Kiss of the Highlander

Page 118

Gwen had smiled and watched with a mixture of joy and pain, as Beatrice and Bert rejoiced in each other.
Only after they’d wrung a promise from her that she would visit them in Maine for Christmas—Beatrice had indeed rented a lovely cottage on the Loch for the fall—did Beatrice help Gwen pack up and tuck her into a cab for the ride to the airport.
As Gwen settled into the backseat, Beatrice shifted her ample bulk into the door and hugged her fiercely, kissing her forehead, nose, and cheeks. Both were misty-eyed.
“Don’t you dare give up, Gwen Cassidy. Don’t you dare stop loving. I may never know what happened to you that day up in the hills, but I know it was something that changed your life. There’s magic in Scotland, but always remember: A heart that loves makes magic of its own.”
Gwen shivered. “I love you, Beatrice. And you take good care of Bertie,” she added fiercely.
“Oh, I plan to,” Beatrice assured her. “And I love you too.” Beatrice stepped back as the driver closed the door.
Once the cab pulled away from the curb, and she’d watched Beatrice until she was a small pink-clad speck in the distance, then gone, Gwen cried all the way to the airport.
October 20, Present Day
26
Although Gwen had known by the age of four that objects derive color from their innate chemical structure—which absorbs certain wavelengths of light and reflects others—she now understood that the soul had a light of its own that colored the world too.
It was an essential light, the light of joy, of wonder, of hope.
Without it, the world was dark. Didn’t matter how many lights she turned on, everything was flat, gray, empty. Sleeping, she dreamed of him, her Highland lover. Waking, she lost him all over again.
Most days she hurt too much even to open her eyes.
So she stayed in bed in her tiny apartment, drapes pulled, lights off, phone unplugged, reliving every moment they’d spent together, alternately laughing and crying. On rare occasions, she tried to persuade herself to get out of bed. Short of bathroom jaunts to attend a queasy stomach, or stumbling to the door to pay the pizza guy, it wasn’t working.
She was mortally wounded, but her stupid heart kept pumping.
How was she supposed to live without him?
She’d been deceived by platitudes and clichés. Time did not heal all wounds. Time didn’t do a damn thing. Truth was, time had stolen her lover away, and if she lived to be a hundred—heaven forbid she suffer that long—she’d never forgive time.
That’s silly, the scientist sniffed.
Gwen groaned, rolling over on her side and pulling a pillow over her head. Leave me alone. You’ve never been any help to me. You didn’t even warn me that saving him would make me lose him.
I tried to. You didn’t want to hear me. And I’m trying to help you now, the scientist said stiffly. You need to get up.
Go away.
You’d better get up, unless you want to sleep in that three-day-old slice of pizza you just ate.
Well, that was one way out of bed, a shaking Gwen decided a few moments later as she weakly brushed her teeth. Seemed to be the only way she got up lately. Squinting, she braced herself before turning on the light so she could see to wipe off the toilet. The light hurt her eyes and it took her several moments to adjust. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she gasped.
She looked awful. Her hair was dull and tangled, her skin pale, her eyes red and swollen from crying. Her face looked gaunt, her eyes defeated.
She really needed to get herself together, she thought dimly.
If not for you, then for the child, the scientist agreed.
“Wh-what?” Her voice, so long unused, cracked, and the word escaped in a hoarse, disbelieving croak.
Child. The child, you idiot, the scientist snapped.
Gwen gaped, stunned, staring at her reflection. She peered at herself a long while, brows furrowed.
Shouldn’t her skin look radiant or something if she was pregnant? Shouldn’t she have gained a little weight? She glanced dubiously down at her flat stomach. Flatter than it had ever been in her life. She’d definitely lost weight, not gained.
Don’t tell me you can’t do the math. When’s the last time we had our period?
Gwen felt a tiny bud of hope blossom in her heart.
She squelched it firmly. A dangerous feeling: hope. No way—she was not going that route. She’d hope she was pregnant, only to be doubly crushed when she found out it wasn’t true. It would destroy her. She was in bad enough shape already.
She shook her head bitterly. The scientist was wrong this time. “I’m not pregnant,” she told her reflection flatly. “I’m depressed. Big big difference.” It was simply stress making her period late, nothing more. It had happened before. During her Great Fit of Rebellion, she’d skipped two periods.