Everlastin' Book 1 (34 page)

“Borgie tried to force
himself on you?”

Beth gave a stilted
nod.

After several moments of
trying to digest this information, Roan stated huskily, “But you
were already dead when it happened.”

“I wasn't aware of it.
Obviously, neither was your cousin.”

“Damn,” Roan breathed, his
expression racked with guilt. “I'm sorry, Beth. Truly, I am. I
should have guessed there was mair to the story than Borgie let
on.”

“You're hoping I'll go on,
and Lachlan will follow me.”

The dully spoken words
knocked the breath from Roan.

“Don't bother to deny
it.”

“I'll no' insult yer
intelligence by tryin'.”

“Good, because I won't leave
him. I love him.”

She released a laugh that
was choked with tears. “It's impossible not to love him, but your
family won't even try to know him!”

“He's been dead
for—”

“Can you explain to me why
you always refer to him as a
man?”

Roan looked helplessly in
the direction of the house then despondently into Beth's eyes.
“This world is for the livin'. You and I both know
tha'.”

“It's the living keeping him
here. Roan, for as long as you and your family resent his presence,
Lachlan will remain. It isn't the house keeping him here. The
house...what he calls his 'treasures', they're all he's had, but
they're not the chains keeping him earthbound.”

“He has you,
now.”

“I'm not enough.” Beth
lowered her head and tried to still the threat of tears. “I don't
have the power to heal his wounds.”

“Or the will?”

Roan's sarcastic tone
brought Beth's head up sharply. “You really don't understand, do
you?”

“I guess no'.”

“Has he offered you pay for
your work?”

Taken aback by the
left-field question, Roan took a moment before replying, “Aye.”
Fishing into his right pants pocket, he withdrew something and held
it up for her to see. “A ruby equal to a month's work.”

“He's paying you in precious
stones?”

Nodding, Roan rolled the
stone around in his palm. “He was remiss to tell me he has a wee
chest hidden away in the attic.” His dryness remained when he
looked up at Beth. “I believe he's hopin' I'll prove to be a
thief.”

Beth sighed. “That explains
his generosity in paying you.”

“Aye. Look, Beth, I'm sorry
ye're in the middle o' this. But there's nothin' you can say or do
to change wha's between ma family and Baird.”

“Except to pass on? Well you
can forget that idea.”

“It's the only way....” His
words trailed off when her attention was drawn to the sound of
vehicles pulling up at the house.

“Are you expecting
company?”

Roan replaced the precious
stone in his pants pocket. “It's All Hallows Eve. I daresay the old
mon is entertainin' the loony troop.”

“The what—oh, never mind.
It's Halloween already?”

“Aye.”

“Does Lachlan do this every
year?”

“As far as I know, he does.
It makes for comical readin' in the papers for a time efterward.”
Roan poised his hands to accentuate his next words. “LAIRD OF KIST
HOUSE RETURNS to LAMENT HIS HEINOUS MURDER. All the locals know
he's here all the time but still the papers write up their crazy
stories.”

“Holding these séances is
Lachlan's way of repaying Viola Cooke for her help over the
years.”

“Aye, I know abou' her, but
trust me, lass, Baird's main objective is to poke jabs a' ma
ancestors over the wrongs they done him.”

“I hardly think Lachlan
would stoop that low.”

“Ask him. He'll tell you
right quick he looks forward to this night. Gives him a chance to
reopen the wounds o' the past. A friend o' our family sat in on one
o' these séances once. He claimed old Lannie put on quite a show,
no' leavin' ou' a single, bloody detail o' the whole affair. So,
you see, Beth, it's hard to leave the past be when there's so much
still breathin' life into it.”

“How far are you willing to
bend to end this feud?” Beth asked softly.

“I'll no' shed a tear over
him, if tha's wha' ye're askin'.”

Beth began to dissolve.
“Wrong answer.”

When Roan could no longer
see her, he shouted, “Then wha' is it you want me to say? Ye're the
only one who can end this!”

“Wrong again,” came a
zephyrous voice. “It's between you and Lachlan.”

* * *

A singsong moan filled the
dining room, augmenting the chilling ambiance of the flickering
candlelight that cast squirming long shadows on the walls. The
moaner, sitting regally at the head of the table, lifted her aged,
finely-boned hands in a gesture of supplication.

“Come to us, spirit,” she
warbled, her eyes closed to the enraptured audience who filled the
rest of the twelve chairs about the table. “Hear us and obey.
Appear!”

This was Lachlan's
cue.

Positioning himself between
the two worlds, he began to expose a translucent self to the
anxious group. He intended to play his part to the hilt this year,
right down to the smallest detail. He'd taken particular care in
his choice of dress this evening. Although he'd died in a
nightshirt, he refused to be caught dead in one again. In lieu of
his actual cerement, he wore a ragged, full-sleeved white shirt,
and black, tight-fitting pants with slashes about the
thighs.

He was barefoot.
Burdensome-looking chains were draped from his shoulders and arms.
And to further compliment his efforts to appear the unfortunate
victim of a love triangle, he manifested a delightful greenish aura
about him.

The séance group was too
intensely watching Viola Cooke's antics to notice Lachlan's
wavering presence by the cold fireplace. This piqued him, but he
didn't lose heart. He couldn't risk doing anything too suddenly.
The old tickers about the table had to be taken into
consideration.

The head of
Call Way
moaned as she
rolled her silver, curly-locked head from side to side. How she
knew she wasn't sure, but Viola was aware that Lachlan had
materialized behind her. The drama she was lending to the sham
invocation was for the benefit of those watching her. It simply
wouldn't do for Lachlan to nonchalantly appear and have a
nice
tete-a-tete
with them. No, that wouldn't do at all. The credibility of her
grandmother's organization was at stake and, like her grandmother
and mother before her, she preferred her one-on-one relationship
with the charming laird to remain just that.

“Come to us, Lannie Baird.
Breach the barrier separating you from your former life and connect
with us once again.”

More groaning.

“I beseech you, spirit,
appear.”

Straining not to grin,
Lachlan raised his arms and rattled the chains. As expected, the
elderly visitors riveted their attention on him. Three new members,
the youngest of which was eighty-one, nearly bolted from their
chairs, their eyes wide with fear. Lachlan felt a strong compulsion
to laugh. To camouflage this, he raised his hands to his face. The
loud clanging of the chains covered the sounds of his mirth until
he was able to bring himself under control.

Then he lowered his arms, in
a deliberately slow manner that always pleased the onlookers, and
through a scowl, he demanded,
“Who...has...summoned...me?”

Viola Cooke settled her
rounded body more comfortably on the chair. Although she dearly
wished she could watch Lachlan perform, she was careful to stare
ahead, trancelike.

“There are a few among us
who doubt the existence of the afterworld. Enlighten the
disbelievers, spirit.”

Lachlan released a groan to
abort a gurgle of laughter.

“The efterworld is for
those freed o' their earthly bonds. I...
canna...leave...here...
ever.”

“Tell us why,
spirit.”

“Betrayal and greed shackle
me to this purgatory.”

Lachlan moaned piteously,
thrilling the rapt audience. He swayed. The chains jangled. “The
livin' continue to dirk me.” He sank to his knees, his hands held
out. “I...can...find...
nooo
... peace!”

“Oh, give it a
rest.”

The omnipresent voice even
stunned Lachlan, whose darting glance swept the room. He had a
terrible suspicion who the voice belonged. There was something very
familiar about the snide tone.

Viola searched the mixed
expressions of her companions. She hadn't a clue who had spoken.
“Spirit?”

Refusing to dwell on Beth's
reasons for interrupting 'business', Lachlan forced himself back
into his expected role. “I...am...here.”

“Is there another spirit
trying to contact us?”

The laird slowly rose to his
feet. “I...have...sent...the... disrupter...away.”

“Do you have any idea how
ridiculous you look?” chided the omnipresent voice.

Chagrined, Lachlan tried to
ignore the questioning looks trained on him. Even Viola turned in
her chair to arch a pale eyebrow in his direction.

“I...am...a lost soul!” he
cried theatrically, throwing his arms wide in hopes his lady love
would abandon her scheme to mortify him. “I...come...ta— Ooh, sweet
Jesus,” he groaned as a beautiful apparition began to form on the
center of the dining room table. “No' now, darlin'!”

Beth fully materialized, her
stance held regal with anger, her arms folded against her chest.
She didn't spare the visitors a glance. Her stormy gaze was riveted
on Lachlan, much to his distress.

“You had to come,” he
scolded, his hand gestures making the chains ring discordantly.
“Why, I ask? Are you tha' determined to spoil wha' little happiness
I get in this life?”

Beth lowered her arms to
her sides, clenching and unclenching her hands. “You're dead,
remember? Besides, darlin', I thought
I
was your happiness. More
blarney?”

Twelve gazes volleyed to
Lachlan's corner, but he was too livid to pay them any heed.
“Enough, womon! Get down from tha' table, lest I haul you down
maself and lay you cross ma knee!”

In response, Beth knelt in
front of a startled woman. “You're Viola Cooke, aren't
you?”

The woman's pale eyes
widened as she bobbed her head.

“I'm Beth.”

“Hel...lo.”

Beth smiled. “Do you like my
dress?” Standing, she gracefully lifted the skirt, turned in place,
and asked the group collectively, “Does it make me look like a
bloody spook?”

While two men smiled up at
her—one without a tooth in his mouth—most of the others at the
table shook their heads. One elderly woman gave a shrug and
squinted to have a better look at the gown.

“He doesn't like this gown,”
Beth sighed, gazing with mock despair at Lachlan. “And he doesn't
believe women should have a mind of their own.”

To Lachlan's stark dismay,
the group fixed deadpan looks on him. Someone in the room clucked
in disapproval.

Viola was obviously
dumbstruck by the whole turn of events. And to make matters worse,
Lachlan had fully materialized without realizing it.

“Tha' Ingliss swine put you
up to this!” he fumed. He attempted to approach the table, but his
legs got caught up in the chains and he slapped the floor the
length of his body. He was up on his feet like a shot, his furious
scowl savaging his features. “Come down here!” he demanded,
clumsily shucking out of the chains until he was free of them all.
“I want to have a word wi' you...in
private.”

“You're upsetting our
guests, darling,” Beth drawled, poised like the belle of a ball
atop the table. “Now stop acting like an ass.”

“Ass!” he squealed in sheer
exasperation. He offered a simpering look of apology to those about
the table. “The transition has affected her mind,” he rushed to
say. “Ma poor love—”

“Lachlan, stick it in your
ear.”

The frustrated laird's eyes
rolled up to issue her a warning, but Beth went on, “Ladies and
gentlemen, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to end your
meeting. His lordship—”

“Dammit to hell,
Beth!”

Lachlan's roar sent the
group scrambling from their chairs. Viola remained behind while the
others hastened to the hall door. When she looked up, it was to see
the new mistress of the house looking kindly down at
her.

“I am sorry, Miss Cooke.
Perhaps another time.”

After a single nod, Viola
Cooke left the room and discreetly closed the door behind her. Now
that they were alone, Lachlan slammed his fist on the
table.

“You had to do it! You
just
had
to do it!
Why, Beth? I told you it was business!”