Page 4 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

“Wait!” Ivy called out plaintively after a full ten seconds had passed.

She lurched forward a bit but jerked to a stop when he turned and faced her again.

He was possibly the scariest person she had ever encountered.

But then, this—whatever was happening—was even more frightening.

But this man...who was he? What was he? A chaotic trio of descriptors flashed across her brain— brute , Viking , medieval warlord .

Viking wasn’t fitting, though, not really; this was Scotland, after all, and he didn’t have blond hair.

The man before her looked like something summoned from another century, some brutal, half-mythic past. Massive and still, he loomed like the embodiment of a warrior king—or a warlord—from the darker chapters of a history book.

Easily six and a half feet tall, he was broad in the shoulders and heavy through the chest and arms, the kind of muscle that didn’t come from gyms or workouts, but from survival.

A length of worn plaid was slung over one shoulder, and beneath it was a thick linen tunic that was stained with sweat and splattered with blood. Across his chest and belt hung leather straps and weaponry—swords and daggers, looking dull but not unused.

His face was as fierce as the rest of him: high cheekbones, a strong jaw darkened with several days’ worth of beard, a straight nose with a slight crook that looked suspiciously like it had been broken at least once.

His skin was sun-worn and weathered, tanned in a way that said he lived outdoors, lived rough and dangerously.

And his eyes—wow. His eyes were a searing, golden-brown, sharp and unblinking, like he was assessing every inch of her. Not with lust, not simple curiosity, but with what looked like cold suspicion, disdain even. Obviously, he didn’t trust her and was not inclined to pretend otherwise.

He didn’t move toward her. Didn’t threaten her.

And Ivy was too engulfed by confusion to be bitten by so much fear.

Her brain scrambled for an explanation for this man—for what she’d witnessed in the last half an hour!

—anything that made sense. Ren Faire? Movie set?

But this man and what she’d seen, none of it felt staged.

He looked real. So real. As if he’d stepped off the screen of Braveheart —if Braveheart had been cast with men who’d actually killed people for a living.

And all the while, he was staring at her like she was the strange one.

She realized he was waiting for her to say something, that she’d called to him but then hadn’t said anything, had only stared in wild wonder at him.

Ivy blurted out the most pressing question, the first thing that came to mind. “Who are you?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, the question in them obvious: why did she want to know?

His answer, whatever it was, had her repeating her question, slowly now, enunciating, as if hearing was the issue and not a language barrier. She thought she recognized the sounds he made as Scots Gaelic, but she could only pick out one word, a name: MacKinlay.

“I don’t understand,” Ivy said helplessly, closing a bit of the ten feet of space between them. “Do you speak English?”

A rustle behind her had her stiffening again and whirling, but it wasn’t more danger, not exactly—just three younger men emerging from the trees and brush beyond.

Kids, actually, as not one of them seemed to have graduated from his teenage years.

Though they were armed as well, none looked nearly as lethal as the first man.

One of them—a stocky, ginger-haired boy who couldn’t have been much older than seventeen—stopped short when he saw her and favored her with a curious frown.

The way he scrunched up his lips added to the expression of surprise.

As the redhead said something in Gaelic to the man with the intense brown eyes, the three youths drifted closer, casually but deliberately, until Ivy found herself surrounded—each of them taking up a loose position around her.

She swallowed slowly, feeling suddenly as if she were now in danger.

Curious that, since the angry, towering man hadn’t imbued her with so much fear as she felt now.

Numbers, she realized. She was now encircled by four men—armed with swords of all things!

She gulped and slowly turned back around, moving in time with the three younger men, who now came to stand beside the larger, older man.

The tallest of the three youths, a brown-haired kid with a wide jaw and kind eyes, said something now. The brute who’d discovered her first shrugged and said something in the same language before saying in heavily accented English, “Dinna speak our tongue.”

“English?” Asked another youth with a wiry frame and clear blue eyes while his gaze impudently roamed over her from head to toe.

“Aye,” answered the medieval-looking brute.

Ivy’s heart skipped another beat. They said English as if that were a very bad thing.

The word and the context landed heavy on her, followed by a flicker of alarm.

It wasn’t just the way the wiry one said it, it was the way all of them looked at her now.

Not hostile exactly, but close. Or maybe it was only caution she glimpsed in their gazes.

Evidently, English was a loaded term around here, not a compliment in any way.

She wondered if some old national grudge was still simmering among these people, whoever they were.

Something that obviously hadn’t made it into the travel guidebooks.

She cleared her throat, lifting her hands slightly in a show of peace. “I’m not... I’m not English,” she said clearly. “I’m American.”

Their expressions didn’t change too much, but she imagined a thread of confusion ran through them now.

“I’m American,” she repeated nervously. “Not English.” She wanted that to be clear, hoping it would distance her—literally and figuratively—from whatever beef they apparently had with England.

As a prickle of greater unease crawled up her spine, Ivy decided she didn’t much care at the moment to have it explained what she’d witnessed moments ago—she’d have to deal with that later, the trauma of it, since it seemed so real. For now, she thought her best plan should be to simply get away.

“Um, look,” she said, slowly, enunciating her English, “I got a little turned around—I’m not sure how—but can someone point me toward the Great Trossachs Path?

” When she received only four blank stares, Ivy tried again.

“Or maybe Loch Katrine?” Nothing. “Okay, can you tell me where the nearest highway or road is?” More silence.

Their confusion only seemed to deepen. Even the brute looked baffled, though on him, the expression took a darker, more menacing shape than it did on the others.

“Okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “How about just point to the nearest hiking path? Trailhead? Anything paved?”

The men exchanged uncertain glances, and Ivy felt her stomach twist. Either they genuinely had no idea what she was talking about... or they were very committed to their weird medieval reenactment.

To fill what now seemed an awkward silence, she cleared her throat and dared to ask, “So I’m not sure what I saw—or maybe I only imagined it,” she added, giving a stiff laugh, “but were you...did I see...?” Her words trailed off, and she glanced at the man with the intense brown eyes.

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “What did I see?” she asked, quieter now, unable to keep the edge of vulnerability from her voice.

The brute didn’t answer right away. His gaze didn’t soften. “What did ye see?” he asked finally, the words slow and heavy, thick with his accent.

She gave another sharp, humorless laugh.

“It looked like I saw some kind of... I don’t know—fight?

Battle? Maybe a reenactment?” She suggested hopefully.

Her eyes widened and she laid her hand on her belly as the baby kicked.

After a moment, waiting to see if more movement would follow, she continued, “It just seemed so real. The blood. The sounds. The bodies.” Her voice faltered.

“I mean, that wasn’t cosplay. But it wasn’t real. .. was it?”

No one answered. The redhead and the wiry one were both staring at her belly now, their expressions unreadable.

Ivy turned again to the brute. “I—I thought they were dead...all those people on the ground. They looked dead.”

He didn’t blink. “Aye. So they are.”

“Dead?” she repeated, the word catching in her throat. “Actually deceased?”

He gave a single, grim nod.

The breath left her in a rush. Her knees softened, the world tilting just slightly as her body sagged.

Incredibly, the brute stepped forward and caught her with one strong hand at her elbow. His grip was solid and steady—hot, even through her jacket—and the unexpectedness of it made her flinch. She jolted back a little, not sure if she were startled more by the contact or the gesture itself.

Her sharp reaction elicited another scowl from the man.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured automatically, holding herself perfectly still now. “Thank you. I’m fine, thank you.”

It was untimely and ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it—she internally dubbed him the Clint Eastwood of Scotland.

That narrow-eyed glint he shot her now reminded her so vividly of her childhood evenings with her grandparents, watching old spaghetti westerns where a squint so often replaced words as dialogue.

He stepped back and Ivy straightened herself, closing her eyes briefly to control her mounting anxiety.

“What name do ye go by?”

Ivy opened her eyes and looked at the speaker, the redhead.

“Ivy,” she answered mechanically. “Ivy Mitchell.”

“And ye say ye’re nae English—though ye sound it,” said the kid with blue eyes, “but ye bed down with ?em.” He gestured meaningfully to her belly.