her back on the foot of the soft bed, her feet on the floor, while Claire paused to gaze out the window.
“We should have returned outdoors,” Claire said. “Before the rain returns.”
Ivy had learned that about Claire—she loved being outside, loved most of all being near the water.
Her eyes closed, Ivy grinned. “You’d have to help me up. If we did, that is, but we can’t now, because I just bugged Evir and the kid, Pàdair, to start boiling water and set up two tubs in here so that we could have baths.”
She sat up then, not without difficulty, just as Claire turned from the window.
“A bath? Now, in the middle of the day? With everything going on—oh, I think I might know why.” With mock severity, she asked, “Why, Ivy Mitchell, have you something planned for your reunion with the strapping Alaric MacKinlay?” Her grinned widened.
“Something that makes you want to be fresh as a daisy? I saw that kiss—wow.”
Ivy rolled her lips inward as heat blossomed in her cheeks.
“I might be.” Anxiously, she pulled her hands from behind her and rubbed them up and down her thighs.
“That’s all right, isn’t it?” Ivy bit her lip, words tumbling awkwardly.
“How far can I—we—what I mean, is, you know, how... far can a woman go with a man when she’s this far along?
Without harming the babe? Is it... dangerous? ”
Claire blinked, then burst out laughing, not unkindly but bright, surprised. “Oh, Ivy. Honestly? As long as things are healthy—and they seem to be—you can do it right up until the baby comes. You’re fine.”
Ivy stared, half-scandalized, half-thrilled. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Claire said, still grinning. “If anything, it might even help when you’re ready to deliver. Nature’s funny that way.”
Ivy covered her face with her hands, laughing through her fingers. “Oh heavens. How embarrassing.” She lowered her hands, blowing out a thoughtful breath. “Not that I’m even sure—I mean, I don’t know if Alaric...” she broke off, her cheeks growing warm again.
“Oh, trust me, Ivy,” Claire teased, leaning against the tapestry beside the window.
“I wasn’t born yesterday—actually, it was seven hundred years from now—” she paused while they both laughed at her quip.
“And I never met Alaric MacKinlay before today, but that man wants you. Badly. I saw the way he looked at you—shit, the way he consumed you with that kiss.” She grinned again and slanted her head.
“Well done, you little twenty-first century minx.”
Another round of laughter followed. She got the biggest kick out of Claire sometimes.
When the laughter faded, Claire looked thoughtful, reflective.
Ivy ventured, “Are you thinking about your husband now?” Ivy had asked this question several times over the last month.
Claire straightened and forced a small smile. Then she grimaced, admitting, “Actually, no.”
Ivy wondered aloud, quietly, “Are you...thinking about Ciaran Kerr?”
The question definitely startled Claire, but Ivy couldn’t tell if it were genuine surprise or guilt that colored her cheeks now. “What? No.” Claire answered, folding her arms across her chest.
Carefully, Ivy pressed on, “Claire...earlier. In the bailey. When you saw Ciaran. You looked—” she searched for the right word “—I don’t know, surprised, but almost as if you recognized him.
” She didn’t mention that Ciaran had twice now had the same reaction, didn’t ask if Claire had noticed it as well in the Caeravorn laird.
Claire made a little face and shook her head dismissively. “He reminded me of someone, that’s all.” She shrugged it off, though her fingers plucked restlessly at her skirt. Then, with a wry grin she added, “Besides, it’s not like I know anyone in this century.”
Ivy gave a soft laugh, though she tucked the moment away. Perhaps it was better not to press.
Their baths arrived shortly thereafter, and they watched and waited while the wooden tubs were filled, again and again, with steaming buckets of water. When the last of the servants departed, Ivy closed the door and set the latch.
Funny, how she’d been so opposed to stripping in front of the medieval household women but wasn’t in front of Claire. With Claire, it felt like being back in the high school locker room, and at least she didn’t have to worry about Evir or any other staring in horror at her modern bra and panties.
“Actually, this is a perfect idea,” Claire allowed. “A leisurely afternoon bath.” She sent a teasing glance at Ivy, her gray eyes dancing. “So you can clean your virginia. ”
Ivy sputtered a laugh. “My what?”
Claire’s smile was very pretty, so relaxed now.
“I have this elderly aunt—Aunt Pat, though we call her Pitty Pat. Remember that ditsy character from Gone with the Wind ? Anyway, Pitty Pat has this wonderfully entertaining habit of misusing words. So, your lady bits, if you will,” Claire said, smirking cheekily at Ivy as they continued undressing, “is your virginia . She’s got a million of them.
My cousin once had to get a testicle shot— tetanus shot, we figured out.
And she once said to me—I swear to god—that this guy, some friend of her son, was arranged in court. ”
Arranged! Arraigned . Ivy nearly doubled over, laughter bursting out of her until her eyes watered.
“Oh, my God—I want to meet her.” She wiped at her face, still gasping.
“No, even better—remember those word-of-the-day calendars? I want you to deliver me a daily Pitty Pat-ism. Just one a day, every day.”
Claire slunk down into the tub a moment after Ivy had. “Consider it done.”
Ivy sighed, her smile serene as she let her head fall back. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so hard—full-bodied and delighted. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, as though some piece of herself she’d long forgotten had come tumbling back.