He set the paper on his desk. “I give it no credence. But I will admit to trying to make you feel better.”
“It’s a terrible thing, whether I believe a word of it or not. So much hatred carved into a stone for eternity.” She took the paper and put it back in her satchel. “Do you know how the stone was broken? And why part of it’s at Ceo Castle? That seems like the last place anyone would want it. Did Annie MacBean say anything to you after I left?”
He looked as if he were debating whether to tell her the truth.
“Please, Alasdair.”
“Aye. She said that many years after the stone was carved there was a battle for possession of it between the MacFarlanes, who had it, and the Rosses, who wanted it. The Rosses believed that if they could destroy the stone, they could also abolish the curse. Somehow, in the raid, the stone was broken. The Rosses captured only a portion, but their chieftain refused to destroy it, saying that unless it was destroyed in its entirety, the curse would no’ be lifted. He was never able to obtain the second piece, so before he died, he had his portion added to the battlements at Ceo Castle as a reminder to his kinsmen that they should be ever vigilant.”
“Was he mad, Alasdair? Was that why he had it put there?”
He looked away. “Why do you ask?”
From the carefully blank expression on his face, Billie realized that Alasdair knew about the real curse in Iain’s family. It wasn’t surprising. Iain’s father had died in this hospital, and judging from the bevy of filing cabinets, all records from the inception of the hospital were probably still accessible. For all she knew, Iain’s own records made note of the possible fate that awaited him. It would only make sense, since this was the first place he would be brought in a medical emergency.
She hedged her answer. “Only a madman would want to display the evidence of the hatred directed toward his family.”
“The times were different. Even sensible men were gripped by superstition.”
“You know, it didn’t take me long to find the second part of the stone. Now anyone who wanted to could dig it out of that field and throw it in Loch Ceo, along with the one from the castle—if they could get it out of the wall.”
“Modern men realize that problems can no’ be solved so easily.”
She stretched out her hand, and he took it. “Thank you for translating for me.”
“I would say it was my pleasure, but it was no’.”
She turned as if to leave, but at the doorway she faced him again. “One more thing.”
“Anything, Billie.”
“This is a question to the physician, not the translator.”
He nodded.
“I’ve discovered that a close friend of mine has a hereditary neurological disease in his family.”
Alasdair’s expression betrayed nothing.
“He feels his only recourse is to live the rest of his life alone. He’s afraid that if he takes a wife, she’ll be forced to watch him suffer, and that if he has children, they may suffer from the disease themselves.”
“It sounds as if he’s given it muckle thought.”
“I think so, yes. But there’s a test that can rule out the disease at least some of the time, and he refuses to take it.”
“That’s certainly his right.”
“I can’t understand it.”
He smiled sadly. “Put yourself in your friend’s place, Billie. Without the test he still has hope. With an inconclusive response on the test, his hope narrows considerably. Would you want to know the hour of your own death, or that you faced a terrible ordeal at the end of your life? It’s not cowardice that keeps your friend from seeking answers. Living with uncertainty takes a special kind of courage.”
* * *
Fearnshader, with all its rooms and endless vistas, often seemed like a prison to Iain. He had one true retreat within its walls, one where he never invited even his closest friends. The conservatory had been added to the house by his mother, who had ordered a more utilitarian version torn down to make way for it. She hadn’t been a fanciful woman, or a greedy one. Her desires had been remarkably simple and her lifestyle modest, despite his father’s wealth. The conservatory and the gardens surrounding it had been her only extravagances. She had yearned for her childhood home in Sussex, with its moderate climate and longer growing season, and the conservatory had assuaged her loss.
Iain’s father had spared no expense when having the conservatory constructed, and it had become a luxurious, pampered retreat from gloomy Scottish winters. It was a room for gala parties, with Japanese lanterns strung from the rafters and profusions of exotic blossoms scenting the air. During his childhood, the conservatory had often seemed like the heart of his home.
After his parents’ deaths, Iain had returned from his years at school to find the conservatory badly neglected. The lush tropical plantings that his mother had so loved had either vanished or badly deteriorated after her death. He had hired a gardener immediately to salvage what he could, but without his mother’s tender care and devotion, the conservatory seemed doomed.
Until he had taken it over himself.
Iain had not relished the idea of doing the work. As a child he had potted plants beside his mother and, with her careful guidance, learned proper names and growing habits. As a young man he had remembered nothing from those days except their mutual joy when a tenderly nurtured plant had flourished and grown. But faced with the prospect of losing this last potent link with his mother, he had begun to read and experiment.
Now, years later, he had returned dying specimens to health and replaced others with the identical varieties that his mother had listed in her gardening journal. He had added his own favorites, camellias and passion flowers and a magnolia tree so rare that he had been forced to wager for it in a poker game. Now there was a fountain in the center that emptied into a water garden of iris, lilies and goldfish. Somewhere along the way the conservatory had become his passion and, possibly, his salvation. Today it was neither. He had risen from bed, put on faded blue jeans and an old rugby shirt, and come to the conservatory before breakfast. It was now afternoon, and he hadn’t left its glass walls. He had tried to lose himself in his work and to reestablish the fragile peace he often found here, but he hadn’t succeeded.
The words of the MacFarlane curse continued to run through his head like a litany. When he heard Billie call his name from the doorway, it almost seemed as if he had conjured her from the ashes of dying hopes.
He turned and gazed at her for a moment, but he was careful that his face registered no expression. Then he turned back to his work.
Obviously she hadn’t expected a welcome. She crossed the room and stood beside him. “I had no idea you were a gardener.”
He was pruning with wickedly sharp shears. He chopped off a shoot he had considered keeping. “I’m not.”
“You could fool me.”
“It’s just something that has to be done.”
“And there’s no one else in the whole of Scotland who you could hire to do it?”
He looked up again. He wondered if all the things he felt shone somewhere deep in his eyes. “Why are you here?”
“Somebody with a little white cap and a dust mop let me in. Gertie’s gone, I take it, or I’m sure I would have had to fight her tooth and nail to find you. You’d have had to sweep up the pieces.”
“She knows I prefer not to be bothered when I’m here.”
She registered no hurt, although he knew her well enough to be certain he had wounded her. “Did you have the conservatory built yourself?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then it’s been here for a while?”
“Aye.”
“It’s almost too wonderful to be real.” As if her sole purpose were casual, meaningless conversation, she fingered a tendril of the vine he was pruning. “I think I know this one. What do you call it?”
“Campsis radicans.”
“We call it trumpet vine at home. But I�
�ve never seen one with a variegated leaf.”
He took another whack, then started destroying another useful arm of the vine. “Did you come to discuss horticulture, Billie?”
“I’d love to see this in bloom. How do you suppose someone bred this incredible specimen?”
He didn’t, couldn’t, answer without saying a million other things.
“I have an uncle with a nursery, and his passion is hybridizing new varieties of impatiens. I think you call them busy lizzies here, don’t you?” She was too smart to wait for a response that wasn’t going to come. “For years Uncle Phil’s purpose in life was to create a deep scarlet impatiens with double blossoms. After years of experimentation and failure and more experimentation, he finally succeeded. He got one perfect plant. Exactly what he wanted.”
Iain stopped mutilating the vine and leaned against the stone planter. The shears dangled from one clenched fist. Framed against a row of blossoming orange trees, Billie had never looked more appealing. She wore blue today, a blue so vibrant it seemed to crackle with electricity, and her cheeks were already flushed from the moist heat of the room.
“But there was just one problem.” Billie could probably see him from the corner of her eye, but she didn’t turn. She continued to finger the vine. “After the plant bloomed, it began to shrivel. He took cuttings before it died and rooted them, but they bloomed and began to shrivel, too. So he took cuttings from those. The same thing happened. Finally, generations of cuttings later, years after anyone with a lick of sense would have quit, Uncle Phil took another batch. There were only a dozen little plants left by then, and he was getting tired of trying, but he’s a stubborn man, a real Harper, so he just refused to give up. The plants bloomed and started to shrivel, too, just like all the others. Except one. One of them didn’t. It was as healthy as could be. Perfect and healthy and fabulously beautiful. And now that one perfect plant is patented, and my uncle is selling its progeny for a small fortune to specialty nurseries.”
She touched one of the largest leaves, stroking it with her fingertip. For a moment he could almost feel her touching him the same way. “Do you suppose the same thing happened here? That someone refused to give up after failures and more failures? That someone just kept trying until they got one vine like this?”
She was breaking his heart, but Iain’s tone was sardonic. “Subtlety is not your strong suit.”
“True.” She tried to smile and failed. “Honesty is. I know that taking cuttings from flowers and gambling that you have a future are two very different things, Iain. But I also know that sometimes things come right for no good reason at all. You have one chance in two that you’ll live to be a healthy and happy old man. And I can’t bear the thought that you’re going to throw that chance away. Because the way you’ve chosen to live isn’t going to make you happy, even if you live to be ninety.”
“Do you really believe I haven’t considered this on my own?”
She faced him, hands at her side. “I believe you’ve considered it. By yourself. Without giving anyone else a chance to say their piece. I’ll bet that even Duncan and Andrew don’t know about this, do they?”
She must have seen from some faint change in his expression that she was correct. She touched his arm, fingers resting lightly there. “Don’t the people who care the most about you deserve a place in your life and in your decisions?”
“The people who care the most are the ones who will suffer the most.”
“Isn’t that their choice? Or will you leave Druidheachd in five or ten years and settle somewhere far away while you wait for the disease to show itself?”
“And if I did?”
“Those of us who care would search the ends of the earth to find you.”
He closed his eyes. Just for the briefest moment. But he was afraid she saw his despair anyway. “Some of us would take our chances, Iain,” she said softly. “Some of us would feel blessed to share whatever good time is yours, whether it’s an hour or the rest of a long, healthy life.”
He shook off her hand. “You have no idea what you’re offering to risk.”
“Risk? Because I’m a MacFarlane and that dooms the relationship between us? I know the curse. I know every bit of it now. It’s nothing but words. Vile, hateful words. And it can’t mean a thing if we don’t let it.”
“This is about genetics, not curses!”
“It’s about choosing between fear and hope, and I don’t care what anyone says! You’ve chosen fear!”
“It’s about risks, Billie, and what can happen if the gamble fails.”
She no longer pretended she was talking about Duncan and Andrew. “But isn’t that my choice?”
The pruning shears clanged to the ground, but he hardly noticed. “Let me tell you a story. I turned ten just a few months before my father died. There had always been a special celebration on my birthday, but obviously there was no cause for celebration that year. I suppose you might say it was a relatively good day for my father, because he knew who my mother and I were. He called us both to his bedside, and he tried to talk to us. By then forming words had become almost impossible, because he couldn’t control his lips or tongue. When he couldn’t make himself understood we tried to calm him, but he grew more agitated. I finally realized what he was saying. He was trying to tell me that I should never have been born. I was much older before I found out what he had meant, but I’ve never forgotten that birthday. My father battled incredible obstacles to make me understand that it was up to me to be sure that no other Ross suffered the way he had. And the way that I probably would in the future.”
Billie was struggling with tears. He could see them gleaming unshed. “I know I have no right to criticize your choices. No one has that right. But I’m telling you that I’m willing to stand by you.” She reached out and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Please, let me.”
He covered her hands with his, pushed them to her sides and held them there. “And then what? Would you stay with me out of pity when I started to forget who you were? Look at this, Billie. Do you know why I wear this ring?” He held up his right hand, where he wore the band of twisted white and yellow gold on his little finger. “It was my mother’s wedding ring. I wear it to remind myself what she endured.”
“Iain—”
“Would you sit beside my bed when I could no longer move on my own, or swallow, or speak? Or what if I show no signs of illness? What if we have ten wonderful years and I still seem perfectly healthy? Would you begin to push me to reconsider my decision to remain childless? Would you start talking about the odds of having a healthy child, or about adoption? Because we could never conceive a child together, and we couldn’t adopt one, either. I won’t bring children into a hell like the one I endured.”
“We don’t need to have children.”
“You weren’t born to be my nurse.”
“You’re taking my choices away from me.”
He struggled to harden his expression and seal off his heart. “You have no choices. You’re a wonderful woman, a breath of fresh air, but I don’t want you in my life. I’ve never wanted anything except to be left alone with my problem, and I still don’t. I hope you’ll believe me and do just that.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He folded his arms to keep from reaching for her. “That’s one choice I’ll leave you.”
Her eyes were drowning in tears. “I love you, Iain. I don’t know how it happened, or when or why, but I know we were meant to be together. I’ve danced around it through this whole conversation, but there it is. I don’t know how, but I fell in love with you the first time we met, exactly the way Christina must have fallen in love with Ruaridh.”
“But I will not die in your arms the way that Ruaridh died in Christina’s!”
“Tell me. For God’s sake, tell me how and why they died and let’s be done with it! Because it’s haunting us both!”
He saw he was going to have to hurt her more. “It’s not a bonny tale. There
’s nothing for either of us to be proud of in it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Against all odds Christina and Ruaridh were married in secret by a sympathetic priest who believed, like a fool, that their parents would become reconciled and forge new ties. But when the marriage was discovered, Christina was locked away by her father, the priest was put to death, and an emissary was sent to the pope to request an annulment. Ruaridh and some of his loyal kinsmen came to rescue her, despite his own father’s command that he denounce her. They managed, in the dead of night, to find and release Christina, but the following morning when they neared Ceo Castle they realized they were under pursuit.”
He paused, but there was no way to avoid the rest. He plunged on. “As they rode toward the castle, they called for the drawbridge to be released, but Ruaridh’s father refused. He left Ruaridh and Christina to the mercy of both the Ross and MacFarlane men. The MacFarlanes were led by the cousin to whom Christina had been betrothed, and he was particularly vigilant. Ruaridh retreated to Cumhann Moor, hoping, I suppose, to make it into the hills, where they stood a better chance of fighting off their pursuers. But once on the moor Ruaridh was wounded immediately. As Christina cradled Ruaridh in her arms, her cousin plunged a sword into his heart. Then he turned on her.”
“It’s just a story! It has nothing to do with us.”
He grabbed her and held her away from him. “You of all people know the power of legends. Maybe this one doesn’t have anything to do with us, but I will not have it repeated more closely than it has been already. I will not sacrifice you on the altar of my family’s curse. I will not put you in danger, Billie, nor will I allow you to suffer because of me.”
“Do you love me, Iain?”
“What I feel doesn’t matter!”
“Of course it does. If you love me, too, then we can face this together.”
“There’s no hope of that.”
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