Everlastin' Book 1 (33 page)

“You're full of
it.”

Lachlan thought about this
for a moment then groaned. “So it was no' the damn gown, but it
rattles me to see you wearin' somethin' as...as dolor as tha'
rag.”

“Dolor?”
What does dolor mean?
Beth
laughed. “You just want to dictate what I wear. Well, I won't stand
for it. I like the dress. I like the way it feels on me, and I
intend to wear it.”

“And if I said I loved the
damn thing, you'd toss it in the fire!” With a sound of disgust, he
swooped the gown up into a hand and tossed it to Beth. “Fine. Have
it yer way! But I'm warnin' you.” He leveled an isolated finger and
wagged it at her. “A mon only has so much patience, and ye're
tryin' mine to the quick! You know how I feel abou' tha' dress, so
dinna come to me in it again.”

Beth quickly slipped into
the gown and, while Lachlan watched her with a scornful eye, she
tied the belt into a neat bow then flamboyantly twirled the end of
the ribbon to annoy him.

“Ye're an incorrigible
tease,” he scowled.

“Poor baby.” Smiling
sweetly, she added, “I hope your 'business' proves satisfying,
Lannie, because it's going to be a very long time
before—”

“I've a mind as to the rest
o' the taunt,” he interjected irritably, and arched a censorious
brow. “You've yet to come to know wha' makes a good relationship
work.”

“Oh, really?”

“Be snide to yer heart's
content, but I...
ma fine
lass
...take ma responsibilities verra
seriously. Tis the difference between a mon and a womon, and why
tis the mon who's always worn the pants in the real
world.”

Beth was too stunned to
speak right away. Then, shucking off her stupor, she calmly gripped
the front of Lachlan's shirt and jerked him forward, placing their
faces inches apart. “I'm beginning to understand why Tessa dirked
you. I'm feeling the urge myself.”

Shaking himself free,
Lachlan took two paces back. “Now dinna you be attackin' ma
monhood!”

With a pointed glance down,
Beth quipped, “It's your one asset.”

“Och! You've a mouth tha'
needs a good washin'!”

Beth
poofed
away.

After giving an exasperated
roll of his eyes, Lachlan muttered, “Wha' a mon does for
love.”

C
hapter 12

Giving in to his
restlessness, Roan left his cozy quarters in the carriage house.
His gloved hands lifted the lamb's wool collar of his coat as he
leisurely strolled toward the west grounds. The air was crispy
cold, but clean and invigorating. The downy snow that had fallen
the previous evening was only ankle deep, but covered slick, frozen
older snow. Frost and ice glistened like diamond dust on the naked
branches of trees and shrubs.

Stopping at the fenceline to
the Lauders' property, he gazed wistfully across the pristine
fields. The house to the far side of the field was lit up. He
wondered if the family was gathered around a wood stove, sipping
tea or hot cider as he wished he was at this moment. He hated being
at Baird House, hated it more every morning when he awakened and
looked out at the manor.

Wrapped in melancholy, he
pushed away from the fence and, mindful of his steps, headed back
along the same path. But instead of returning to the carriage
house, he took a snow-covered footpath by the main house that led
to the north pasture. He still wasn't sure what had brought him out
on this night, but something was beckoning him.

Lights came on in the
library, the unexpectedness of the occurrence causing him to nearly
jump out of his skin. He glowered at the windows covered within by
sheer amber curtains, then carried on with his walk. He came to the
edge of the wooded area that boarded the uncluttered north field,
and was about to turn back when he spied movement by the solitary
tree in its center.

Roan crouched low and
squinted hard to better discern the figure in white. In the past
weeks, he'd seen Beth Staples wandering about the place, most times
striking him as being the loneliest soul he'd ever known. He had
never felt the slightest animosity toward the woman—ghost. The few
times she'd spoken to him while he was going about the work in the
first fireplace, he'd found her pleasant and easy to talk to, as
long as the master of the house was not mentioned.

And yet it was because of
the master of Baird House that he was there, subjecting himself to
the intervals of visits from Lachlan, the baiting remarks issued to
provoke him into walking off the job, or perhaps into inciting a
showdown.

If Roan'd the slightest idea
how to fight a spirit, he would certainly provoke such a match, but
as it was, he was as helpless as a child on that score. He wasn't
even sure how much damage Lachlan could actually do to a living
being. From Borgie's accounts of what had happened to him—in his
own house, no less—Roan knew Lachlan did own of some kind of
power.

Beth Staples was his only
hope.

Rising and stretching his
stiff legs, he watched the figure for several seconds longer. The
nacreous field between him and her was bathed in blue moon-glow,
making the distance appear eerie and starkly remote. His courage
wavering, he glanced back at the house. Only a glimpse of window
light could be seen through the ice-laden tree branches and the
evergreen shrubs. But that glimpse was enough to fuel his
determination to sway the woman—the female ghost—to his
side.

A thin layer of ice on the
field gave a crunch to his footfalls as he made his way to the
solitary tree. Beth was waiting for him when he came to a stop
several feet away from the headstone she was standing behind, her
fingers absently smoothing the top of the stone's rounded
edge.

“Good evenin',” he said
lamely, a nervous twitch of a smile playing on his lips.

“How long were you watching
me?”

Roan dipped his bare hands
deep into his coat pockets. “I wasn't sure if I should
intrude.”

“How's the work
going?”

“Verra weel. I'm waitin' for
a shipment o' mortar to come in. Two or three days.”

“Are you comfortable enough
in the carriage house?”

“Surprisingly, I am, thank
you.”

Roan appeared startled by
something, and began to unbutton his coat. But as he was about to
shuck out of it, he stopped and shook his head as if to clear his
thoughts. “Aren't you cold?”

Beth smiled. “Actually, I'm
between the two worlds right now.”

“Between?”

To explain, she calmly moved
one of her hands through the headstone. When Roan's expression
became sickly, she stopped.

“I don't feel anything at
the moment.”

Roan slowly fumbled to
rebutton his coat, his gaze glued on her face. “When
ye're....”

“Solid?”

“I guess tha's a good way to
put it.”

“Yes, when I'm 'solid', I
feel everything as I did before I died. I can even enjoy food, and
soaking in a hot bath.”

Roan was impressed, if not
befuddled. But he was losing sight of his objective.

Casually stepping closer, he
looked at Lachlan's headstone. His gaze darted to the one beside it
and he felt his insides tighten. When he looked into Beth's eyes,
he was unsettled to find her watching him with uncanny
calm.

“Are you angry abou' losin'
yer life so young?”

“Not anymore. It was hard,
at first.”

Pulling a hand from a
pocket, he rubbed an earlobe nipped by the cold air. “I guess it
would be— Weel, I guess it's no' a subject you care to
discuss.”

Beth came around the
headstone and stood directly in front of Roan. He couldn't stop his
gaze from sweeping over her figure, lingering on the feminine
shoulders left nearly bare. When he realized he was treading on
dangerous ground, he quickly looked away and pretended to reread
the words and dates on the laird's headstone.

“What do you think of this
dress?”

Roan's head snapped around
and he glanced over the gown briefly before looking into the
alluring eyes studying him.

“The dress?” He swallowed
and managed a strained smile. “It's fine lookin'. Why do you
ask?”

“I'm not trying to seduce
you,” Beth chuckled.

Crimson stole into Roan's
cheeks.

“I only asked because
Lachlan hates it.”

“Mmmm.”

“Which means, you probably
love it, right?”

“Aye, I do like
it.”

“Does it make me look like
a...
bloody
spook?”

Roan smiled at the accent
she affected. “Weel, Beth, it's got a flow abou' it. And the
sleeves. I guess you could say it adds to yer mystique.”

With a lopsided grin, she
admitted wryly, “Maybe he does have a legitimate reason for
disliking it.”

“The old mon? I wouldn't let
him talk you ou' o' it—”

Roan nearly choked on his
words. Although Beth laughed softly, he felt as if his humiliation
would melt him into the ground.

“I didn't mean tha' like it
sounded.”

“I know. Roan, did you come
here to talk about something specific?”

“It was just somethin' I've
been wonderin'.” Resisting a notion to moisten his dry lips with
the tip of his tongue, he shuffled himself more comfortably within
his heavy coat. “You know, I see you sometimes wanderin' around. I
get the impression ye're no' happy.”

“You're wondering why I
stay.”

Roan nodded. “Is it him
keepin' you from goin' on?”

Unbeknown to Roan, annoyance
began to simmer within Beth. “You make it sound like I'm his
prisoner.”

“Seems to me, you
are.”

Beth moved swiftly, catching
Roan off guard. He gasped as something passed through him,
something so cold it could not be of his world. Every nerve in his
body seemed under assault by ice-hot sensations, and turning one
hundred and eighty degrees, he gaped at the woman in something akin
to horror. He realized she had passed through him but the why of
her action befuddled him.

“I'm not a prisoner here,”
she said in a chiding tone, her body held rigid. “Let me ask you
something, Mr. Ingliss.” She stepped up to him and directed his
attention to Lachlan's headstone. “Does it bother you that
he
died young?”

As hard as it was for him to
look upon the fury in her eyes, Roan did. And with the moon's blue
glow on her face, her features were all the more eerie, rivetingly
haunting.

“I can't say I feel anythin'
for him, no' efter wha' he's put ma family through all these
years.”

“But you see, that's the
whole problem. Lachlan isn't the only one holding a grudge. Do you
know what's really holding him here?”

“Spite.”

Beth whirled away in
exasperation. When she faced Roan again, he was stunned to see
tears in her eyes.

“Try to imagine what it was
like for him that night! Roan, for one minute, try to imagine
someone you loved stabbing you in the heart, then coldly telling
her real lover to dispose of the body. Lachlan was still alive when
Robert was walling him up.”

Feeling his stomach churn,
Roan tried to turn away, but Beth solidified and her icy fingers
clamped onto his chin and forced him to face her. “Robert knew he
was entombing a live man! Think about what must have been going
through Lachlan's mind while he was waiting for death. Imagine
being in that cold, dark place in the tower, knowing you're slowly
bleeding to death, and wondering if you'd suffocate
first!”

“Stop!”

Roan wrenched free and
staggered back. He leaned against Beth's headstone, struggling
inwardly to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. Fearfully
staring at the woman, he swallowed what seemed to be his heart
rising in his throat.

“Actually,” Beth went on in
an airier tone, determined one way or the other to penetrate the
hatred bred into this man's heart, “Lachlan's got quite a sense of
humor in regards to that whole business. The part he's having
trouble coming to terms with is the fact that after your family
found his remains in the tower, he was buried out here like some
evil thing to be forgotten. Not a tear was shed for him.

“Lachlan has all his
faculties and emotions. He can be hurt, and his emotional scars are
greater than you could ever imagine.”

“I can't change wha'
happened in the past!” Roan cried, straightening up. “My cousin's
hair turned snow-white efter Lannie nearly scared him to
death!”

“Borgie?”

“Aye, Borgie. He's younger
than maself!”

“Your cousin,” Beth began
stiffly, her tone as chilling as the night air, “kindly offered to
let me use the phone at his cottage. We ended up in a wrestling
match, Roan. Lachlan showed up in time to save me from a degrading
act.”