Kiss of the Highlander

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.