He already knew the answer to that. He’d had Rosaline to help him carry it. Two sons to help him carry it. But what did Arran have? Nobody. All these years he’d thought he could carry it alone, but now it was getting too heavy. He couldn’t stop the morbid thoughts from forming in his mind. What if he and Jenna failed? Would he be remembered as the last laird of the MacLeods of Skye? The man that oversaw the final destruction of his people?
“Arran?”
The soft voice had him spinning around, staring into the darkness. A shadow moved and his hand went to the hilt of his dagger.
“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 façade 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 betterthan 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.”
