The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,82

a bitter twist. Whatever glow had shone in his eyes was gone. What remained was flat acceptance and the barest hint of pain. “Not to worry, Miss Tulloch. It was my mistake. A bit of wishful thinking, you might say.”

Every inch of her trembled. Something was tearing out her center. She stumbled toward him. Wanted to explain. “No, English—”

But he turned away. Gathered up the items she’d brought. Raised them in the air. “My thanks for the souvenirs. When I return to England, they’ll be a good reminder of something I never should have forgotten.”

“Please,” she begged.

He strode away, ignoring her. Long strides carried him along the riverbank and into the trees then out of view.

The wind suddenly gusted, blowing her hair into her eyes. She scarcely noticed. Everything bloody hurt. So much that she bent forward, trying desperately to hold herself together. But her ribs felt battered and crushed. Her lungs wouldn’t work right.

She should follow him. She should explain, even though he hadn’t believed her the first time. Even though he wouldn’t believe her now.

But the choice was impossible. How could she have allowed herself to fall so deeply in love with him? How could she have so carelessly let Finlay’s absence make her forget?

“Lass?” Old, gnarled hands came into view. Cupped her cheeks and raised her face. “Didnae ye hear me?” The single, milky eye seemed oddly penetrating. The low, scratchy voice seemed oddly resonant. “What’s ailin’ ye, Annie?”

That was all it took for her to crumble. She collapsed to her knees, there in the grass. And for a long while, Mrs. MacBean held her while she rocked back and forth. Finally, she managed to whisper, “He wants to marry me.”

The old woman patted her back and kept rocking. “Aye.”

“I didnae answer.”

“Because of yer laddie.”

Annie nodded.

“Do ye wish to marry the man?”

Another nod.

“Aye, of course ye do.” A deep sigh. Then, the old woman pushed to her feet and bent to help Annie do the same. “Come.”

Dazed as she was, Annie didn’t argue. She allowed Mrs. MacBean to lead her back along the trail toward the castle. When they reached the churchyard, the woman tugged her toward the spot where the gate had once stood.

There, being overtaken by grass and a clump of thistles, was the wee ring of stones Annie had laid for Finlay.

“I cannae bear it,” she whispered, the confession torn from her heart. “I cannae bear to let him go.”

Mrs. MacBean squeezed her hand. “Which ‘him’ are ye referrin’ to, lass?”

The world turned watery. Light blurred and a tear splattered onto the soil. Another sharp gust blew through her, nearly knocking her flat. She clung to the old woman and gasped to catch a sob. “John Huxley.” Angrily, she swiped at her cheeks. “I love that bluidy Englishman until I cannae see straight.”

“Aye.” Mrs. MacBean patted her arm. “I ken.”

“But how can I abandon Finlay?”

“Mayhap it was always goin’ to end here.” She gestured to the unmarked grave, the little circle of stones with its tangle of weeds. “Mayhap some friends arenae meant to stay forever, but only until ye dinnae need them quite so much.”

Annie covered her eyes. Pictured Finlay’s sweet face. His wise voice—a lad’s voice carrying centuries inside it. How could she say goodbye? She’d promised to do whatever was necessary to bring him back to her.

But she hadn’t thought that would mean cutting out her own heart.

She tried to imagine feeding some other husband. Kissing some other husband. Conceiving a son with some other husband. Even if that son was Finlay, everything inside her screamed it was wrong. Annie should be John’s wife. She should feed him and love him and make him laugh because nobody else seemed able to do it quite so well.

So, she must let Finlay go. He’d be born to someone else. The void where he’d once been tethered would never entirely heal. And she would miss him. God, how she would miss him.

Another gust rocked her, colder this time. A bird called, loud and close. Annie blinked. Lowered her hand. Raised her eyes.

And there, on the tallest arch, was a white bird. It looked like a raven. She’d never seen anything like it. “D-do ye see that?”

Mrs. MacBean didn’t answer. The bird called again. Its caw was a bit scratchy and distorted. It took