Her hair, pale as flax, shone in the light, the braid untidy, tangled as though she had come straight from the shore. Her figure was trim, her posture taut as a bowstring, and her cheeks and lips showed a healthy color, recovered suitably it seemed.
But it was her eyes that struck him —gray, clear as winter water, and fixed on him with a look that sucked the air from his chest.
Those gray eyes.
He hadn’t seen her eyes the day she arrived in the cart, nor in any of the visits he’d made to the chamber where she’d lain with fever.
And yet, another memory tugged sharply at him, one impossible to suppress given the circumstances—that other woman at Berwick, the weight of her in his arms, hair just the same color as this one’s, though matted with blood, and gray eyes bright even as death closed in.
He had watched the life leave her. He remembered the ruin of her skull, the wound that could not have been healed. He’d held her for some time after her spirit had fled—he could still see her, as plainly now as a month ago, as nine years ago. She was dead.
And yet—
The woman before him stared at him in silent wonder, her mouth parting slowly as if waking from a dream. Once again, for the barest instant, a thought cut through him—that the woman he had held in Berwick had lived after all. But no, he denied the very idea. That woman would be older now, worn by years this one had not lived, her face would be marked with a scar that was nowhere to be seen here.
Ciaran continued toward the door, jaw clenched, intending to nod politely and walk right by her.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her voice, small and soft, stopped him dead in his tracks, the words striking like a blade through his ribs. Every muscle tightened and his shoulders squared, his hands curling into fists at his side.
What the bluidy hell?
For the life of him, he could not look away, could not force his gaze past her. He stood rigid, gaze fixed on her, unsettled to the marrow by the words she’d spoken.
Ciaran felt his chest tighten as he studied her face, every line and shadow etched in the dull sunlight. Her eyes were wide and luminous, fringed by lashes too dark for hair so pale. Her cheekbones were clean and fine, but softened at the edges, lending her a youthful expression. Her lips were full, almost stubborn in their shape, not delicate but too striking to ignore. Every detail struck too close to the memory etched in him from Berwick, the likeness unsettling in its precision, down to the gray of her eyes being flecked with blue shards of color.
The woman returned his stare, though she wore yet a look of wonder, her gray eyes troubled.
“Claire?”
Ciaran nearly startled, unaware that Ivy and Alaric had approached, and now stood only a pace behind him, but he didn’t take his eyes off her.
The woman blinked rapidly, as if waking from a trance, color flooding her cheeks. She stammered quickly, “You must be the laird. I’ve been waiting to meet you, to thank you for allowing me refuge in your home.”
Ciaran didn’t move, didn’t respond.
Ivy stepped forward, words tripping out in a rush. “Ah—Ciaran, this is Claire. She... she came with the tinker, if you recall, and has improved greatly... as you can see.” Her hand flicked toward the woman. “Claire, this is Ciaran Kerr, laird of Caeravorn.”
The woman—Claire, she was—dipped her head, composed now with deliberate care. “My lord,” she murmured.
Ciaran inclined his head in return, more sharply than politely. He clamped his teeth and then strode past her into the keep.
***
Claire’s chest felt tight, as though she’d swallowed something that was too hot, too fast, as the man—Ciaran Kerr—stepped into his castle.
Holy shit!
It was him, the guy who’d come to her after her car accident, before the paramedics had arrived. Christ, so many people had convinced her he was nothing but an apparition, a dream she’d evoked to feel safe while so frightened in those moments. But... he was real.
It didn’t make sense—what did in the last few weeks? But it was him! She could never forget his face, had never wanted to, for how safe he’d made her feel, for how his presence—even silent and inexplicable—had calmed her.
His face was exactly as she remembered: hard jaw, harder eyes, the kind of presence that filled a space without effort. God, how many times had she recalled his face over nearly ten years? She’d always thought it so odd, that he’d looked so intense, almost pissed off, but that his presence had still managed to soothe her. It was impossible, ridiculous—he couldn’t be here, in this place, in this century—and yet the shock of recognition rattled through her like a freight train.
Her brain continued to flip flop with a jumble of thoughts.
Odd, that in all the years she’d ‘known’ him, she’d never thought of giving him a name, had never even wondered what it was.
