Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2)

by Avril Borthiry

  *

  Giselle sat by the window, fiddling with the end of her braid as she watched a couple of ravens fighting over some obscure object in the courtyard below. Their comical antics made her smile. The birds argued as two children might over the possession of a toy, though their harsh caws were anything but childlike. At last, after a good amount of bickering back and forth, one of the ravens snatched the object from the other’s beak and took to the air on powerful wings. The second bird, voicing his apparent displeasure, set off in pursuit.

  Giselle watched as the ravens headed out over the loch, eventually disappearing into the distance. She wondered, vaguely, what coveted morsel had been the cause of such a fracas. The amusing little scene had granted her a temporary respite, a distraction from the private sorrow she battled each day.

  She ceased fiddling with her braid and placed her hand atop her womb, where her child rested, awaiting its birth. The quickening had first happened three days earlier as she’d been preparing for bed. A fluttering, like the wings of a tiny bird, deep within her core. Instinct told her what it was and the miracle of it had stolen her breath. It had been a moment of wonder and joy. A sweet affirmation that life thrived within her. It should have been a moment shared with the child’s father. With the man she loved.

  Giselle had cried herself to sleep that night, whispering words of regret to her mother’s spirit, for the lady had surely suffered a similar anguish – worse, even.

  Thrusting such thoughts aside, she shifted in her chair, closed her eyes, and sought to find solace in those blessed facets of her life. And there were many. She had come to love Glenross and its people, who all treated her with genuine kindness. Not once had she felt the hostility of judgmental or suspicious eyes.

  At first, communicating had proved to be something of a challenge. Other than Hamish, Rob and Maggie, few folk knew French, and Giselle had no knowledge of Gaelic. Since then, she had learned a fair smattering of the ancient language, understanding more than she spoke. But Hamish still often served as an interpreter.

  The door creaked, drawing her attention, followed by the soft tread of a foot on the wooden floor.

  “It’s all right, Maggie,” she said, assuming it was the housekeeper who approached. “I’m not asleep.”

  A shadow moved across the window, dimming the light that seeped through her lashes. She blinked and squinted up at the silhouette before her. Her mind faltered, refusing to acknowledge what her eyes beheld. Despite her claim to the contrary, she must have, indeed, fallen asleep, with this the result. A merciless dream. An image so wretched and so authentic it set her poor heart racing.

  Wake up. Please, wake up.

  She blinked again.

  Sweet Jésu. It couldn’t be. Had she lost her mind? Blood rushing in her ears, she dared to speak, though her words came out as little more than a whisper.

  “No, this cannot be real.”

  “Tell me if this feels real to you or not,” Luc said. Then he bent and kissed her. Giselle made a sound against his mouth, one that echoed her utter shock and disbelief. As he drew back and knelt at her feet, she touched her lips and stared at the man she loved. The man she thought she’d never see again. Were those tears in his eyes?

  “Luc! What… what are you doing here?”

  He took her hand in his. “I have come home.”

  Home? Giselle’s heart clenched. She pulled her hand free and touched his face. “I dare not believe what my eyes and ears tell me.”

  He pressed his lips to her palm. “Believe it. I am here. And I swear to you, I have no wish to be anywhere else. Forgive me, Giselle.”

  Trembling, Giselle blinked back tears. Dare she trust him? Truth shone in his eyes, but she had been misled before. What had changed? What had brought him back to Glenross? It must not have been an easy journey, either. His appearance brought to mind a shipwrecked soul who had just crawled ashore. As he had once before, when he’d saved her life.

  “But what of Dieudonné?”

  He gave a weary smile. “I placed it back in Henri’s hands.”

  “You…?” Giselle shook her head. “But it gave you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

  “I thought so.” He frowned and wiped a thumb across her cheek, catching an errant tear. “Henri once told me I was no different than other men. That we each had our price. I soon discovered Dieudonné fell far short of mine. I was fooling myself. Everything I ever wanted is right here. I should never have left you.”

  “Oh, Luc.” It was all too much. Giselle buried her face in her hands, sobs shuddering through her.

  “Nay, hush.” Luc leaned over and pulled her into his arms. “Please don’t cry. I can’t bear to see you cry. I’m sorry beyond words for betraying you. In doing so, I also betrayed myself. I love you, Giselle. I’ve loved you since you stood on that burning deck and absolved me of my vow. I hereby renew that vow. I swear before God, I’ll honor and protect you for the rest of my life. Please marry me. I can think of no greater reward under Heaven than to have you as my wife.”

  Giselle didn’t answer right away. Not that she had any doubt of what the answer would be. Luc de Warenne had just picked up a thousand pieces of her broken heart and put them back together. But he needed to be told the truth. She gathered her wits, raised her head and swiped away the tears.

  “There’s something you should know,” she said, sniffing, “before another word is spoken.”

  A brief flicker of apprehension crossed his face. “All right. What is it?”

  She swallowed over the lump in her throat. “I carry your child.”

  He opened his mouth as if to respond, a small frown creasing his brow as he drew back from her. His gaze dropped to her belly and rested there a moment before he placed a gentle hand atop the slight swell of her womb. “My child?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, I…” He raised bewildered eyes to hers. “Christ, Giselle, did you ever mean to tell me?”

  She shook her head. “I wanted to. I was going to, but when I heard you’d been given Dieu—”

  “What? You knew about this before I left Glenross?”

  “Yes.” Tears welled again. “I suspected it even before my father arrived on the island. I had intended to tell you that same day, but never got the chance.”

  His jaw tightened. “So, you let me return to France, knowing you carried my child.”

  Unsure of where his apparent animosity lay, Giselle suppressed a shudder.

  “I felt I had little choice. I was afraid you’d come to resent me if I spoke of it and forced you to stay.”

  He groaned and cupped her cheek. “Oh, my love. What untold anguish have I caused you?”

  “You’re not angry with me?”

  “With you?” He shook his head. “Never. Angry at myself for being so blind. My God. A child. Our child! I assume Hamish knows?”

  “He’s known all along.” Giselle smiled. “He’s been wonderful. Everyone has.”

  “Hmm.” A thoughtful expression settled on Luc’s face. “When history is ignored, it tends to repeat itself.”

  Giselle frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Something Hamish said to me the day I left. I didn’t understand it at the time, but now it makes sense. Come here.” He stood, pulled her to her feet, and gathered her close. “There’ll be no seclusion for our child. Nor for its mother.”

  Giselle gazed at him through a veil of tears. “I still find this hard to believe. I’m terrified I’m going to wake up and discover it’s all a dream.”

  “I promise you it’s real.” Luc stroked her hair. “I have missed you so much. So, what is your answer? Will you grant me my greatest wish?”

  “Oh!” A burst of happiness flooded her entire being and, deep inside her womb, a tiny life fluttered. “My answer is yes, Luc de Warenne. I will be your wife. There is nothing I want more.”

  Chapter 20

  Hamish saddled Falchion and rode out under a full moon. Not that he held the celestial body
in any particular regard. He applied no romantic notions to it, nor did he feel the fabled effects of its power. Its splendor, of course, could not be denied. The way it forged the mountains in silver and cast its brilliant image upon the placid surface of the loch – ’twas a sight to stir the most steadfast of souls. But essentially, for Hamish, it served only to light his way.

  The stones beckoned. Nay, the past beckoned. But one could not be reached without the other. It was, undoubtedly, a miraculous thing to enter one stone circle and exit another in less time than it took to saddle a horse. It defied belief, surpassed the boundaries of mortal comprehension. But, when measured against a bigger truth, it became trivial magic.

  The actual power of the stones gave permission to surpass far greater boundaries. The circles were, indeed, gateways. Portals created by the Tuatha Dé, an ancient and mysterious race, whose provenance seemed to defy man’s holy teachings. The outline of a star, engraved into the earth and into the rings, alluded to their origins.

  The true purpose of the circles was to unlock the door of time past. But to cross this most sacred of thresholds required an exclusive passport. Only those descended, those who held the keys, had leave to travel through history. And even then, they could only bear witness to events, remaining invisible to those around them. The past could be seen, but not touched.

  With one exception.

  If the event was part of their personal past, they might choose to relive it. Feel it. Sense it. Be a part of it. But only if the others involved had already surrendered their souls to the afterlife. A moral stipulation.

  Hamish, therefore, was free to venture back in time and relive precious moments with his father, his mother. Ninian.

  And now, one other.

  Death had taken Isabeau’s future, but in doing so it had granted her past – their past – to Hamish. As he rode, he also pondered the inevitable demise of the magic and his inability to prevent it. A day would come when the power of the unique thresholds would also be relegated to history. Over the centuries, the pure blood of the Tuatha Dé, blended with that of mortals, had thinned. With each new generation, the ability to navigate through time decreased. Not so far in the future, these wondrous glimpses into the past would become impossible.

  Unused, the power of the stones would then subside and the turbulence of mankind would infiltrate the mòr sìth. Eventually, the true purpose of the circles would be lost to legend and become mere tales, beloved by bards and mocked by scholars.

  This inevitability had prompted Ninian to begin his writings. Using the island as his personal gateway, he had travelled widely and often, bearing witness to events, recording them for posterity. The ring, of course, served as his key.

  On this night, Hamish would not be bearing witness. He would be reliving an event, one dearer to his heart than any other. As he drew near to the stones, he felt the heady thrill of arousal.

  Isabeau was there, in the past. Waiting for him. Wishing for him. On this night, he would relive their sweet union. He would hold her, make love to her, and conceive their child. He would tell her about the magic of Glenross. And he would give her the ring, exactly as he had before. Nothing would change.

  As man and horse neared the sacred hill, Falchion slowed to a gentle trot. Hamish leaned forward and murmured in the stallion’s ear. “Ye’ll wait fer me by the hawthorn,” he said. “’Tis nighttime and there are wolves hereabouts. Do ye understand? They’ll no’ come close tae the stones, so ye’ll be safe as long as ye stay put.”

  Moments later, Hamish reined the horse to a halt, slid from his back, and threw the reins over a thorny branch. Above him, the stones shone silver-blue in the moonlight. As he set foot on the path, he heard a familiar caw overhead and looked up.

  Two ravens circled overhead, black silhouettes against a star-strewn sky. An unusual sight, given the hour. Was it yet another a portent? A warning, like last time? Hamish paused and glanced back at Caisteal MacRoth, which stood in regal silence beneath the moon. He felt no sense of dread. No apprehension.

  He lifted his gaze skyward again. “What are ye doin’ here?” he asked of his mysterious companions. “What is it ye want?” The response came in the form of a soft thud by his feet. Hamish looked down, taking a moment to understand what lay by the toe of his boot. “My thanks,” he said, bending to retrieve the ancient ring. “Timely, too. I’ll be givin’ it away again in a wee while.”

  He continued his climb and entered the circle, allowing the mòr sìth to steal the noise from his head. He approached and placed his ringed hand against the ancient stone, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he found the memory of that night. It had been a night much as this one – moonlight, stars, silent shadows. A night made for love.

  “I wanted you. I wanted you to love me, Hamish MacRoth.”

  He stepped forward into the past.

  “Isabeau.”

  She gasped, her tear-stained face pale in the night. Ah, how it tore at his heart to see those tears. To hear her whisper of disbelief.

  “No. This cannot be real.”

  Like a ghost, he emerged from the shadows to stand beside her bed.

  “Tell me if this feels real tae ye or no’,” he said.

  Then he bent and kissed her.

  Epilogue

  With nightfall, the song of Eilean Gheata had become a lullaby. In the absence of a breeze, the waves whispered rather than roared as they tumbled ashore. The majority of seabirds had taken to their nests or found roosts on precipitous ledges. Only one or two dared to take flight, evident from a flash of pale wings in the dark and the occasional, solitary cry. Not a single cloud obstructed the stars. Even the moon was absent, perhaps scared into hiding by the spectacle currently unfolding across the northern heavens.

  “It’s like a horde of dragons doing battle.” Giselle gazed up at the sky and leaned back into the fold of Luc’s arms. “It’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Above them, the lights shimmered and danced, undulating in vivid rainbows of color as if blown by some celestial wind. The splendor of the north, Hamish called it.

  Consumed by a sudden feeling of utter contentment, Luc slid his hands across the increasing swell of Giselle’s belly. He gave silent thanks as he listened to the sacred sound of air entering and leaving her lungs. It confirmed the presence of her soul and the beating of her heart.

  Or two hearts, presently, since a tiny one was still safely ensconced in Giselle’s womb.

  Luc shifted his gaze earthward. Somewhere out there, a fine, black stallion roamed the windswept plateau. Luc had decided to leave Minstrel on the island. It had become the horse’s domain, one he now shared with three pretty mares that had been shipped over. A gift from Hamish. Bella and her fellow goats had been moved to the mainland, but the chickens still roamed around outside Ninian’s cottage.

  Since their marriage three months earlier, Luc and Giselle often visited Eilean Gheata, using the magical gate, of course. Sometimes they would only spend a few hours; usually on bright, sunny afternoons when Luc would hoist himself onto Minstrel’s back and ride the island paths. Giselle always took time to visit Ninian’s grave, which now had a carved stone slab atop it. The inscription, in Gaelic, read ‘A traveler at rest’.

  An odd epitaph, Luc thought, considering the old man had spent most of his life on an island. He commented as such to Hamish, who merely gave him an enigmatic smile and told Luc he’d explain it one day. More tales of magic, no doubt. Not that Luc questioned the enchantment of Glenross anymore. Instinct told him the circles hid other secrets – far greater secrets. In time, he might be privy to them all.

  A stone cross had also been placed above the spot where the Marguerite’s blackened hull rested on the beach. Eventually, the tide-washed timbers would rot away. But the marker would remain, a monument to those who lost their lives on that terrible night.

  Despite the sad tributes that were now part of the island’s landscape, Luc and Giselle still enjoyed the privacy
of Eilean Gheata, and often chose to stay overnight in Ninian’s cottage. The little house had been made more comfortable in anticipation of such visits. Hamish, however, had also made a stipulation.

  “Both of ye may, of course, come and go as ye please,” he’d said, “but dinna even think of livin’ on the isle permanently. Glenross is yer home, as it should be. I’ll have it no other way.”

  Home, indeed.

  Luc wouldn’t have it any other way, either.

  The End

  About the Author

  Born and raised in Cumbria, England, Avril now resides in Ontario, Canada. A lover of history, legend, and romance, her books embrace those elements. Her Welsh/Irish roots also weave their way through much of her writing, and she does have a bit of a dark side too, which sneaks out now and then. When not writing, she enjoys reading, walking her dog, and spending time with family and friends.

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  www.avrilborthiry.com

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