For two nights now she had lain awake, her thoughts circling the same maddening mysteries, what she did and didn’t know, struggling to process all of it—the strange woman Ciaran had seen at the river and her cryptic message; Ciaran finally admitting the truth to her, that she was familiar to him; that unexpectedly open conversation she’d had with Ciaran at the cliff top; and, as always, the time-travel thing. Not another word had passed between them about it, any of it. He went about his day as if nothing had changed, his face the same impassive mask, while she grew anxious with the not-knowing, and for all the questions that surfaced after they’d spoken.
She could not bear it another night.
Reckless, barefoot, wearing only her shift and the heavy plaid, she crossed the cold floor and slipped into the corridor.This was probably frowned upon in this century, seeking out a man in his bedroom in the dead of night, but she wanted answers, or at least some further discussion, about what Ciaran was thinking, what any of it might mean. In truth, because of his silence on the matter, she began to imagine that he simply dismissed all of it, refusing to entertain the idea of witchy old women, ghosts from the past, and traveling through time. Sure, it was extraordinary, but Claire was struggling to live with it and needed answers, couldn’t simply brush it off as easily as he seemed to do.
She lifted her hand and knocked lightly at Ciaran’s door before her courage abandoned her.
A moment of silence followed before his voice came, low and steady through the door: “Enter.”
Claire pushed it open, stepping across the threshold. A week ago, she’d entered with purpose, unashamed, tending to Ciaran while he’d been laid low with the fever. This was different, of course, and to be honest, while she needed to see him and talk to him about all this, she dreaded the conversation, knowing she would feel adrift if he had indeed, decided to ignore everything that he couldn’t control—what did it really have to do with him, after all?
The fire in the hearth was banked low, painting the stone walls with a soft orange glow. Ciaran sat in a chair near the blaze, one arm braced on the armrest, a wooden cup in his hand. He wore no shirt—that might be a problem, trying to have a conversation with him without ogling his naked chest—and his boots were unlaced though he hadn’t removed them yet.
He didn’t look particularly surprised to see her.
Claire hovered near the door, her hands behind her, holding onto the latch, just in case he did not welcome her intrusion. “I wondered if we could talk,” she said.
“Aye,” he said after a moment, then tipped his head and nudged the chair opposite him with his boot. “Sit, then.”
Her pulse quickened as she let the door swing closed and crossed the chamber, tugging the plaid closer around her thin shift. She sank into the chair opposite his, pretending she wasn’t aware of his fierce gaze following her every step.
“Nae easy to sleep these days,” he said, his voice quiet, his gaze fixing on the small dancing flames in the hearth.
Claire pressed her lips together, her throat tight, and gave the smallest nod. “No, it’s not.” She had a hundred words pressing against her tongue, but wasn’t sure how to start.
Ciaran lifted the cup he held, then set it aside and reached for the pitcher at his elbow. “Wine?”
She hesitated a heartbeat. “Yes. Thank you.”
He poured slowly, the quiet splashing filling the silence, then held the fresh cup out to her.
The cup was warm from his grasp. She sipped to steady herself, though her eyes never left his face.
At length, he leaned back, studying her with that sharp, searching gaze. “Ye’ve something on yer mind, lass,” he said. “Or ye’d nae have come.”
Claire turned the cup between her hands, watching the firelight glint off the rim. The wine was strong on her tongue, but warmed her from the inside out. She spoke quietly, but she hoped not timidly. “Have you given more thought to everything that’s happened?”
“Aye.”
“So...do you think I’m meant to be here? Or...” She swallowed, her eyes flicking to his, “should I go to Braalach?”
His gaze held hers for a long moment before he drained his cup and lowered it to his waist. He sighed and asked his own question rather than answering hers.
“What of yer husband, Claire? Tell me plain—what life did ye leave behind when ye came here?”
Her breath caught, surprised by this as a topic of discussion.
“My husband,” she echoed, stalling a bit, trying to imagine why this was the first thing he asked, first thing he wanted to know, when there was so much else of import to sort out. She considered her answer, searching for words that wouldn’t sound like blame, like an outright assassination of Jason’s character. “My marriage wasn’t alive any longer. Jason and I had gone in different directions, long ago—so far apart that I don’t honestly remember when it was good. I told myself for a long time that his cheating ended it. But that’s not true, not really. Whatever love we had had been dying slowly for years. What he did only... showed me what I hadn’t wanted to face.” She let out a slow breath, meeting his eyes. “That our marriage had been over for a long time.”
“And ye will or can leave it there?” Ciaran asked casually. “In that other time and place?”
She didn’t answer directly, but said, “It’s the reason we were in Scotland in the first place, to try and salvage the marriage,” she told him. “One last chance to rekindle...everything. It wasn’t working, and in truth, neither of us was really trying, and I think both of us were okay with that. I didn’t want to be on vacation with him any more than he did with me.” She chewed her lip thoughtfully, staring at her bare feet, crossed at the ankles before her, and added. “But, to be fair, if I did still love Jason, I’d like to think I would have fought like hell to get back home.” A small, honest laugh shook her. “Or fought at all. I guess me hardly thinking of him, not picturing him at all in any dreams of reuniting with my family said it best—Jason was not going to be part of my future.” Lifting her gaze to Ciaran, she added, “I can’t say I thought it consciously, but maybe it was in the back of myhead: I can’t let my dead marriage seven hundred years in the future hold me back from living here.”
She’d had a short discussion about just that with Ivy weeks ago. Ivy was clearly Team Claire and had questioned, incredulous:What? You’re expected to remain married and faithful to Jason all your life while you’re stuck here?
“And if ye could be or... or are sent back to yer time?”
“I expect divorce would be one of the first things on my agenda.” She wouldn’t be surprised at all if she returned now and learned Jason had already started the proceedings. She knew he was still in contact with that other woman, was still seeing her. “Even before we’d come to Scotland, I had begun making plans.”
