Kiss of the Highlander

“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.