Kiss of the Highlander (39 page)

“I’ll squeeze you in again on Friday,” Carolyn said, walking with her to the door. “I’ll have my receptionist call you this afternoon with a time.”

Gwen thanked her profusely. “You have no idea how much I needed to know this.”

Carolyn gazed at the dark circles beneath her eyes. “I think I do,” she said softly. “Now go home, eat and take care of yourself. There’s more than just yourself to think about now.”

Gwen waved good-bye to the receptionist as she left.

She was pregnant. She had a part of Drustan inside her. A child of his, possibly two, to raise, to love, to cherish.

Walking across the parking lot to her car, she was briefly stunned by how blue the sky seemed, how bright the sun, how green the grass.

Color. There was light in her soul again.

         
27
         
 

A week later, Gwen was back in Scotland.

She sat at the base of the MacKeltar’s mountain, perched on the hood of her rental car, gazing up, filled with trepidation.

When Carolyn had confirmed she was carrying twins, a surge of energy had flooded her. She’d cleaned her apartment, put the phone back on the hook, gotten her hair trimmed, treated herself to an eyebrow waxing, and gone grocery shopping. Then she’d called Allstate to tender her resignation, only to find they’d already fired her for not showing up for so many weeks. No loss there, she’d shrugged philosophically.

She’d called a Realtor and placed her parents’ house on the market. The ostentatious showplace had been paid off years ago, and the sale of it would give her more than enough money to make a fresh start. She was done with Santa Fe. Done with insurance claims, done with it all. She was thinking of moving to the East Coast, maybe Maine, near Bert and Beatrice. She’d buy a lovely house with a darling nursery. Perhaps get a job at a local university teaching math and making it
fun
.

But before she could do any of that, before she could move forward, she had to somehow make peace with the past.

And the only way to do that was to lay to rest the questions that drove her mad at three o’clock in the morning when her heart felt heavy and her soul was inclined to brood.

Questions like: Had Drustan died from the arrow wound, or survived? And if he’d survived, had he ever married? She
hated
considering that one, because it left her feeling so torn. She would be crushed if he had remarried, yet at the same time, she would be crushed if he’d spent the rest of his life grieving. She loved him so much that if he’d lived, she wanted him to have been happy. It hurt her to think that he might have grieved for thirty or forty or fifty years. She realized that
she
was the lucky one: They’d both lost each other, but she alone had the precious gift of their babies.

More questions: Had Dageus had children? Had any MacKeltar descendants survived to the twenty-first century? The answer to that question could be a blessing, for if MacKeltars still lived above Alborath, she would feel as if they hadn’t failed completely. One of the things Drustan had wanted was to ensure the future succession of his clan, and if by saving Dageus they had guaranteed survival of his clan, she could find some small measure of satisfaction in that.

Even more than finding answers, however, she needed to go sit by his grave, to lay sprigs of heather atop it, to tell him of their children, to laugh and reminisce and weep.

Then she would go home and be strong for their babies. It was what Drustan would want.

Steeling herself, she slipped back into the rental car.

She didn’t delude herself, she knew that whatever she found atop the mountain was going to be excruciating. Because this was going to have to be the final good-bye…

As Gwen topped the crest of the mountain, her eyes misted.

The perimeter wall had been torn down, and the majestic stones of
Ban Drochaid
towered against the brilliant, cloudless blue sky.

There she had made love with her Highland mate. There she had traveled back into the past. There she had become pregnant, according to her due date.

She’d known that seeing the stones again would hurt, because a part of her was tempted to hole up in a laboratory and try to figure out the formulas that danced so far beyond her comprehension. The only thing that held her back was that Gwen knew—even as brilliant as she was—that she could devote the rest of her life to it, only to die a bitter old woman, never gaining the knowledge. She would
not
live her life like that, nor would she subject her children to it. The few times she’d pondered the symbols, she’d realized how far beyond her understanding they were. She might be a genius, but she just wasn’t smart enough.

Nor would she plead—if modern MacKeltars still lived—with them to break their oaths and send her back, and unleash a dark Druid upon the world. No, she would be the woman Drustan had loved, honorable, ethical, loving.

Thus resolved, she accelerated past the stones and lifted her gaze to the castle. She sucked in a breath. Castle Keltar was even more beautiful than it had been in the sixteenth century. A sparkling, many-tiered fountain had been constructed on the front lawn. It was surrounded by a lush tumble of shrubbery and flowers and stone walkways. The facade had been renovated, probably many times over the centuries, and the front stairs were no longer stone but had been replaced with rosy marble. An elegant matching marble banister framed both sides. What had once been a huge wooden door was now double doors fashioned of burnished cherry trimmed with gold. Above the doors, a stained glass window detailing—her heart leaped—the MacKeltar plaid, shimmered brilliant purple in the sunlight.

She parked before the steps and sat gazing at the door, wondering if that small bit of MacKeltar heritage meant the castle was still inhabited by descendants. Suddenly the door opened and a young child, blond curls tumbling about a delicate face, stepped out, peering at her curiously. Inside the rented Volvo, Gwen squinted against the bright sunlight at the lovely little girl, who was followed closely by a boy of similar age, and an older pair of twins.

The eldest boy and girl took her breath away and eradicated any question in her mind about whether any descendants had survived.

They most certainly had.

Pure MacKeltar blood was apparent in both of the older children—in the rich dark manes, the unusual eyes and golden skin. The boy could have been Dageus’s own son, with similar golden eyes.

She closed her eyes briefly, fighting tears, feeling both joyous and sad. They hadn’t failed completely, but the visit was going to be excruciating, she realized, massaging her temples.

“Hello,” the little girl called, knocking on the car window. “Will you be getting out, or will you be sitting in there all day?”

Gwen snorted lightly, the pain easing a bit. She opened her eyes and smiled. The little girl was absolutely darling, peering in expectantly.
You’re going to have two of those soon
, a comforting voice reminded her.

“Cara, get back from that car!” a blond woman who looked to be in her early thirties called, hurrying down the front steps.

She was heavily pregnant, and Gwen instinctively touched her own abdomen. Turning off the ignition, she tucked her bangs behind her ear and opened the car door. She realized, as she stepped out, that she’d not thought this far ahead: She had no idea what excuse she would offer for dropping in on perfect strangers. She would have to play it by ear, claim to be taken with the castle, then beg a tour. She was grateful that the woman was pregnant because she was willing to bet she would invite her in to visit without asking too many questions. Gwen had recently discovered that pregnant women were a breed unto their own, with a tendency to forge an instantaneous, deep bond. A few days ago, she’d chatted for over an hour with a pregnant stranger in the ice cream aisle of the grocery, discussing baby clothes and tests and methods of birth and all kinds of things that would bore a nonpregnant person silly.

“I take it these lovely ones are yours?” Gwen said, offering her friendliest smile.

“Aye, my youngest are Cory and Cara,” she said, gesturing toward them. Cara said hello again, and Cory smiled shyly. “And these”—she waved a hand at the dark-haired teenage twins—“are Christian and Colleen.” They chimed hello together.

“Plus I’ve two on the way in a few months,” Maggie added. “As if it weren’t obvious,” she said dryly.

“I’m pregnant with twins myself,” Gwen confided.

Maggie’s eyes flickered strangely. “ ‘Tis easier that way,” she said. “You get them over with two at a time, and I always wanted a dozen or so. I’m Maggie MacKeltar and my husband should be out in a moment.” She turned to the steps and shouted, “Christopher, do hurry, she’s here!”

“Coming, love,” a deep baritone voice replied.

Gwen frowned, puzzled, wondering what Maggie had meant by “she’s here.” Had they mistaken her for someone else? Perhaps they were expecting someone, she decided, maybe they were hiring a nanny or a maid and thought Gwen was that person.

Cara tugged impatiently at Maggie’s arm. “Mama, when are we going to show her—” Cara began.

“Hush,” Maggie said swiftly. “Run along with you and Cory. We’ll be in shortly. Christian, you and Colleen go help Mrs. Melbourne lay the tea in the solar.”

“But, Mom—”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

I’m going to have to clear up this case of mistaken identity,
Gwen thought, watching the children go in. She didn’t care for the thought of misleading Maggie MacKeltar. Then all thought fled her mind as Maggie’s husband, Christopher, stepped out of the castle. Gwen sucked in a breath, feeling suddenly faint.

“Aye, the resemblance is strong, isn’t it now?” Maggie said softly, watching her.

A dark lock of hair fell over Christopher’s forehead, and he had the same extraordinary height and muscled body. His eyes were not silver, but a deep, peaceful gray. He looked so much like Drustan that it hurt to look at him.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Gwen stammered, trying to compose herself.

“I mean he looks like Drustan,” Maggie replied.

Gwen opened her mouth but nothing came out.
Like Drustan?
What did they know about her and Drustan?

“Och, Gwen Cassidy,” Christopher said with a thick Scots burr, “we’ve been waiting for you for some time now.” Smiling, he slid his arm around Maggie’s waist. They both stood there, beaming at her.

Gwen blinked. “How do you know my name?” she asked weakly. “What do you know about Drustan? What’s going on here?” she asked, her voice rising.

Maggie kissed her husband’s cheek, slipped from his embrace, and tucked her arm through Gwen’s. “Come in, Gwen. We have much to tell you, but I think you might be needing to sit while you’re hearing it.”

“Sit,” Gwen repeated dumbly, her knees feeling weak. “Good. Sitting would be good.”