Everlastin' Book 1 (38 page)

“Hard to say. C'mon, the
morn's comin' in a few hours.”

Roan's eyes widened. “And
the boys will be up!”

Lachlan took a hold on
Roan's arm and pulled him to his feet. “And the green-eyed lass
will be rested and full o' fire.”

Moaning, Roan clumsily fell
in step beside Lachlan.

Leaning on one another, the
two men staggered from the room.

“If you had a heart, Baird,
you wouldn’t hold me to ma promise.”

Stopping at the foot of the
staircase, both men wilted to a sitting position on the bottom
step.

“Abou' the
womon?”

Roan nodded. “You know, the
boys keep talkin' abou' the ghost they saw efter the accident.
Laura scoffs, but they're as sure as rain they saw wha' they
saw.”

“Have you given them an
explanation?”

“Abou' you?” Roan laughed,
belched then made an airy gesture with a hand. “I told them you
were a horrible figment o' their imagination. Damn me, mon, I'm no'
sure maself ye're no' a figment o' mine.” Frowning, he added, “I
prefer to deal wi'
you
than Miss Laura Bennett.”

“Take a wee bit o' advice.”
Lachlan began with a crooked grin, his eyelids growing heavier by
the moment. “When she starts to wear on yer nerves, laddie, kiss
the fight ou' o' her. It works every time.”

“Kiss her? But wha' if she
has tha' bitin' gene in her? I don't fancy losin' a
lip.”

“Where's yer spine?” Lachlan
grimaced. “You can kiss a womon proper, canna you?”

Roan snorted and scowled
into Lachlan's face. “I've never had a complaint.”

“Weel practiced, are
you?”

Lachlan's questioning was
beginning to wear on Roan. “Aye, I've had ma share o'
women.”

“Then you can handle a wee
thing like Laura.”

Roan grinned sardonically.
“Probably wi' as much aplomb as you've handled yer
Beth.”

“Careful,
Ingliss.”

“Ah!
Now
it's no' so funny, is
it?”

“You gave me yer word — and
over ma grandfaither's scotch!”

“I know.” Roan groaned and
lowered his face into his palms for several seconds. When he looked
up, he added, “But she's a green-eyed nightmare, Baird. All starch
and vinegar.” He feigned a shudder. “It's hard to help someone when
they harp on you for every...
wee
...wee suggestion.”

“I've ma straits, and you
yers. Agreed?”

“I think I'm gettin' the
short end o' the stick, here,” Roan grumbled.

“Just remember who wears the
pants.”

“Meanin' wha'?”

“Women like to be dominated,
laddie. Ooh, they put up a fuss abou' it, but they expect i' no
less. Tis a matter Beth and I did come to terms on.”

“Really? She doesn't strike
me as the type to want to be dominated.”

“Aye. And she—”

Lachlan's eyes rolled to the
side and up. His jaw went slack, and a pitiful moan rattled in his
throat. Roan, too, looked up. A smile readily beamed on his face,
but as quickly died at the sight of the woman's austere
look.

“Beth!” Lachlan
rasped.

“Just in the nick of time,”
she said, an edge to her tone. She looked directly at Roan and
arched a censorious brow. “If you listen to him, you're going to
find yourself in a world of hurt. Women are not mindless
possessions.”

“Ah, sweet darlin,” Lachlan
crooned, shooting to his feet. “I never said you were
mind–”

As straight as a board,
Lachlan passed out and facedown struck the floor. Beth stared down
at him for several long moments then looked at Roan.

“His grandfaither's scotch,”
Roan grinned ludicrously, and passed out himself, sprawled on the
floor beside Lachlan.

Beth stared at the men for a
moment longer and rolled her eyes heavenward.

A smile tugged at the
corners of her mouth.

“Thank you, Laura,” she
whispered.

C
hapter 14

Lachlan was first aware of a
grueling headache. It squeezed his temples, crimped the back of his
neck, and was making an earnest attempt to seize his shoulders. He
cracked open one lid to find that he was lying face down on his
bed. Sunlight filled the room—painful light that jabbed
unmercifully at his exposed eye. Something had crawled in and died
in his mouth. Working it to try to alleviate its terrible dryness,
he made a feeble attempt to raise himself up on his elbows. He
collapsed and released a pitiful groan.

The sound brought Beth's
head around, and a smile touched her lips as she regarded Lachlan.
He was truly a sad sight, lying there atop the bed as if he hadn't
an ounce of strength.

Little wonder,
she thought ruefully.

After he and Roan had
polished off the bottle of scotch, a two-day sleep and hangover was
expected. For all his bluster, the master of the manor was not a
drinking man.

Beth had fully come to
realize the extent of his vulnerability. Her ruse had been
successful, but Lachlan had suffered more than she'd intended. But
the animosity between Lachlan and Roan had been broken. Of course
she hadn’t caused Laura’s accident, but she
had
taken advantage of the situation
and the payoff exceeded her expectations. The moment Roan appeared
on the scene—which she had instigated that part—Lachlan’s
desperation and gratitude had diminished that insidious rage he had
harbored for the Inglisses. She wasn’t sure if he was even aware
yet that he was free of it. And so was she.

Flattening her palms to one
of the semi-frosted window panes, she looked below once again. Roan
Ingliss was shouting at Laura Bennett, his arms moving wildly
through the air, punctuating his frustration. The woman was
standing defensively still, her arms folded across her chest. The
boys were nowhere to be seen, but Beth sensed they were in the
kitchen having a snack.

Lachlan moaned again as he
propped himself up on his elbows, his head hanging between his
slack shoulders.

“Would you like some
coffee?”

It took the laird's muddled
brain several seconds to identify the softly-spoken voice. He
cranked his head to the right, but the sunlight pouring in forced
him to close his eyes.

“Or would you prefer another
bottle of scotch?”

Dropping his face to the
pillow, he released a string of muffled Gaelic. The heart
sensations were there swelling in his chest, the joy, the relief,
the elation of knowing that his love had not gone on. But he was in
physical agony. He couldn't recall being subjected to such misery
prior to his untimely death.

He felt the mattress sink
beneath an added weight. Groaning again, he drew a second pillow
over his head. He couldn't think without the pseudo-sound knifing
him.

With a grim shake of her
head, Beth got up from the bed and walked into the bathroom. She
placed a wooden stopper over the tub drain before she turned on the
marble taps to a desired water temperature. The sound of running
water filled the spacious bathroom. Going to a carved-door cabinet
over the sink, she removed a bottle of bubble bath she'd brought
from the States. Two capfuls were poured into the water, which
instantly began to foam with iridescent bubbles. She returned the
capped bottle to the cabinet then sat on the edge of the porcelain
claw foot tub and pensively waited until it was three-quarters
full.

She was still wearing the
gown that had so piqued Lachlan. Standing, she untied the belt,
shimmied the garment past her hips and stepped out of it when it
fell in folds to the floor. First one foot was lowered into the
steaming water. Blessed warmth swirled about her ankle and she
sighed in sheer satisfaction. Ignoring Lachlan's moaning in the
other room, she sank into the embracing bubbles until only her head
could be seen above them.

She had always preferred a
long hot soak to a shower, but it continued to amaze her how many
of the old pleasures she could delight in although she had been
dead for five months. There was no longer a need in her to have
explanations for her state of existence. Life went on in one form
or another, and she was content to end the self-grieving stage that
had nearly spoiled her companionship with Lachlan.

Closing her eyes and
wallowing in the liquid fire of her bath, she pondered the term
'companionship' in regard to what she shared with
Lachlan.

They were not husband and
wife—likely, they would never know a true connubial state. There
would never be a flowing white gown of shimmering, layered
material, a train of lace and tiny white roses that would trail
behind her as she paced her steps down the aisle to the man she
would vow to love forever more, to honor and cherish. The obey
part, however, would give her pause.

Sighing, she brought the
sides of her hands together to fill her upturned palms with
bubbles. She blew them into the air. Lowering her arms back into
the water, she absently admired the iridescent flecks of colors on
the tiny air balls as they drifted in descent.

“Ye're a cruel womon, Beth
Staples,” moaned a voice.

Beth turned her head and
calmly ran a slow perusal over Lachlan. The door frame was
supporting him upright. His clothing was wrinkled, the unbuttoned
shirt hanging off his shoulders. Wisps of his mussed hair hung in
his face, which was pinched and owning of his misery.

“No' a wee comfort from you,
you wicked womon.”

She turned her face away
from him to hide the smile vying to light up her
features.

“How could you leave the
mon you love alone...
sufferin'
...in his cups wi'
misery.”

Keeping a tight rein on her
amusement, she leveled on him a look of wifely censure. “In his
cups with a hangover, you mean.”

“Hangover?” he gasped then
grimaced and gingerly capped his pounding skull with his hands. In
a softer, whisperlike voice, he added, “It was no' the scotch wha'
dirked ma tender heart again and again these past weeks. You
disappeared withou' a care for me, or for wha' I would suffer
withou' yer company.”

One gurgle of laughter
escaped Beth before she could stop it.

“Mock me, womon,” he growled
low, straightening away from the door frame. “I
deserve—”

A muffled bang startled
him.

“Wha' in hell?”

“That was probably
Roan.”

Squinting at the light from
the window, Lachlan peered below at the ground. A frown drew down
his expressive eyebrows. Laura was standing as still as a statue,
her arms folded against her chest. Shortly, she kicked at the soft
new snow on the ground and began to make wild gestures as she
talked to the air.

“Wha's goin' on wi'
them?”

“She's determined to get to
Edinburgh.” Beth shifted in the tub and dipped her shoulders below
the water line again. “I can't say I envy her position. The
children are a handful.”

“Ah, but they're only wee
lads,” Lachlan murmured.

His guest's obvious
frustration bothered him. Why were women so unreasonable? Roan was
only trying to help the fool woman. What was it about the fairer
sex that drove them to question the inherent logic of
men?

“It's that kind of
chauvinistic thought that keeps you in the doghouse,” Beth said
dryly.

Lachlan glanced at her over
his shoulder then looked below again. “Stop readin' ma
mind.”

“We're linked, remember?
Besides, you've been traipsing through my thoughts long
enough.”

“Wi' reason.”

“Says you.”

Lachlan frowned at her but
his attention was drawn back to the woman below. “She's in a tizzy,
she is. Wha's the rush, I ask you? Today, next year, Edinburgh will
no' vanish from the face o' the earth.”

“She's anxious to be done
with the legal problems.”

“Wha' legal
problems?”

“She can't return to the
States until she can locate the kids' stepmother and obtain their
birth certificates.”

Again Lachlan turned his
head and frowned at Beth. “So wha's the big deal abou' a birth
certificate? They're her nephews. Canna she just—”

“The boys need a passport to
fly back to the States with her,” Beth explained patiently. “And
they can't get passports unless they have birth
certificates.”

Lachlan looked below at
Laura, who was still venting her frustration in gestures. “Sounds
like the modern world has too many precepts.”

“Aye,” Beth sighed, her gaze
roaming lazily over his back and shoulders. “Lachlan?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you so interested
in pushing Roan and Laura together?”

“By the way, love, have you
noticed Braussaw, lately?”

“Lachlan.”

“He just sits there by the
fountain, starin' off into space.”