Everlastin' Book 1 (36 page)

“Do you see tha' ghost
there?” he asked, leaning through the open door. “See the greenish
mist, and how it looks like a mon? Weel, lads, he's a personal
friend o' mine, and if you don't get yer butts ou' here this
minute, I'll ask him to breathe his foul breath o' death on
you.”

The threat brought the boys
scrambling out of the vehicle.

“Whate'er works,” Roan
muttered.

To insure the boys would
stay with him, he grabbed two by the coat collar with one hand, and
the older boy by the arm with his other hand. He followed Lachlan
down the embankment, slipping and sliding as the boys made every
attempt to worm free. When he reached the car, he forced the boys
to sit on the ground, and gestured forcefully with a gloved
hand.

“Don't move, laddies!” Roan
looked at Lachlan. “If they try to get away, breathe on them.” He
gave the ghost a conspiratorial look. “Turn them to stone if
necessary.”

Amused by Roan’s tactics,
Lachlan glanced down at the boys and made a fierce scowl. The
children huddled together in the snow, staring wide-eyed at the
terrible apparition hovering between them and the car.

Roan checked the driver's
pulse. Weak but steady. Unbuckling her seatbelt, he gingerly lifted
her into his arms and withdrew her from the wreckage. “Yer mither's
goin' to be all right,” he told the boys.

“She's not our mother!” the
oldest boy spat, while the youngest scrambled forward and sunk his
teeth into the calf of Roan's right leg.

Roan released a howl of
pain. Lachlan instinctively reached for the boy, who, upon seeing
the greenish glowing hands coming toward him, scooted back to his
brothers.

Lachlan straightened up and
exchanged a harried look with Roan. Then Roan scowled down at the
boys and said huskily, “Whoever she is, I need to get her to the
house. Which means, you little monsters, I need for you to behave
and do as ye're told. Now get yerselves up and follow me back to
the car.”

“I'm bein' pulled back to
the grayness,” Lachlan whispered to Roan.

“Dammit, mon, pull yerself
together. I'm goin' to need a hand wi' this lot.”

“Canna resist the pull,”
Lachlan said as he faded into the night, leaving Roan to deal with
three, frightened, obstinate children, and an unconscious
woman.

“Just ma bloody luck,” Roan
grumbled as he cast the children a disparaging look. “The one
bloody time I want him around, he vaporizes on me.”

* * *

It seemed an eternity before
Lachlan was able to acquire the energy to solidify again. He had
not wasted a moment's time trying to check in on his houseguests;
he'd not allowed anything to sway him from focusing on the
importance of being fully useful. He had thought a great deal about
the Ingliss, which had served as a surprising buffer to the anguish
of thinking about Beth. Roan Ingliss had arrived miraculously to
compensate for Lachlan's inability to help the living. Whatever had
brought the man back to the estate after Lachlan had dismissed him
weeks ago, he was grateful. Serious injury could have befallen
those children if the situation had been left in his
hands.

Coming to terms with the
realization of his true limitations had served to strengthen the
laird's character. And it was a calmer man who materialized on the
second floor where his sixth sense told him the woman and children
were sleeping.

The hall was dimly lit by
two of the gas lamps. Gently opening the door, he walked into the
bedroom and spent several long minutes staring at the other
occupants. The woman, seeming hardly more than a child herself in
the feather bed, was sleeping peacefully on her side with an arm
about the shoulders of one of the boys. Behind her, the other two
were curled up beneath the double quilts. The drapes on the two
windows across the room were open to allow the moonlight to filter
in. A low fire burned in the grate, keeping the chill out of the
room.

A notion that he was being
watched prompted Lachlan to look over his shoulder. Roan was braced
in the doorway, a look of surprise adding animation to his haggard
appearance. With a last glance over his guests, Lachlan turned and
followed Roan into the hall. He closed the door behind him then
gave his full attention to the man who was irritably looking him
over.

“Nice o' you to make an
appearance,” Roan grumbled, running a hand through his thick,
disheveled hair. His bloodshot, soft brown eyes narrowed. “It would
have been nice to have had a wee help wi' those little monsters in
there,” he added in a hushed tone.

“I returned as soon as I
could,” Lachlan said calmly. It was obvious that the Ingliss was
exhausted. “Suppose you fill me in over some scotch.”

Roan's expression went
deadpan. “Scotch?”

“Aye.”

Roan silently followed
Lachlan to the first floor, down the secondary hall, to the first
door on the right. Lachlan went on into the dark room beyond.
Within seconds, a lamp was lit. Roan was delighted to see a fully
equipped bar and two tables and chairs.

From behind the bar, the
laird gestured for Roan to sit. Roan chose the nearest chair and
wearily lowered himself onto it. The fingertips of one hand moved
across the bare expanse of his chest, which was exposed by his
unbuttoned shirt. His socked feet shifted beneath the table and,
placing his elbow on the top, he rested his chin in an upturned
palm. His eyelids were half-closed. Two days' growth of beard
shadowed his face.

“Ma grandfaither was
considered one o' the great distillers o' whiskey in his time,”
Lachlan offered as he filled two short glasses with the pale amber
liquid. He carried the opened bottle and one glass to the table
where Roan was sitting, placed them down then reached for his own
glass. Seating himself across from Roan, he took a healthy swig.
“At sixteen, he started makin' the brew for family and friends. By
the time he was in his early twenties, he owned a distillery. On a
good day, he could produce better than three thousand gallons o'
whiskey.”

Roan tipped the glass to his
lips and emptied the contents. He grimaced as the liquid burned its
way to his stomach then released a breath through pursed lips.
“Good stuff, Baird.”

With a crooked grin, Lachlan
downed the remains of his scotch. He refilled both glasses, after
which, he held the glass up to reverently study the
contents.

“But as goes mair things in
life,” Lachlan went on, “his dreams were cut short. The English
distilleries didna like the saturation o' our stuff. In 1778, they
lobbied the Crown to raise duty and tighten up the regulations. Ma
grandfaither — along wi' many o' his competitors—went
bankrupt.”

Roan, now on his third
scotch, bobbed his head enthusiastically as he aimed the rim of his
glass to his lips. “Finest whiskey—” He downed half the contents.
“—I've ever had the pleasure to sample.”

Amusement danced in
Lachlan's eyes. “I've a few bottles left. Tell me, are you always
so soon in yer cups?”

Placing the drained glass
down, Roan woozily regarded his host. “No. Tis been a long two
days.” He blinked hard several times in an attempt to clear his
head then scratched the nape of his neck. “You purposely left me
wi' them, didn’t you?” He groaned and ran his large hands down his
face. “The womon shames a Scotsmon's stubbornness. And the boys are
spawns o' hell, I tell you!”

“I came as soon as I was
able.” Lachlan refilled their glasses and watched as Roan handled
his as if unsure whether he should have another drink. “I take it
the womon's injuries were superficial.”

“Aye. A nasty crack on the
head. Scared more than anythin' else.”

Roan's bloodshot eyes tried
to focus more clearly on Lachlan. “I've no' eaten all day.
Itherwise, Baird, I'd drink you under the table.”

“Wha's the womon's story?
Why was she ou' on such a terrible night wi' three
children?”

Roan pushed the glass away
and massaged the taut muscles in his thick neck. “She's a Yank.
They produce some stubborn females, aye, Baird? Course, I'd
probably be defensive, too, if I found maself in her
predicament.”

“Wha' is her
predicament?”

“She's the boys' aunt. Her
brither died over a year ago. The stepmither called the States and
told Laura—”

“Laura?”

“Laura Bennett. She's a
little thing, but stubborn.
Stubborn.”

“Right stubborn, I take
it?”

Roan nodded. Exhaustion
weighed heavily on him, and the fiery whiskey was dulling his
concentration. “The boys' stepmither...she told Laura she
desperately needed her. Laura flew—in a plane, you
understand.”

Several seconds passed in
silence before Roan groggily murmured, “Where was I? Ah. The
emergency proved to be a farce. The stepmither—a young thin' —
couldna handle the boys. Two days efter Laura arrived, the lass
took off.”

“Laura ends up wi' the
nephews?”

“Aye. I said tha', didn't I?
Weel, no' only does she get stuck wi' the little monsters, but the
stepmither went off wi' the boys' passports and stuff.”

Lachlan drained the contents
of his glass. “And Laura went ou' in this weather lookin' for an
accident to happen?”

“No, you fool,” Roan
slurred. “Her purse was stolen, and she couldn’t pay for a room.
Wi' wha' little money she had left, she was tryin' to make it to
Edinburgh...ta the American Consulate. She wants to bring the boys
back to the States.”

“I take it her stay here has
no' been a good one.”

“Here?”

“Scotland, you
booby.”

Roan was too numb to react
to the insult. “She's all fired up to walk to Edinburgh, if
necessary. I told her the roads are no' fit to travel right now,
and wi' a storm front comin'—”

“She'll have to stay here
wi' the boys for a while.”

“Aye. But shit, mon, try to
convince her! She's a stub—”

“Stubborn womon.”

“So you
have
met her!”

Lachlan grinned. “I'm takin'
yer word for it.”

“The word of an Ingliss?”
Roan's laugh was interrupted by a hiccup. He started to rise to his
feet, but the swimming in his head made him sit again. “Scotch on
an empty stomach is no good,” he muttered in a slur.

He looked up to say
something to Lachlan and was startled to find the ghost was not in
the room.

“Fine,” he sneered. Folding
his arms on the table, he lowered his brow atop them. “Leave me to
the little horrors again, you swine.”

He closed his eyes and
drifted off into sleep. The past two days had been harrowing. Not
only were the boys impossible to handle, but they unknowingly
triggered back Roan's memories of his own son—painful memories, as
they only served to reawaken his poignant loss.

He awakened with a grunt.
Something was annoyingly shaking his shoulder.
Not the lads again,
he mutely groaned,
but as he was straightening up in the chair, marvelous odors filled
his nostrils.

“You'll need yer wits abou'
you, Ingliss.”

Roan thought he was dreaming
and hesitantly inhaled the steam rising off the plate in front of
him. No, it wasn't his imagination. Poached eggs on toast. Three
thick slices of fried ham. Scones dripping with honey.

And a pot of
coffee.

He looked up as Lachlan
seated himself in the same chair he'd occupied earlier.

“Eat, Ingliss. Lest yer
growlin' stomach is a figment o' ma imagination?”

Lifting the fork on the
plate, Roan hungrily dug into the food. He didn't look up or stop
shoveling food into his mouth long enough to utter a word. Lachlan
kept the coffee cup filled until the last of the brew was emptied
from the pot. When Roan had cleaned his plate, he set down the fork
and released a sigh of satisfaction.

“Wha' do I owe for this
kindness?” Roan asked warily.

“No strings,” Lachlan said
quietly, but his gaze was unnervingly studying Roan's
face.

Roan frowned as he lifted
the coffee cup to his lips, his gaze unwaveringly locked with
Lachlan's. He took a long sip of the now tepid brew then cradled
the cup in his hands.

“Three weeks ago, you told
me to get off yer property and never come back.”

“But you did return,”
Lachlan said evenly.

“Ah. Listen, Baird, I would
have had to have been a blind mon no' to have seen the fear in yer
eyes the ither night. You were genuinely concerned for the womon
and lads. Beth tried to tell me you had human feelin's, but I was
too stubborn to want to believe it.”

Roan paused. He was
painfully aware of the torment the mention of Beth caused Lachlan.
“Look old mon, I'm no' goin' on like this because I'm pissed on yer
scotch. Ma head is clear. I think you told me to leave three weeks
ago because you knew I could see yer pain.”

“Tis Laura we should be
discussin',” Lachlan said curtly, his features tight, his eyes
dulled with sorrow.