Chapter Eighteen #2
“Who’s there?”
The shadow stepped into the moonlight, revealing long hair the color of midnight and bright green eyes that sparkled in the gloom.
“Jenna,” he breathed.
“I… I… missed you at the party,” she said softly. “The man on the gate said I could find you here.”
She’d missed him. His heart thrilled with pleasure to hear that.
“What are you doing?” Her eyes alighted on the cemetery, and her mouth formed a little O. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Ye are not. I just come here when I need to think.”
She sat down on the bench next to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth from her skin and smell the soap from her hair. “And what is it you need to think about?”
Ye, he thought. About how ye have turned my world upside down. About how I canna bear the thought of ye going home. About how I canna tell ye any of this.
But aloud all he said was, “Lots of things.”
Jenna nodded then turned and stared out at the rows of graves. Her gaze traced the names carved on his father and brother’s crosses, and her expression softened. “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”
He looked at her sharply. “What wasn’t?”
“What happened to your father and brother? It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”
Arran’s nostrils flared. His breathing quickened. “I… um… I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. I recognize that look in your eyes because I used to see it in my own whenever I looked in the mirror. You have to let it go. The guilt. That nagging voice that says you could have done more. That if only you’d been better, done things differently, they’d still be alive.”
Arran was shocked by her insight. His chest was suddenly heaving, stomach roiling.
He’d never heard his innermost feelings spoken aloud before.
He’d never given voice to the turmoil that roiled inside him ever since his father and brother had died.
He thought he’d kept it carefully hidden, buried beneath the facade of the strong-willed laird.
But he hadn’t. He hadn’t been able to hide it from this twenty-first century woman who seemed to see him more clearly than anyone ever had.
He opened his mouth for a quip, a denial, a rebuttal of what she’d said, but instead, the words that tumbled from his mouth were, “I dinna know how.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it? Believe me, I know. But you have to find a way, Arran, otherwise it will crush you. Nobody could have done better than you have. Not your father. Not your brother. You need to stop comparing yourself to them.”
The moonlight lit the edge of her face, outlining it with silver. “How do ye see these things, lass? Yer magic?”
She snorted softly. “Not magic. Just experience. Like I said, that look on your face is one I used to see in the mirror all the time.”
“Yer mother?” Arran asked softly.
She went rigid, and Arran knew he’d guessed right. She didn’t answer for a long time and sat staring out into the darkness. Finally, she nodded.
“Yes, my mother. I blamed myself for her death for the longest time. She had cancer, you see, and the doctors said there was nothing that could be done. But I didn’t accept that. I was a MacFinnan spellweaver, damn it! I could do anything! But I couldn’t, and she died.
“For years after that I carried around guilt like a millstone. If I’d only found the right spell.
If only I’d worked harder. If only I’d thought of something we hadn’t tried.
If only this, if only that. But it doesn’t work, Arran.
It just chews you up inside.” She laid her hand on his arm, and his skin tingled where she touched him.
“None of this is your fault, just like what happened to my mother wasn’t mine. It’s just… life. Bad shit happens.”
Arran smiled wryly. “Bad shit happens. Ye certainly have a way with words, lass.”
“What can I say? I’m a poet.”
“I’m sorry about yer ma, lass. I’m sorry that happened to her. To ye.”
“So am I. But the past is gone, and the future is yet to be determined. All we have is now. That’s all any of us ever have.” She blinked, as if surprised by her own words. “Wow. I almost sounded wise then, didn’t I?”
Arran laughed softly. “Aye, lass. Careful. Ye’ll get a reputation.” He met her gaze. “What am I going to do without ye?”
He hadn’t meant to say those words, but they were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
Jenna stared at him, and he could see a swirl of thoughts and emotions in her eyes.
An ache lit inside him, a deep, almost painful longing for this woman.
Was this what love felt like? This almost primal need for another?
Like he wasn’t whole unless in her presence?
She said nothing. Then, slowly, she reached up and ran the tips of her fingers down his cheek. Then, in a swift movement, she slid closer on the bench, leaned in, and kissed him softly.
He’d dreamed of this. He’d longed for it ever since he’d made love to her on the beach. This was real. It was now, and Arran felt himself getting lost in this moment. Getting lost in her. He cupped her face and kissed her back.
But then it was over.
Jenna pulled away. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Yes, you should, Arran thought. His muscles trembled with the effort of not reaching out, not pulling her close and kissing her into submission.
“It’s all right, lass,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“No,” she replied. “No, it isn’t.” She wiped a hand across her forehead.
“Oh God, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this!
What happened between us at the beach, Arran, I…
I… thought it would just be a one off. A bit of fun.
That I could live with it being no more than that.
But I… I keep wanting more. I keep wanting you. ”
“Then what’s the problem? We’re two grown adults. We—”
“I can’t!” she said, wringing her hands. “I can’t do this. I can’t take this step. I promised myself I wouldn’t. Never again. Not ever, ever again.”
Her eyes shone with sorrow and old pain. Someone had hurt her. Badly. That was what she was trying to tell him, that she would not risk her heart again. Fury bubbled in his stomach. Not at Jenna. Never at Jenna. But at whoever had hurt her so badly.
He tamped down on the desire burning through his veins. Tucked away that awful, bone-deep longing. Shut away the feelings that were threatening to overwhelm him. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. But he’d do it. For her. For her, he’d do anything.
He leaned forward, placed a kiss on her forehead, then rose to his feet, holding out his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “We’d better get back to the feast before my mother sends out a search party.”
Jenna smiled wryly, took his hand, and let him pull her up. “We wouldn’t want that, would we? The laird and the spellweaver being caught together in the cemetery? Imagine what the gossips would make of that.”
“Nothing close to the truth, I’d wager. Come. There’s a flagon of whisky inside with our names on it.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”