Page 88 of Hard-Hearted Highlander
“Bernadette—”
“When I lost that child, I lost the ability to bear children. I will spare you the horrifying details of it, but you must know that I am worthless to you.” She looked up.
“That doesna make you worthless—”
“Of course it does,” she said bitterly. “Don’t be a fool, Rabbie—you will want heirs. Just go, will you?”
Rabbie didn’t move. He stood rooted, staring at her, his expression incredulous and confused. Or perhaps it was revulsion she saw in him. Well, then, so be it. If she could change the truth, she would give all that she had to do it, but she couldn’t. “Please, I am begging you—just go.” She felt ill, felt like she might faint, and she turned away from him, moving unevenly to the window.
“Verra well,” he said, his voice so low she could scarcely hear him. She heard him quit the room, heard his footfalls on the stone floor, heard the door open and shut.
Apparently, Rabbie couldn’t forgive everything. Bernadette turned around, hoping that she’d somehow misheard, hoping that he was still standing before her. But he was gone.
She bolted for her room and the window, bracing against it, watching him ride down the road, away from her, his horse at a gallop. He wasracingaway from her. He couldn’t wait to be as far from her as he possibly could, and she didn’t blame him.
She turned from the sight of his departure and threw herself on her bed as sobs racked her body. She loved Rabbie Mackenzie. Against all odds, she’d found someone to love again, and her father was right, she’d destroyed everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RABBIE’SGRIPOFthe reins had been so tight that his fingers ached. He stretched them out, then closed them, then stretched them again as he walked to the edge of the cliff.
He stood there, his hands on his waist, his mind a chaotic brew as he tried to grasp the implications of what Bernadette had told him. She was ruined for any gentleman—he could well imagine how quickly the fops and dandies in England would shun her. Most Scots would shun her, too.
In all honesty, her news had given him some pause, as well—it was one thing to accept the woman you loved had given birth to another man’s bairn. It was quite another to know the woman you loved couldn’t give you one. But nevertheless, Rabbie had heard her news and had seen her in a different light. His good opinion of her had not changed—if anything, it had made his heart ache for her.
He understood her loss. He realized that the whole of her tragedy had been as great as his, and yet, she’d managed the consequences with grace.
Hers was a sobering story, and while Rabbie was grateful to her for telling him the truth, he could not deny it had affected his earlier optimism and hope that after long last, there might be happiness for him. Because in these last days, when he’d thought of Bernadette, he’d thought of family. He’d thought of sons and daughters, of a raucous household like the one in which he’d been raised. That dream had faded somewhat.
He glanced down at the cove below. The sea was calm, and from this high above it, the water appeared to be gently lapping the shore. It was, and always had been, a safe harbor.
A safe harbor.
Rabbie suddenly realized what he had to do. He stepped away from the edge, returned to his horse and rode for Balhaire.
When he reached the bailey, he handed the horse over to a stable hand and strode into the castle. He did not go to the great hall, but went directly to the kitchen.
Fiona and Ualan were there, all right. Ualan was at a small table near the window, polishing silver. Fiona was seated on a stool, her ankles crossed and her feet swinging above the ground. She was humming as she carefully cut potatoes.
“Aye, sir?” Barabel asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Rabbie should have been more attentive to these children, but his own pain and guilt had kept him from it. From quite a lot of life, he realized, and he was suddenly ashamed of it. He wanted to discard the hurt, toss it aside like a worn bit of plaid. He looked at the MacLeod children and thought of how desperately they needed someone. As Vivienne had said, someone to look over them, to tuck them in at night.
“Can I do something for you?” Barabel asked in Gaelic.
Both children looked up then. Fiona gasped with delight. “Did you bring us sweetmeats?”
“Uist,”Barabel said, scolding the lass into silence.
“Beg your pardon, but I’d like a word with Fiona and Ualan,” Rabbie said.
Fiona didn’t wait for permission; she hopped off the stool. Ualan looked concerned. Rabbie motioned for them to come, and Ualan put his cloth down and followed Fiona as she hopped to where Rabbie stood.
Rabbie took them out into the corridor for a bit of privacy, and there, he stared down at their upturned faces, debating how to say what he wanted to convey.
He squatted before them, so that he could look them in the eye. He spoke to them in Gaelic. “We’ve something in common, did you know it? When you lost your parents, I lost my fiancée. I was to marry your Aunt Seona. Had they not gone away, we would be a family now.”
“Wewould?” Fiona asked. “Where did Aunt Seona go?”
