Page 42 of So Close To Heaven (Far From Home #11)

The keep was quiet but for the thin wail echoing up the stairwell.

Alaric paused at the foot of the stairs, listening, and then bounded up them, not wanting the babe to wake her mother.

It had taken immense powers of persuasion—his, Claire’s, the midwife’s—to finally get Ivy to take some rest during the day.

He eased the door open with care, mindful of the spot halfway where it always creaked. Slipping through before it could give him away, he caught himself wondering why he bothered. If Ivy hadn’t stirred at the child’s strident wail, she certainly wouldn’t wake for the faint groan of a door hinge.

He crossed the room and looked down at the squirming, red-faced bundle, her fists flailing as though she meant to fight her way out of her swaddling and cradle.

“Whisht now, lass,” he muttered, though his voice held no real conviction. He cast a glance toward the bed where Ivy lay in heavy sleep, finally surrendered after days of stubborn refusal.

Awkwardly, gingerly, he lifted the infant from her cradle.

Lily was warm and impossibly small against the size of his hands, her cries rising like a war horn.

He held her stiff-armed at first, away from him, unsure what part of her was most fragile.

“God’s wounds, ye’ve a voice on ye,” he muttered, wincing at the pitch.

He carried her down the stairs, boots thudding softly on the worn stone. The noise came with him, piercing as any blade. By the time he stepped into the hall, his ears rang with it.

Claire was just coming from the corridor, carrying a piece of wadded linen in her hand.

Alaric caught the quick twitch at the corner of her mouth, likely amused by how awkwardly he held the bairn.

He had some idea of how he must look. One would think Ivy had birthed ten bairns with how at ease she instantly was with her babe in her arms.

“Dinna laugh,” he warned darkly, though he had the sense that made it harder for her to obey.

She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes dancing.

“I wasn’t going to,” she said far too innocently.

Then, with a nod toward Lily, “I was just on my way up with something that might help. She doesn’t need to feed for another hour at least. A rag dipped in sugar water—works like a charm.

Though we don’t want to make a habit of it, it’s not good for her teeth. ”

“Her teeth?” Alaric questioned, alarmed. The bairn had teeth already?

“When they come,” Claire clarified, another grin bit back.

Alaric frowned, shifting the babe who screeched all the louder for it. “Should we nae hire a wet nurse, then? To spare Ivy this—”

“No.” Claire cut him off without hesitation, shaking her head. “Ivy will never go for that. I guarantee you.”

He lifted a brow, unwilling to yield so quickly. “It’s a common enough thing. Why nae?”

“We don’t do that in our—” She stopped, caught herself, cleared her throat. “We don’t do that, not if we can help it. Ivy has plenty of milk and would sooner keep her close.”

Alaric narrowed his eyes at her slip, having some suspicion—he didn’t know why—that she’d been about to say we don’t do that in our time . Lily let out another shrill squall that near made him wince. Claire gestured to a bench.

“Sit,” she said firmly.

Grimacing, Alaric obeyed, lowering himself to the bench.

Claire guided his hands, showing him how to tuck the babe into the crook of his arm, her tiny head supported against the inside of his elbow and his forearm.

He stiffened at the intimacy of it, between him and the babe, but when Lily settled a little, blinking up at him, his breath caught.

“There,” Claire murmured, twisting the linen cloth lightly and producing a thumb-size end, pressing it gently to the baby’s lips. Lily latched at once, her cries softening into greedy little snuffles.

The silence that followed was profound. Alaric blinked down at the child, stunned, as if he’d just witnessed a miracle. The corners of his mouth twitched, then curved into an astonished grin.

“By Christ,” he whispered, awe in his voice. “It worked.”

Claire’s smile was gentle now, no longer hidden.

“Told you.” She moved to stand directly in front of Alaric.

“And babies like soft, swaying motion—constant sometimes.” Claire rocked her hips, lifting her arms to pretend she was holding a bairn as well, showing Alaric the pace and rhythm, side to side.

Alaric rose slowly to his feet carefully. He squared his shoulders and glanced at Claire, studying the easy sway of her hips. With a grunt, he shifted his stance and tried to imitate her rhythm, rocking side to side.

It was clumsy at first, he knew, not smooth at all, but he was moving. And the babe still wasn’t crying again.

Claire—damn her—seemed again to be trying not to laugh.

However, she advised straight-faced, “Sometimes, that’s all she’ll need to calm her.”

Alaric nodded, and continued the motion. He was still marveling at the quiet—at how swiftly she had gone from red-faced fury to peaceful suckling—when the door to the hall opened.

Ciaran stepped in, pausing mid-stride. His gaze caught on the tableau, and for the briefest instant his expression shifted, though Alaric could not read what flickered there.

Beside him, Claire made a soft, incoherent sound and in the next heartbeat she ducked her head and all but fled, her skirts snapping behind her as she hurried away.

Still swaying, Alaric frowned after her, then turned his stare on Ciaran as he crossed the hall. “What the bluidy hell is wrong with ye, man?” He asked, keeping his voice low, continuing to bounce and sway. “Why do ye snarl with yer gaze at her? What has she done to earn yer contempt?”

Ciaran’s jaw tightened. For a moment he seemed inclined to brush it off, but then he exhaled hard, annoyance roughening his voice. “She wears the face of a woman I held once—near Dunbar, in the first weeks of the war.”

Alaric’s brows drew together.

Ciaran’s gaze fixed on the calmed babe. “The lass at Dunbar perished.” His shrug was sharp, defensive. “This one reminds me of her, that’s all. It’s...disquieting.” His expression eased, fractionally, and he seemed to realize just now Alaric’s steady movement. “What the bluidy hell are ye doing?”

“Hush,” Alaric scolded. “She likes the swinging. I want Ivy to rest. The babe’s kept her up most the night for days now.”

Ciaran, possibly not understanding—or truly caring—nodded curtly and strode away.

***

The weeks that followed slipped by in a gentler rhythm than Ivy could have imagined, the sharpest edges of fear dulled by small mercies. Lily thrived, her tiny fists no longer clenched so tight, her cries, needs, and schedule beginning to be understood.

Ivy herself healed well, as expected, according to Claire.

Though she had fought the idea of rest while Lily was awake, she began to understand she simply couldn’t function well with too little sleep.

She’d begun to nap during the day to make up for hours of sleep lost overnight, easier to do with Claire near at hand.

Claire proved tireless, taking care of both Ivy and Lily, minding Ivy’s stitches, and becoming familiar enough with the household that she was easily able to make her—or Ivy’s—needs known.

She became, without fanfare, complaint, or any needed coaxing, Ivy’s right hand.

Alaric now shared Ivy’s bedchamber and bed.

It had begun almost by accident. A week or so after Lily’s birth, Alaric had come only to say goodnight, lingering for a while as Ivy rocked the baby.

He had stretched out fully clothed sideways on the bed, telling of his day after listening to Ivy speak of hers.

He’d remained then, listening to Ivy hum to Lily as she paced before the hearth, until sleep had stolen over him just as it had Lily.

After Ivy had placed a sleeping Lily in the cradle, she’d removed Alaric’s boots and nudged him awake enough to have him scooch up onto the pillows.

“Stay with me,” she’d asked. “I would love your arms around me through the night.”

From then on, it was simply the way of things.

Sometimes they spoke in low voices until sleep claimed them, sometimes they reached for each other in the dark, content to share warmth and closeness and passionate kisses even if they had yet to take the final step.

For Ivy, the intimacy of it was enough, more than that even.

His steady breathing in the dark, his arm falling over her, his weight at her side, all brought her immeasurable peace.

Claire, for all her usefulness, remained unsettled in her own way.

Ivy noticed the glances she and Ciaran exchanged when they crossed paths—swift, apprehensive, not friendly at all.

Yet, so far as Ivy knew, they had hardly spoken a word.

The air between them seemed stretched taut, a string waiting to be plucked.

Beyond the walls, late summer gave way to full autumn. The days shortened, the air grew sharp, while the trees on the slopes burned red and gold, a fleeting brilliance before the gray of winter would come.

It was in the quiet, one evening while Lily slept at her breast and the fire snapped in the grate inside her chamber, that Alaric said, very simply, “We’ll need to move soon.”

Ivy lifted her head, brows knitting. “Move?”

“To Braalach.”

She blinked. “To...what?” The word—the name—struck a nebulous memory. Braalach?

“Home,” Alaric said simply. “The MacKinlay keep. Further north, tucked against the hills by the loch. Strong walls, guid people. A place built to withstand winter and war both.”