The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  How had she failed to realize that by saving him, she would lose him forever? Now, looking back, she couldn’t believe she’d not once thought through to what the inevitable finale would have to be. Love had blinded her, and in retrospect she realized that she hadn’t wanted to think about what might happen. She’d studiously blocked thinking about anything to do with physics, busy savoring the simple joy of being a woman in love.

  “No,” she cried. “How am I supposed to live without him?”

  Tears slipped down her cheeks. She scanned the rocky terrain, seeking the ravine down which she’d tumbled, but even that was gone. There was no longer a crevice splitting the northeast face of the foothills. The gypsies must have had some part in creating it, she realized, perhaps lowered him though it, who knew?

  What she did know was that even if she dug beneath the mountain of rubble upon which she perched, she would find no sleeping Highlander beneath it.

  “No!” she cried again.

  Yes, the scientist whispered. He’s five hundred years dead.

  “He’ll come through the stones for me,” she insisted.

  But he wouldn’t. And she didn’t need the scientist to point that out. He couldn’t. Even if he had survived the arrow wound, he would never use the stones. It would be like someone saying to her, “If you finish your research, create the ultimate weapon and unleash it upon an unsuspecting world, you can have Drustan back.”

  She could never release such capacity for evil, no matter the enduring grief.

  Nor would he. His honor, one of the many things she loved about him, would keep them forever apart.

  If he’d even survived.

  Gwen dropped her head against the rock, scooped her pack into her arms, and clutched it tightly. She might never know if he died from the arrow wound, but if he hadn’t died in battle, he’d still died nearly five hundred years ago. Grief smothered her, grief more intense than anything she’d ever imagined. She buried her face in the pack and wept.

  It was hours before she managed to force herself up from the rocks and hike down to the village. Hours in which she sobbed as if her heart would break.

  Once in the village, she’d gone to her room and checked in but wasn’t able to bear being alone, so she’d walked numbly down to the inn’s cozy restaurant, hoping to find Beatrice and Bertie. Not to talk—she could hardly talk about it—but to be buffered by their warm presence.

  Now, standing in the doorway of the dining room, she blinked as she glanced around the brightly lit interior. I will not start crying again, Gwen told herself fiercely. She would weep later, after she’d returned home to Sante Fe. She would fall apart there.

  The restaurant felt strange and modern to her after having been in the sixteenth century. The small fireplace on the south wall of the dining room seemed miniature compared to medieval hearths, the neon bar decorations garish after weeks of soft candlelight and oil globes. The dozens of tables, topped with vases of fresh wildflowers, seemed too small to seat guests with any degree of comfort. The modern world felt impersonal to her now, with everything churned out in mass, uniform shapes and styles.

  Her gaze drifted over a cigarette vending machine in the corner. Dimly, she realized she’d passed through the worst of withdrawal in the sixteenth century.

  Still, she felt an utterly self-destructive urge wash over her.

  Her gaze was drawn to a yellowed calendar that hung behind the cash register. September 19.

  It was the same day she’d left. But of course, she thought. No time would have passed. Perhaps a mere few moments had slipped by in the twenty-first century while she’d lived the happiest days of her life in sixteenth-century Scotland.

  She sniffed, perilously close to tears again. Glancing around, thinking Bert’s rainbow ensemble should be easy to spot, she nearly missed the lone silver-haired woman huddled in one of the booths that lined a bank of windows, silhouetted against the gathering twilight. The gloaming cast Beatrice’s complexion in bruised shadows, and Gwen was struck by how old she looked. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes closed. Her wide-brimmed hat was crushed between her hands. As a car drove by outside the bank of windows, headlights illuminated the elderly woman’s face, revealing the shiny trails of tears on her cheeks.

  Oh, God—Beatrice weeping? Why?

  Stricken, Gwen rushed to the booth. What could make cheerful Beatrice weep, and where was Bertie? From what Gwen knew of the love-struck couple, the only way Bert would leave Bea’s side was if he was physically incapable of being there. A chill brushed her neck.

  “Beatrice?” she said faintly.

  Beatrice jerked, startled. The eyes she raised to Gwen’s were red-rimmed from crying, deep with grief.

  “No,” Gwen breathed. “Tell me nothing has happened to Bert,” she insisted. “Tell me!” Suddenly limp, she slumped into the booth across from Beatrice and took the older woman’s hand in hers. “Please,” she begged.

  “Oh, Gwen. My Bertie’s in the hospital.” The admission brought on a fresh bout of tears. Plucking another napkin from the dispenser, Beatrice wiped her eyes, blew her nose, then deposited the wadded napkin atop a substantial pile.

  “What happened? He was fine just…er, this morning,” Gwen protested, having a difficult time keeping the date straight.

  “He seemed fine to me too. We’d been shopping all morning after you left, laughing and having a fine time. He was even feeling…frisky,” she said with a pained smile. “Then it happened. He went absolutely still and just stood there with the most startled and angry look on his face.” Beatrice’s eyes filled with more tears as she relived the moment. “When he clutched his chest, I knew.” She wiped impatiently at her cheeks. “The damn man never takes care of himself. Wouldn’t get his cholesterol checked, wouldn’t get his blood pressure tested. A few days ago, I’d finally managed to wring a promise from him that once we got back home, he’d get a complete physical—” She broke off, wincing.

  “But he’s alive, right?” Gwen asked faintly. “Tell me he’s alive.” She couldn’t bear any more tragedy today. Not one more ounce.

  “He’s alive, but he had a stroke,” Beatrice whispered. “Although they’ve stabilized him, they don’t know how much damage was done. He’s still unconscious. I’m going back to the hospital in a few minutes. The nurses insisted I get a breath of fresh air.” She flushed. “I couldn’t stop crying. I guess I was pretty loud and the doctor was getting upset with me. I thought I’d get some soup and tea before I went back for the night, so here I am.” She waved a hand at the plastic container of soup and sandwich-to-go.

  “Oh, Beatrice, I’m so sorry,” Gwen breathed. “I don’t know what to say.” Tears she’d been holding back slipped down her cheeks; tears for Drustan, and now tears for Bea and Bertie.

  “Dearie, are you crying for me? Oh, Gwen!” Slipping over to Gwen’s side of the booth, she hugged her, and they clung to each other for a long time.

  And something inside Gwen broke.

  Wrapped in Beatrice’s motherly arms, the pain of it all crashed over her. How unfair to love so deeply and lose. How unfair life was! Beatrice had only just found her Bert, much as Gwen had only just found Drustan. And now, were they both to suffer endlessly for losing them?

  “Better not to love,” Gwen whispered bitterly.

  “No,” Beatrice chided gently. “Never think that. Better to love and lose. The old adage is true. If I never had another moment with my Bertie, I would still feel blessed. These past months with him have given me more love and passion than some people ever know. Besides,” she said, “he’s going to be all right. If I have to sit by his bed and hold his hand and yell at him until he gets better, then tote his ornery butt to the doctor every week, and learn how to cook without fat or butter or a damn thing worth eating, I’ll do it. I am not letting that man get away from me.” She fisted her ring-bedecked hand and shook it at the ceiling. “You can’t have him yet. He’s mine still.”

  A bit of laughter escaped Gwen
, mingled with fresh tears. If only it were so easy for her, if only she could fight for her man the way Beatrice could fight for hers. But hers was five centuries dead.

  She became aware, after a moment, that Beatrice was regarding her intently. The older woman cupped Gwen’s shoulders and searched her gaze.

  “Oh, dearie, what is it? It looks to me as if you might be having a problem of your own,” she fretted.

  Gwen tucked her bangs behind her ear and averted her gaze. “It’s nothing,” she said hastily.

  “Don’t try to put me off,” Beatrice chided. “Bertie would tell you there’s no point once I set my mind on a thing. It’s not only my problem with Bertie that’s made you cry.”

  “Really,” Gwen protested. “You have enough problems—”

  “So take my mind off them for a moment, if you will,” Beatrice pressed. “Grief shared is grief lessened. What happened to you today? Did you find your, er…cherry picker?” Beatrice’s blue eyes twinkled just a bit, and Gwen marveled that the older woman could still sparkle at such a moment.

  Had she found her cherry picker? She fought a bubble of nearly hysterical laughter. How could she tell Beatrice that she’d lived almost a month in a single day? Or at least she thought she had. It was so strange coming down from the foothills to find that no time at all had passed, she was beginning to fear for her sanity.

  Yet Beatrice was right: Grief shared was grief lessened. She wanted to talk about him. Needed to talk about him. How could she possibly confide her pain…unless…

  “It’s really nothing,” she lied weakly. “How about if I tell you a story instead, to take your mind off things?”

  “A story?” Bea’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her silvery curls.

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking about trying my hand at writing,” Gwen said, “and I’ve been kicking around a story, but I’m stumped on the ending.”

  Beatrice’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A story, you say. Yes, I’d like to hear it, and maybe you and I will be able to figure out how the ending should go.”

  Gwen took a deep breath and began: “Okay, the heroine is a girl who was hiking in the foothills of Scotland, and she found an enchanted Highlander sleeping in a cave above Loch Ness…pretty far out there, huh?”

  An hour later, Gwen watched Beatrice open her mouth several times, then close it again. She fussed with her curls, fiddled with her hat, then smoothed her pink sweater.

  “At first I thought you were going to tell me something that happened to you today, that you didn’t want to own up to.” Beatrice shook her head. “But, Gwen, I had no idea you had such an imagination. You truly took my mind off my worries for a time. Goodness,” she exclaimed, waving at the plastic containers, “long enough that I ate when I was certain I wouldn’t be able to force a bite down. Dearie, you must finish this story. You can’t just leave the hero and heroine hanging like that. I can’t stand it. Tell me the end.”

  “What if there is no end, Bea? What if that’s all of it? What if she got sent back to her time and he died and that’s it?” Gwen said numbly.

  “You can’t write such a story. Find a way to bring him through the stones.”

  “He can’t,” Gwen said flatly. “Ever. Even if he lived—”

  “Oaths are a lot of nonsense when love’s at stake,” Beatrice insisted. “Bend the rules. Just write that rule out.”

  “I can’t. It’s part of the story. He would become a dark Druid if he did.” And Gwen understood how awful that would be better than most ever could. “Not one of his clan has ever broken the oath. They must not. And in truth, I’m afraid I would think less of him if he did.”

  Beatrice arched a brow. “You? You might think less of him?”

  Gwen shook her head sheepishly, “I meant my heroine in the story. She might think less of him. He was perfect the way he was. He was a man of honor who knew his responsibilities, and that was one of the things she loved about him. If he broke his oath and used the stones for personal reasons, he would corrupt the power within him. There’s no telling how evil he would become. No. If he lived—which I greatly doubt—he will never come through the stones for her.”

  “You’re the storyteller. Don’t let him die,” Beatrice protested. “Fix this story, Gwen,” she said sternly. “How dare you tell me such a sad story?”

  Gwen met her gaze levelly. “What if it’s not just a story?” she said softly.

  Beatrice studied her a moment, then glanced out the window into the twilight. Her gaze shifted from left to right, over Loch Ness in the distance. Then she smiled faintly. “There’s magic in these hills. I’ve felt it ever since we arrived. As if the natural laws of the universe don’t quite apply to this country.” She paused and glanced back at Gwen. “When my Bertie gets better, I might just take him up into the hills myself, under a good doctor’s care of course, and rent a small cottage for the rest of the fall. Let some of that magic soak into his old bones.”

  Gwen smiled sadly. “Speaking of Bertie, I’ll walk you back to the hospital. Let’s go see what the doctors can tell us. And if you need to cry, I’ll do the talking.” Although Beatrice put up a token protest, Gwen didn’t miss the relief and gratitude in her eyes.

  Gwen was relieved too, because she suspected she might not be able to bear being alone for quite some time.

  Gwen spent the rest of her holiday in the village by the deep glassy loch with Beatrice, never looking up into the foothills, never venturing forth from the village, never allowing herself to even consider going to see if Castle Keltar still stood. She was too raw, the pain too fresh. While Beatrice visited Bertie at the hospital, Gwen huddled beneath the covers, feeling feverish with grief. The prospect of returning home to her empty little apartment in Santa Fe was more than she could bear to contemplate.

  When Beatrice returned in the evenings, exhausted by her own worries, they comforted each other, forced each other to eat something healthy, and took slow walks beside the huge silvery mirror of Loch Ness and watched the setting sun paint the silvery surface crimson and lavender.

  And beneath the wild Scottish sky, Gwen and Beatrice bonded like mother and daughter. They tossed around her “story” on more than one occasion. Beatrice urged her to write it down, to turn it into a historical romance and send it into a publisher.

  Gwen demurred. It would never get published. It’s way too far out there.

  That’s not true, Beatrice had argued. I read a vampire romance this summer that I adored. A vampire, of all things! The world needs more love stories. What do you think I read when I’m sitting in the hospital, waiting to see if my Bertie will ever be able to speak again? Not some horror story…

  Maybe one day, Gwen had conceded, mostly to end the conversation.

  But she was beginning to consider it. If she couldn’t have the happily-ever-after in real life, at least she could write it. Someone else could live it for a few hours.

  Despite her relentless grief, she refused to leave Beatrice’s side until Bert was stable and Beatrice in better spirits. Day by day, Bert grew stronger. Gwen was convinced he was healing from the sheer magnitude and depth of Beatrice’s love for him.

  The day he was released, Gwen accompanied Beatrice to the hospital. His speech was impeded because the left side of his face was paralyzed, but the doctor said that in time and with therapy he might regain considerable ground. Beatrice had said with a wink that she didn’t care if he could ever speak clearly again, as long as all the other parts were in good working order.

  Bert had laughed and written on his erasable memo board that they certainly were, and he’d be happy to demonstrate if everyone would quit fussing over him and leave him alone with his sexy wife.

  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.