Page 40 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

Ivy had fallen asleep, waiting for Alaric to return from whatever had taken him out of doors in the evening. Tired and restless at the same time, she’d lain on the bed, only comfortable on her side these days, and had waited. Having fallen asleep, she was woken when a soft kiss touched her lips.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she found him bent over her, his dark hair hanging over his face a bit, the hard planes of his face softened by shadows and weariness.

Ivy reached up her hand, laying her palm against his cheek.

Another kiss followed, lingering this time, then another, until the tenderness gave way to something hungrier.

His mouth deepened over hers, and Ivy sighed into it, her fingers curling into his tunic, clinging to him, drawing him down to her.

The kiss built, heated, until her heart raced and her body ached with the simple need of him. But then he pulled back, his breath ragged. “Rest, lass,” he murmured. “Ye need your strength.”

Ivy gave a plaintive little whine at the sound of his retreat, tugging lightly at his tunic. “Don’t go. Please. Just—lie down with me.”

For a moment, he hesitated. And then he gave in, shucking his boots, and stretching out beside her on the bed. She nestled into him at once, her cheek against his chest, his arm coming around her as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

God, he felt good!

For a time, both were content with silence.

Ivy lay quiet for a time, her fingers idly tracing patterns across his chest. Then, softly, “How old are you, Alaric?”

His chest rumbled with a faint chuckle. “Past thirty summers.”

“What of your family?”

He answered in what felt like a mechanical or auto-response. “My father is gone, taken the first year of the war. My mother died of fever ere I ever kent her. I’ve nae memory of her face.”

Her heart squeezed. She lifted her head a little, searching his expression, but he kept his eyes on the rafters above. “No brothers or sisters?” she asked quietly.

“Aye, by my father’s second wife. They fled south after his passing, down to England, to her kin. I’ve heard naught of them since.”

Ivy swallowed, her fingers stilling against him, recalling how young Kendrick and Blair were, and already wed.. “And...have you ever been married?”

A long silence. His jaw worked, his gaze fixed on the flames. Finally, low and reluctant, he said, “Aye. I was wed.”

Her breath caught. “And—your wife?” His answer, whatever it might be, would break her heart. Either he was still wed, had lied to her—a lie of omission—or he’d buried his wife.

For a moment he didn’t answer, his jaw tightening, his gaze set hard. At last, he said simply, “She’s gone.”

Ivy frowned, unsatisfied. “Gone...away? Or...?”

“It was some years ago,” he muttered, still not looking at her. “It dinna matter now.”

“It does matter—she was your wife,” Ivy said softly, her voice gentle, coaxing. “Was she sick? Did she...did she die in the war, too?”

“Nae.” The single word was clipped, reluctant. At length he added, “She and our babe died...in the birthing.”

“Oh.” Ivy’s throat tightened, a pang cutting through her chest. She looked at him, her heart heavy, imagining what it must have been to lose them both. The silence between them thickened, carrying the weight of his grief until it seemed almost to press down on her. “Alaric, I’m so sorry.”

“Aye,” was all he said.

Possibly he mistook her sympathy, or suspected Ivy of having other emotions, for how she’d gone still in his arms, because his voice came rough but steady, quick to soothe. “Many births end well, Ivy. Plenty of mothers and bairns live, hale and strong.”

“Oh, I know that,” she concurred. “I just... I feel so bad for you.”

“?Twas a long time ago,” he murmured.

“Okay, but I’m sure that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He’d gone just as still as Ivy, and she sensed the wound was still raw, despite how he tried to downplay it.

But she knew Alaric—she felt she understood a lot about him, his character—and sensed he didn’t want to or wasn’t ready to share more with her now.

She let it rest and, wanting to ease the heaviness, she tried to make light of her own dread.

“I am very nervous, Alaric, about giving birth, that is,” she confessed, a small laugh slipping out.

“I’ve only ever fainted twice in my life.

Once, when I first met you—when Kendrick said what year it was.

And the only other time, ironically—or prophetically, we might find out—was back in high school, when they made us watch the film on childbirth.

It was a very graphic film—oh, that probably means nothing to you, film.

Um, imagine...a play, but not live. Picture images and sound—like a memory maybe—caught and held on a flat surface so you can watch again and again.

That’s a film. Anyway, we were showed a film about childbirth in school, all the details up close, and I fainted dead away. Hit the floor.”

At that, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Ye woke both times, did ye nae?”

“Well, yes—obviously, but that’s not the point.”

“It is, though.” His tone was gruff, certain. “Ye are strong enough, Ivy. Faint if ye must, but then ye’ll get on with it.”

She stared at him, stricken, startled—and then burst out laughing.

“Oh, okay. Sure, it’s probably that easy.

” The laughter died almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a tremor in her voice as a thought struck her.

“But...Alaric, if something happened to me, and the baby lived—what would become of her?”

At that, his gaze snapped to hers, sharp and unwavering. “What nonsense is this?” he demanded. “If ye dinna...survive, I’ll take your babe. My child or nae, I would see the child raised well.”

Ivy blinked at him, stunned by the bluntness, then felt the sting of tears well in her eyes. Not from fear this time, but from the fierce, unshakable certainty in his voice. He was a good man, she knew.

And maybe Alaric was as distressed as Ivy by such talk and didn’t want to discuss it anymore.

He turned toward her, positioning himself over her, rolling her onto her back.

He kissed her then, slow at first, then more fiercely, hungrier, until her fingers curled in the linen at his shoulders.

When at last his lips trailed to her throat, her pulse fluttered wildly beneath his mouth, she whispered with delight, “Alaric...”

He drew her closer, one hand splaying over the swell of her belly, and broke away with a groan. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath harsh. “I want ye, Ivy. God help me, I do. But I’ll nae risk it, nae cause ye or the bae harm.”

Hot color rose to her cheeks, but she forced herself to speak, knowing what she wanted, “It’s fine, Alaric, not dangerous at all to the baby.”

He drew his lips wide in a grimace, reluctant still.

Ivy understood almost immediately—this wasn’t rejection, but fear. The same fear born of loss that still lived in him. Her heart softened, even as need coiled low in her belly.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, her hand sliding up to his jaw. “I understand. But you can still kiss me, Alaric.”

“Aye,” he agreed, the word rough.

His mouth found hers at once, the kiss slow at first, then deepening with a heat that stole her breath.

His hand cradled her face, his thumb brushing her cheek.

When she sighed into him, he answered with a low sound from deep in his chest, his restraint already fraying.

His hands moved over her with deliberate care, undressing her, exploring, until she gasped his name again, her body arching beneath his touch.

Every movement was purposeful, measured, as though he feared to take or even give too much, yet couldn’t deny himself entirely.

Alaric gave to her freely, his every kiss and caress meant for her alone. His own hunger he kept leashed, held back with ruthless restraint.

Ivy’s hands were no less searching. She slid them over the breadth of his shoulders, down the hard planes of his back, marveling at the strength coiled there.

She compelled him to remove his tunic, and her fingers traced the ridges of old scars, lingered on the curve of muscle, tugged him closer still.

She wanted to feel all of him, wanted to be touched everywhere by him.

With his hands and fingers, he teased her and tortured her, and when at last she shuddered in his arms, her vision blurry and heart hammering, he gathered her close, his lips brushing her temple.

“Ye have so much passion, lass,” he murmured, his voice raw.

“And ye are mine, Ivy, from this day forward—mayhap from the moment I laid eyes on ye.”

The words sank into her like warmth seeping through her very bones.

He wasn’t only restraining himself for the babe, he was binding himself to her, claiming her in a way that made her heart soar.

He feared for her, yes, but beneath that fear was something she had yearned for all her life: to be chosen, wholly and without condition.

She’d not experienced that, not anything even close outside her grandparents’ love.

Her hand slid up his chest, resting over the steady beat of his heart. “I am yours,” she whispered, her voice trembling but sure.

***

The next morning found Ivy and Claire once more walking the cliff path beyond the keep. The wind swept up from the sea, tugging at Ivy and Claire’s skirts. Below, the gray waves slapped at the rocks in a steady rhythm, almost lulling despite the wildness of it.

“I don’t need any details,” Claire said, “but am I to imagine that silly grin you’ve been wearing means Alaric at least got to second base?”

Ivy squawked with laughter at the corny, vintage expression. “What are you—sixty?”

“Hah! Don’t deflect.” Claire dropped into a mock-stern, manly voice. “Just answer the question!”

Ivy blinked at her, half-sure it was a movie quote, though she couldn’t place which one.

“Well, if you must know—”