Everlastin' Book 1 (27 page)

Beth forced herself to peer
into the radiance. Images began to move toward her.

“Ma? No. No! Leave me
alone!”

One of the countless shadowy
figures continued in her direction as the others stopped. A moment
later, Rita Staples stood before Beth, as real as anything Beth had
ever seen. Her arms were held out. A beguiling smile was on her
lips. The lines of pain that had rapidly aged her during her
illnesses, were not present.

“Don't be afraid, Beth.
We're all going to be together again.”

Beth stepped back, shaking
her head repeatedly. “You're an illusion.”

“Take my hand.”

“No! I did everything I
could for you, Ma. It may sound selfish of me, but I want my life
back!”

“It's too late,
hon.”

“I know you're hiding behind
a mask of her, Lachlan! Stop this!”

“Beth.”

“Go away!”

The light, images, and Rita
Staples, vanished.

Struggling with each breath,
Beth quaked. She desperately needed to feel anger, but she couldn't
summon it. She was beyond fearing madness, too. Her instinct to
survive, to cling to life, was the sole driving force keeping her
mind and spirit united.

As seconds ticked by, she
calmed until she felt she was in control again. She could only bide
her time until the drug wore off. Once she escaped its influence,
she would be free. Free of Lachlan. Free of the lies. Free to
experience a life she'd as yet only dreamed about.

Faraway voices caught her
attention.

Keening an ear, she waited
breathlessly for a time before fleeing the attic.

She dashed downstairs and
through the greenhouse. Throwing open one of the outer doors, she
ran out into the late afternoon air—and gasped at the chill that
embraced her.

Her eyes wide with
disbelief, she looked about the landscape. Everywhere lay coatings
of sleek ice and glittering frost. The change in season so
perplexed her, she almost didn't notice a bent figure walking
toward a red van parked at the corner of the house. A crunch of ice
penetrated her stupor.

Recognition slammed
home.

Running toward the figure,
she cried, “Agnes! Agnes, wait!”

Beth came to an abrupt halt
and stood rigid in disbelief when the cook turned and stared at her
through a look of utter horror. Her reasoning beginning to spin in
her head, Beth tried to force herself to concentrate.

She looked halfheartedly
aside.

Was Agnes part of the winter
wonderland illusion?

Her gaze shifted back to the
cook, whose frail body was covered in an oversized blue coat. A
dark blue knitted cap was pulled low on her brow, concealing most
of her white hair.

No illusion,
Beth realized, her flared nostrils breathing in
deeply the crisp scent of winter. Gathering her wits, she breached
the distance and managed a light laugh. “Agnes, I'm so glad to see
you!”

It didn't pass Beth's notice
that Agnes seemed to have aged drastically. The shrewd eyes were
sunken and underscored with shadows, and seemed far too large. The
lines around her mouth were deeper, the skin covering her distinct
cheekbones, taut and owning of a grayish pallor.

“I'm sorry if I startled
you,” Beth went on, desperation etched in every fiber of her being.
“I was beginning to think no one would ever show up here
again!”

Agnes' arm flew up in front
of her face to ward off the sight of Beth.

“What's wrong? Agnes,
please, say something!”

The arm lowered. Watery blue
eyes swept down the length of Beth then Agnes quickly blessed
herself and started to turn.

“Agnes, please!” Beth
gasped, placing a restraining hold on the woman's arm. “I have to
talk to you!”

Fear emanated from the
woman's eyes as she swung her head around to look up at Beth. The
wrinkled mouth drew down at the corners. The sagging chin quivered.
She turned to face Beth, a film of tears misting her
eyes.

“Wha' are you doin' here,
lass?”

“Well, uh, I haven't been
able to leave. I know this sounds crazy, but I, ah, haven't been
well. Yes, I've been ill. The last I remember, it was....” Beth
made a helpless gesture with her shoulders and completed with a
shaky laugh, “summer.”

“So sorry, so sorry,” Agnes
murmured.

“Help me,” Beth pleaded then
was distracted when someone in the van turned on the engine. She
could see a man sitting behind the wheel, but she was anxious to
persuade Agnes to help her escape Baird House.

“Agnes, I need a ride to the
airport. Please, I know I'm imposing, but I have no one else to
turn to.”

Her voice trailed off as the
old woman began to weep. A handkerchief was withdrawn from one of
the coat pockets. Agnes dabbed at her eyes with a trembling gloved
hand, her gaze trained off to one side to avoid looking at
Beth.

“Agnes, I wouldn't
ask—”

The van door
opened.

Frustrated with the
intrusion, Beth watched a man climb out and amble across the
gravel. He was a large man, nearly as tall as Lachlan, but built
larger through the chest and shoulders. Coming to stand at Agnes'
side, he scowled at Beth as if her presence was some kind of threat
to the elderly woman.

Instinctively, Beth
stiffened. But her defensiveness was betrayed by the haunting
desperation in her eyes.

“Is there a problem here,
Aunt Aggie?” he asked gruffly, looking suspiciously from Agnes'
sickly pallor to Beth.

Beth looked the stranger
straight in the eye. “I was only trying to ask Agnes for a
favor.”

“Take me home, Roan,” Agnes
whimpered, holding dear to her nephew's arm as she turned her back
to Beth. “I'm no' feelin' too weel.”

The man's thick,
sandy-colored eyebrows arched above soft-brown eyes. “Do you know
this womon, Aggie?” he asked, his gaze unsettlingly searching
Beth's features.

“Aye,” Agnes whispered, then
closed the gloved-gnarled hand over the handkerchief and held it to
her breast. Taking a steadying breath, she forced herself to look
at Beth. After a tense moment, she vainly attempted a
smile.

“Aye, I know her. You took
me by surprise, Miss.”

“I'm sorry,” Beth said
irritably, although she was trying not to succumb to a strong urge
to flare up at the man's continued perusal. “Agnes, I really need
to get to the airport. David and Carlene haven't returned, and
Lachlan's...he's, ah, he hasn't been himself. I just want to return
to the States.”

Again Agnes' reaction took
Beth aback. The old woman released a wretched wail and turned away.
Before Beth could think to stop her, Agnes was shuffling awkwardly
over the slick ground. The passenger door slammed shut before Beth
took a step in the vehicle's direction.

“Wait,” the man warned,
gripping Beth's upper arm. “Ye're an American, aren't
you?”

Beth glared at the large
hand then looked up. “Yes, I am. Now if you would kindly take your
oversized mitt off me!”

The man's grip lessened, but
remained firm enough to keep her in place. Although she didn't feel
threatened by him, her temper began to warm her insides.

“Mister—”

“Ingliss. Roan
Ingliss.”

With an inward groan, Beth
irritably brushed her unruly hair back from her face with the back
of a hand. “Then perhaps, Mr. Ingliss,
you
can help me.”

A look of wariness crept
into the man's eyes. “Depends on wha' you need, lady.”

“A ride to Preswick
Airport.”

“The airport?”

“I can pay you in American
money for your trouble.”

A smile tugged at the corner
of Roan's mouth. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what an
American was doing at this place. His aunt had told him the last
resident—also an American woman—had died some months
ago.

Releasing Beth, he called
over his shoulder, “Aunt Aggie, come here.” He waited for several
long seconds before issuing, “Aunt Aggie, it’s too damn cold to be
tryin' ma patience. Come along now.”

The van door
opened.

Roan looked at the stranger
and found her anxiousness to be a curious thing. Then it dawned on
him that the perplexing Yank was wearing nothing more than a lace
gown.

“Are you tryin' to put
yerself down wi' pneumonia?” he asked harshly. Yanking off each
glove and tucking them beneath an arm, he began to unbutton his
lamb's wool coat. “You must be frozen near to death—”

Then something extraordinary
materialized beside the woman.

C
hapter 10

A man appeared alongside the
young woman with such unexpectedness, Roan was momentarily frozen
in shock. There was little else he could do but stared
incredulously into the riveting dark eyes across from
him.

“She needs
naught
from you!” the new
arrival said, his tone as acid as his fierce look.

Struck speechless, Roan
continued to gawk at the man. His heart thundered almost painfully.
If he didn't know better, he'd swear the stranger's gaze was
condemning him. Never had he witnessed such tangible hatred in
another man's face. If the newcomer's eyes could strike him down,
Roan was sure he would be lying on the ground, his blood spilling
from his body.

“Get off ma property, you
Ingliss swine!”

Roan gave a shake of his
head. He glanced over his shoulder to see his aunt frozen in place,
the look on her face bringing home a reality Roan wasn't sure he
was ready to accept.

He'd heard tales of the
ghost of Kist House all his life, but to be confronted with him was
mind-boggling—certainly something he never really expected to
personally experience. But the man's sudden appearance from out of
thin air was not something a living being could accomplish, unless
he was a magician.

“Return to the house,”
Lachlan ordered Beth, his gaze continuing its slow drill into
Roan's face.

Beth's eyes flashed up at
his profile. “I'm going home!”

Lachlan clenched his teeth
so hard, a muscle bunched up along his jawline. “You
are
home! Now, get in the
house! I'll join you when ma business wi' this Ingliss swine is
finished.”

“Wait just a damn minute,”
Roan sputtered.

Quaking with anger, Beth
stiffened and looked at stranger. The man's face was racked with
uncertainty and awe, but she sensed a strength in him that offered
her hope of escaping the insanity she'd been trapped within since
her arrival.

“Will you give me a ride to
the airport, Mr. Ingliss?”

Roan swallowed hard when
Lachlan Baird's scornful eyes delivered him a mute warning. But he
wasn't a man who easily gave in to intimidation. He was also
concerned for the woman.

What on earth was a
ghost—although he was still having trouble accepting the man as
such—doing with a flesh and blood beauty like the
American?

“Aye, Miss, I'll give you a
ride, but first I need to have a word wi' His Nibs.”

“I'll no' let you leave,
Beth,” Lachlan growled, his glower riveted on Roan.

“Get yer things together,”
Roan told Beth. “I'll be waitin' here when ye're ready.”

“The hell— Beth!” Lachlan
barked when she whirled away in the direction of the house. “You
could at least give me the courtesy o' hearin' me ou',
first!”

“Drop dead!” Beth hissed
over her shoulder.

“I
am
dead!”

Lachlan sucked in a breath
as Beth ran to the house. When he looked again at the Ingliss man,
fury masked his face. “You've a lot to learn, laddie. This once
I'll forgive yer arrogance, but the next time you
interfere....”

His face flushed with
anger, Roan released a mocking laugh. “Don't waste yer threats on
me,
old
mon. If no'
for you makin' a bletherin' fool ou' o' ma cousin, and Aggie
pleadin' wi' me to take over the work here, I'd no' be dirtyin' ma
boots on yer damned soil.”

A sardonic grin sprang to
Lachlan's mouth. So, at long last, one of the Ingliss clan showed
some spine. He sensed a strength in this one that, were it owning
of anyone else, he would have admired. But this was an
Ingliss
, and the presence
of Ingliss blood, warm and flowing through a living body, clouded
Lachlan's thinking.

“So, ye're to take Borgie's
place, are you?”

Roan flexed his shoulders
beneath his lamb's wool coat. “Wi' a few revisions to the
arrangement.”

“Wha' be they?” Lachlan
asked in a low, sinister tone.

“We Inglisses have been
little more than slaves to you in the past, Baird.”

“The term 'slaves' applies
to human bondage. We both know there's no' a worthwhile human trait
in one o' yer clan. Tis a debt to me and this house you
owe.”