Kiss of the Highlander
Page 119

Fine. So crawl back in bed, keep eating stale pizza, and refuse to wonder why you’ve been getting sick. Blame it all on stress. And when you lose our baby because you won’t take care of yourself, don’t blame me.
“Lose our baby!” she gasped. Fear knifed through her and her eyes flew wide. If there was even a remote possibility that she had a child of Drustan’s inside her, there was no way she was losing it. And afraid though she was to hope—because of how awful the potential disappointment might be—she acknowledged that there was more than a possibility. There was a probability. They’d made love repeatedly, and she was not on birth control. If she hadn’t been so lost in misery, she might have considered it sooner. If she was pregnant and did anything to jeopardize the baby, she would just die.
Stricken, she stumbled back into the bedroom, turned on the light, and took a good look around, thinking hard. Counting days, looking for clues.
Her bedroom was a pigsty. Pizza boxes, with half-eaten slices dotted the floor. Glasses with milk-encrusted bottoms were forgotten atop the bed table. Cracker wrappers were strewn across the bed: crackers she’d been nibbling in the morning to calm her queasy stomach.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Oh, please, oh, please let it be true.”
The wait to discover if she was pregnant was interminable.
No at-home pregnancy test for Gwen Cassidy—she needed to hear whatever news it was directly from a doctor.
After giving both a urine and blood sample, Gwen tapped her foot and sat tensely in the crowded waiting room of her doctor’s office. She felt wired from head to toe. She shifted position a dozen times, changed chairs, fanned through every magazine in the office. She paced. Periodically made sure the receptionist knew she was still alive.
The receptionist scowled each time she passed by, and Gwen suspected the woman thought she was mildly unbalanced. When Gwen had called earlier, nearly hysterical, insisting on seeing the doctor immediately, the receptionist had brusquely informed her that Dr. Carolyn Devore had no openings for several weeks.
Gwen had pleaded and sobbed until finally the frustrated receptionist had put Carolyn on the phone. Her dear, wonderful doctor since childhood, who’d become a friend over the years, had squeezed her in.
“Sit,” the receptionist snapped, exasperated, as Gwen paced by again. “You’re making the other patients nervous.”
Mortified, Gwen glanced around at the roomful of people and slunk back to her chair.
“Ms. Cassidy?” A nurse poked her head around the corner.
“That’s me!” She shot back up and trotted after the nurse. “That’s me,” she informed the receptionist brightly.
A few moments later, she took a seat on the examining table. Hugging herself in the chilly room, she sat, feet swinging, waiting.
When the door opened and Carolyn Devore stepped in, Gwen said breathlessly, “Well?”
Carolyn closed the door, smiling. “You were right. You’re pregnant, Gwen.”
“I am?” she breathed, scarcely daring to believe it.
“Yes.”
“Truly?” she persisted.
Carolyn laughed. “Absolutely and unequivocally.”
Gwen hopped off the table and hugged her. “I love you, Carolyn,” she exclaimed. “Oh, thank you!”
Carolyn laughed again. “I can hardly take credit for it, but you’re welcome.”
For several minutes, all Gwen could do was repeat “I’m pregnant,” a delighted smile on her face.
“You need to gain weight, Gwen,” Carolyn chided. “I squeezed you in this afternoon because you sounded so awful on the phone. It worried me.” She paused, as if searching for a delicate way to continue. “I know you lost both your parents this year.” Her brown gaze was sympathetic.
Gwen nodded tightly, smile fading.
“Grieving takes its toll. You’re ten pounds lighter than you were at your last checkup. I’m starting you on supplements today and putting you on a special diet. It’s fairly self-explanatory, but if you have any questions, call me. Eat. Feel free to stuff yourself. Go overboard for a while.” She gave Gwen a folder of menu suggestions and a bag of sample supplements to tide her over until she went to the drugstore.
“Yes, ma’am,” Gwen promised. “Scout’s honor. I’ll gain, I promise.”
“Will the father be helping you?” Carolyn asked carefully.
Gwen took a deep breath. I am strong, she told herself. My baby is depending on me. “He’s…um…he, er…died.” The word escaped in a soft rush of air; merely saying it hurt her to the marrow in her bones. Five hundred years ago, she didn’t say. Carolyn would have packed her off to a cushy, padded hospital if she’d said that.