***
He had watched her all night, telling himself he had no interest in her save to know who she truly was and how she got about at Caeravorn. He wasn’t sure how she communicated so well, what had her laughing so much while they’d supped, but he imagined that Ethelred’s wife aided and abetted communication, since he knew Evir knew only a smattering of English.
She’d been reluctant at first, stiff in her seat when the music began and one man after another urged her to join. But once Evir had dragged her into the circle, she’d moved with a joyful abandon. Awkward, aye—her steps clumsy, her claps late—but she’d laughed as loud as any other, and the men had not cared a whit, not a one of them interested in her dancing.
Ciaran found himself... captivated. Secretly and reluctantly, of course.
The Claire in the hall tonight was not the Claire he’d come to know by daylight. Not the woman who had made trouble and then mended it, who’d taken command of strangers in the sick house and bent them to her will, who’d single-handedly turned a dank, joyless place into something near to a refuge. This Claire was lighter, brighter, her cheeks flushed, her laughter unguarded, her only purpose seeking joy, it seemed.
She’d taken the hands of men whose Gaelic she couldn’t understand, turned in circles with grinning women, and smiled as though she’d belonged among them all her life. He could scarce fathom how. To his mind, she remained an intruder, her sudden presence in Caeravorn still unexplained, as he was still unwilling to accept her fantastic tale of traveling through time.
And damn, but he could not look away.
It brought him a strange measure of peace, watching her. In his mind he could almost lay another face over hers—the woman from Berwick. Some part of him pretended it was she, alive still, smiling brilliantly, dancing as if she had not a care in the world, as if she had not bled out in his arms nine years ago.
By the end of the feast her cheeks were flushed, her hair gloriously disheveled, her gray eyes bright. Wine flushed her lips red, loosened her tongue, made her laughter a peal that drew his eye and ear across the hall. He’d scowled at his own reaction, burying it beneath a mask of stone.
Now, as the merriment waned, the revelers slowly departing, Claire rose and made for the stairs.
Ciaran was bound to do the same, find his own bed. Like a moth to flame, he followed in her wake and saw her miss the first step and gasp, tumbling clumsily. She went down on her hands, skirts tangling, a ripple of drunken laughter breaking behind her. She laughed too, self-conscious and red-faced, her giggle bright and ridiculous.
“Senior prom all over again,” she muttered to herself, the words strange, meaningless—but her mirth disarmed him all the same.
Ciaran hastened his step, before another might have aided her, and caught her arm, hauling her lightly to her feet. She swayed against him, warm and soft, her hair brushing his sleeve.
“Careful,” he said, being surprised by the roughness of his own voice.
“Oh, thanks,” she said automatically and then turned her face to see who’d come to her rescue.
He expected that she would have stiffened, would have yanked her arm from his grasp. But nae, her gray eyes sparkled up at him, showing no trace of coolness.
“Ah, the laird plays hero, rescuing the damsel in distress,” she mused, her words not quite slurred, but then not entirely sober. She gave a hiccupping laugh, then added, conspiratorially, “Not my most graceful exit.”
He let his gaze wander greedily over her flushed face.
“Ye’ve had too much wine,” he deduced, his voice low, a grin beginning to surface.
“Maybe,” she admitted with a careless shrug that set her hair swaying, “but it was good wine. Wilder than home.”
“Aye. Up ye go,” he said, guiding her with a hand at her arm.
“Yep,” she murmured, hiking her skirts with theatrical care, head bowed nearly to her chest, giving her full attention to each step.
She did not release her skirts at the top of the stairs, nor when they proceeded down the corridor. At the door to her chamber, she turned and faced him, swaying just enough that Ciaran kept his hand on her arm.
Her eyes softened on him, curious, almost tender. “Good night,” she said first. Then, tilting her head, her voice dropped. “Why do you deny knowing me? Why don’t you admit it—you’veseen me before. I know you have. My face is familiar to you, same as yours is to me. Why deny it?”
For a moment he could not answer, save for what his sudden frown betrayed. She had put words to the very thought that had plagued him not a quarter hour ago. He saw her as he had all night—flushed and laughing, her smile brighter than the torches—but behind it lay another vision: a woman crumpled at Berwick, flaxen hair matted with blood, gray eyes fixed on his as life drained away.
“I dinna ken ye, Claire,” was all he said at last, imagining she’d remember little of this conversation come morning. His thumb brushed her sleeve before he let go, forcing space between them. “Nae before, nae now.”
Claire, even with the drink blurring her edges, caught it—the flicker in his face, the weight in his words. Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit—you’re lying again. You recognize me—but how? How can we possibly know each other? We were born in different centuries.”
“Ye imagine things,” he murmured, voice tight, irritated with himself for letting his expression give him away.
“No, no.” She shook her head too hard, the gesture sloppy, unbalanced. “I didn’t just imagine that look on your face.”
“Claire,” he said again, low and warning. “Ye’ve had too much. Best ye forget this talk.”
