Claire held Ciaran’s stare, refusing to yield an inch. He looked ready to argue further when Ivy’s voice slipped into the pause, calm but certain.
“She’s right, sir. We’ve learned so much over the centuries, from now until when...well, when we come from.”
The words dropped into the chamber like a stone into still water.
Ciaran’s entire frame went taut, his eyes snapping toward Ivy with a piercing glare.
Color rose swiftly in Ivy’s cheeks. She pressed a hand to her throat, her smile twisting into something rueful. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured, voice thin with embarrassment.
“What in God’s name do ye mean by it?” Ciaran’s words were low and gruff, but they carried the weight of a hammer striking iron. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Centuries? Where ye come from?”
Ivy winced, and glanced between a likewise shocked Claire and Ciaran. “I...I thought Alaric would have told you.”
“You toldmenot to say anything!” Claire hissed at Ivy, likely not shouting in deference to the babe.
Ivy flushed deeper, eyes darting nervously between them. “I know,” she rushed out, her voice breaking with regret. “But I thought,” she said again, a desperateness to her tone, “I thought Alaric would have at least told Ciaran.”
Ciaran stood rooted, bewilderment tightening around him like a net. His gaze shifted to Claire. She had turned toward him, her lips parted as if words had fled before they formed, her eyes wide and glinting with alarm. Color drained from her face, and he read in it the expectation that he would explode, that fury would follow at once. Yet he could not summon it—not when he still had no clear grasp of what had just been laid bare. Rage required certainty, and all he had in this moment was confusion.
“Of what do ye speak?” He asked.
Claire clamped her lips stubbornly refusing to answer. Ivy still looked stricken and strained, regretting she’d opened her mouth at all.
What in God’s name were they speaking of, that Alaric knew and he did not?
“Neither of ye leaves this chamber,” Ciaran said, his voice low but hard, to advise they should not dare to disobey him. Claire’s eyes widened, her mouth parting as if she might protest, but she said nothing. Ivy still clutched at her throat, looking absolutely miserable, her face drained of blood.
Ciaran held their gazes a heartbeat longer, making certain they understood, before turning and striding out.
Fury pounded in his chest, each step feeding it as he stomped down the stairs and through the hall. Honest to Christ, they probably could have pawned him off with any number of reasons to explain what Ivy had said, and he might have been only confused, but would have ignored it. It was their reaction to his simple query, asking what Ivy had meant that alarmed him. Apparently, he had been left in ignorance, in his own hall, and that he could not abide. Secrets and whispers, about something seemingly so significant that Claire had been as horrified by Ivy’s slip as Ivy eventually had been.
Ivy’s revelation gnawed at him, words he could not yet make sense of, but which rang too strange to ignore. But damn, he knew it. He knew it! There was something not right about her, something he’d not been able to put his finger on.
He shoved through the doors into the yard. The clang of hammer on iron drew his eye to the farrier’s shed, where sparks leapt with every strike. Alaric stood close by, his destrier tethered, one great hoof lifted as the farrier fitted new shoes. The stallion stamped, tossing his dark mane, and Alaric soothed him with a steady hand on his neck.
Ciaran crossed the yard without slowing. “Come with me,” he said flatly.
Alaric looked up, his brows pulling together. “I’ll finish with the horse first,” he stated flatly, not taking kindly to Ciaran’s tone.
“Now.” Ciaran’s tone assured him that compliance was his only choice.
The farrier froze mid-swing, eyes flicking between the two lairds. Alaric’s jaw set, his gaze heavy on Ciaran as if he weighed whether to take offense. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, with a brooding exhale, Alaric jerked his chin to the farrier. “We’ll finish later.” He handed Maynard the reins before turning to fall into step beside Ciaran.
As they crossed the yard, Alaric’s voice rumbled low, dark with anger. “What is it, then? Ye storm about and speak to me thus—if it’s some quarrel, say it plain.”
Ciaran didn’t slow. “Ye’ll hear soon enough. Best keep yer questions till we’re before the lasses. I want their answers and yers at the same time.” His hands curled into fists as they passed beneath the arch of the keep.
“Ivy?” Alaric questioned, his reserve diminished. “If ye’ve—”
“Settle,” Ciaran snapped over his shoulder. “Tis nae me to question but ye and she.”
Within two minutes of vacating Ivy’s chamber, Ciaran returned, Alaric directly behind him, entering without delay as the door had remained open.
The chamber erupted all at once.
“Alaric, I didn’t know—” Ivy began, her voice breaking.
“Friend or nae, I’ll run ye through if ye’ve insulted Ivy in any fashion,” threatened Alaric, going to stand beside her.
