Everlastin' Book 1 (8 page)

Panic lodged in her
chest.

It was all she could do not
to scream for all she was worth.

“Ye're one stubborn womon,”
Lachlan bit out as he snatched up one of her hands in a steely
hold. He expected her to protest as he led her out of the maze, but
she only followed him, giving his grasp an occasional tug of
defiance.

Crossing the graveled front
of the house, and a section of lawn, he stepped up into the largest
gazebo and directed her to one of the white, wooden chairs. Beth
sat, planted her elbows on the table and buried her face in her
hands to hide the heat of indignation in her face. Lachlan seated
himself across from her, a look of stormy impatience on his
face.

“You're no' one to accept
help graciously, are you?”

“You don't know anything
about me.”

“Mair than you know.” When
Beth lowered her hands and looked at him, he smugly arched a brow.
“Ye're pretty easy to read.”

“Oh, really.”

“Aye, lass. Strong-willed.
Independent, but you take care o’ ithers afore yerself.”

“How very observant of
you.”

He fell silent for a time,
watching her attempt to brush back her riotous curls with her
hands. “Watchin' yer mither languish—”

“Why do you keep harping on
her?”

“—
as you did, I can weel
imagine you no' wantin' to ever be dependent on anyone.”

Anger returned like
thundering waves. “What are you...a closet
psychiatrist?”

“I've a reliable sixth
sense.”

“How nice for you,” she
grumbled.

“You must have resented
her—”

“Give it a rest!”

“—
hold on you.”

Bolting to her feet, Beth
turned to escape the gazebo. Lachlan swiftly went to her, the
fingers of a hand cinching one of her wrists in a vicelike hold. He
jerked her around to face him.

“She took away yer life
for—”

“Let me go!”

“—
eight years!”

“Stop it,
please!”

Lachlan steeled himself
against the tears misting her eyes. “You wanted to free yerself o’
those emotional shackles.” Beth's struggle to escape him
intensified. “But it was impossible. Right, lass?”

Gripping her upper arms, he
gave her a shake. “Who told you, you couldna demand a life o’ yer
own? Good God, Beth, no one expected you to sacrifice yer
all
for the
woman!”

“She sacrificed for
me!”

“Adopted you,
aye.”

“You don't understand
anything!”

“I do. And tis a weighty
burden to bear.”

Trembling violently, Beth
stared at him in bewilderment. She didn't want him or anyone else
prying into her business.

Lachlan sighed as a
semblance of calm befell him. “Guilt is a wicked tool, lass. The
hangman's hands.” He smiled sadly. “Tis a means we use to keep
others in toll.”

“I don't
understand.”

“I know you dinna.” He drew
her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “You've always
been beholden to the couple who chose you. They were good people,
Beth. Kind and lovin'. They gave you the emotional and financial
security you needed.”

“Yes.”

“You were there to help yer
mother efter yer father died, and there years later when she was
befallen wi’ illness.” Framing one side of her face with a hand, he
prompted her to look up at him. “But she had no right to take away
those precious years. No right at all.”

“She was
terrified.”

“Aye. Tis understandable.
But how could she look at you and no' see wha' the isolation was
doin' to you?”

“I was all she had,” Beth
murmured, staring unseeingly at his chest.

“No.”

“Yes. Within a few months
after she was bedridden, her friends stopped calling and coming
over. What little family was left simply ignored us.”

“Leavin' you to believe it
was all upon yer shoulders?”

Beth's dull gaze lifted. “I
don't regret taking care of her.”

For a long moment, Lachlan
became lost in her eyes. When she started to look away, he brushed
the back of his fingers along her cheek. “Wha' else did she ask o’
you?”

A gasp escaped her. She
tried to step from his hold, but his hands again anchored her upper
arms.

“Beth?”

“I need to lie down for a
while.”

“Wha' did yer mother ask
tha' still troubles you?”

“Why are you doing
this?”

“Some gentle persuasion,
perhaps,” he murmured.

Anger fueled Beth's
struggles to escape his hold. He was asking the impossible of her,
to reveal something so painful she could hardly think of it, let
alone confide in someone else.

She freed her right arm.
Planting the palm to his chest, she gave a forceful shove, which
didn't move him at all. One of his hands went to the back of her
head, drawing her closer.

“No, dammit!”

But Lachlan wasn't
listening. His heated gaze was riveted on her shapely mouth. The
more she struggled, the tighter he drew her against him until he
was vitally aware of her breasts flattening against his chest. He
brushed his lips across hers. Sensing a protest rising up in her,
he captured her mouth in a masterful kiss.

Warmth suffused Beth,
casting out the anger’s strangulating hold on her. Experiencing a
soaring headiness, she unwittingly clutched the sides of his shirt.
The musky scent of him, the feel of his masculinity surrounding
her, and the manner in which his mouth moved slowly over hers,
promised to abolish the warring emotions she'd carried for so
long.

“You feel so good. So bloody
good,” he whispered against her lips, one of his hands freeing the
back of her blouse from the waistline of her skirt. His palm
smoothed along the contours of her back, over heated, soft skin. It
took him several seconds to comprehend and release the two hooks
securing her bra. When he at last succeeded, he caressed the length
of her spine then, slowly, seductively, inched the hand over one
side of her small waist.

Deepening the kiss, he moved
his fingers upward to the underpart of her left breast. Her moan
encouraged him to go on. The firm swell of the breast became lost
within his large hand, the rigid nipple tautly pressed into his
palm. His fingers kneaded, caressed, eliciting a deeper moan to
rattle within her throat.

Breathing in spurts, he
trailed his lips across her cheek, to a gentle depression below her
ear. Lost in the maddening sensations building rapidly within her,
she tilted back her head and exposed the sensitive skin of her
graceful neck. His teeth nipped, his lips probed. His hands gripped
her hips and flattened her abdomen against the rigid implement of
his manhood.

Quivers of desire racked
him. Fevered by a need to possess her, he kissed her passionately,
one hand at the back of her head, the other at her buttocks,
grinding her against him in a futile attempt to relieve the
tormenting fires in his groin.

On the verge of losing
control, his hands began to lift her skirt. His palms pressed to
the rounded contours of her hips. His thumbs hooked into the
waistband of her panties, began to lower the intrusive
barrier.

Reality slammed home when
Beth's fingers began to free the buttons of his shirt. Gripping her
arms, he hastily jerked her back a step.

Large blue eyes stared
dazedly up at him through a flushed face. The lips he'd kissed only
moments before were slightly swollen and more inviting than
ever.

“Fegs, lass,” he breathed
unsteadily. “You damn near lost me ma purpose!”

“What?”

Running a hand down the
front of his shirt, he took two steps back. “I’m a bloody stranger!
How can you trust me to make love to you?”

Confused, and fighting back
a whirling sensation in her head, Beth made a feeble gesture with
her hand. “I-I don't understand what's g-going on.”

“We damn near made
love!”

“I was here, remember?” she
snapped.

“Tis burned in ma
mind.”

“Is this a question of
morals?”

A mirthless laugh burst from
his throat. “Morals, ma eye!”

“Then what the hell is wrong
with you? What kind of game are you playing?”

“Temper, lass,” he chided,
his chest still rising and falling with desire. “Ma purpose was to
persuade you to unburden yer woes, no' have ma way wi' you afore
the proper time and place.”

The cobwebs filling Beth's
mind multiplied.

“Proper time and
place?”

“I asked you a question
afore we got lip-locked.”

Beth tried to remember what
it was. Frustrated, she reached up under the back of her blouse and
secured the hooks of her bra then haphazardly tucked the blouse
into the skirt's waistband. She'd known this man for less than
twenty-four hours, and yet she'd nearly given in to an impulse to
be taken by him, out in the relative open.

“You're the most
maddening....” She glared at him through a pained expression. “I'm
going back to the house. I would appreciate it if you'd leave me
alone until Carlene returns.”

“No' so fast,” he said
huskily, taking her arm as she tried to pass him to reach the steps
of the gazebo. “We were talkin' abou' yer mither.”

“That
conversation is over.”

Lachlan's expressive
eyebrows drew down in a frown. “When you learn to trust me, we'll
make love.”

A mask of utter incredulity
slid over Beth's features. “Is that a promise...or a
threat?”

Lachlan grimaced. “I'll no'
let yer snide tone rattle me.”

“I hope you and your ego
have a nice day,” she clipped, wrenching her arm from his hold.
Undaunted this time, she lit across the lawn in a half-run, leaving
Lachlan to forlornly stare after her.

“Beth, ye're no' an easy
womon to know. If no' for ma gift, we'd be strangers always. Too
much you hide in yer heart.”

Folding his arms over his
chest, he leaned against one of the decorative moldings of the
archway. “Too independent, these modern women.” He clicked his
tongue in disapproval. “Aye, me and ma ego. Weel, ego, come along,
then. We've a wee visit to pay old Aggie.”

* * *

It was humid and hot within
the cottage, but Agnes Ingliss paid it no mind. The repeated
clacking of her knitting needles kept her mind preoccupied. Rocking
back and forth in a rocker three generations old, her thin fingers
deftly worked the red yarn. A length of scarf lay upon her lap.
Come Christmas it would be a gift for her son, Borgie. There was a
time when she could have whipped up a scarf in a matter of days,
but the stiffness in her hands forced her to plan her projects
months in advance now.

A sense of intrusion lifted
her head. Her pale blue eyes sharpened, her ears keened. The
leathery, wrinkled skin on her arms seemed to twitch.

Compressing her pale lips in
a tight line, she cut her gaze to the left. The sight of Lachlan
standing by the parlor door, his arms crossed over his chest, his
expression guarded, caused a sharp tightening within her chest.
Without taking her eyes off him, she dumped the yarn and needle to
the floor beside the rocker.

Resentment flared in her
eyes as she cranked herself up onto her feet. Her chin lifted
defiantly.

“How dare you come to ma
home!” she charged. “Get ou', you black-hearted beast!”

After a moment of tense
silence, Lachlan sauntered further into the room. He stopped within
arm's reach of the old woman, his brooding gaze riveted on her
face.

“Spare me the endearments,”
he drawled, lowering his arms to his sides. “I thought perhaps
you'd be ill, old womon. Itherwise, why else would you fail to
prepare breakfast for Miss Staples?”

“She's
yer
guest.
You
serve her.”

A slow, sardonic grin
manifested on Lachlan's mouth. His eyebrow arched, signaling Agnes
he was short on patience. “I mistakenly thought this business
settled.”

“I've changed ma
mind.”

Lachlan's expression made
light of her defiance, but a storm brewed within his eyes. “Be at
the house in the morn.”

“Or wha'?” she sniffed with
disdain. “I'm too old to give a damn, anymair, yer lordship. So
stick yer paughty threats in yer—”

The front door of the house
slammed shut. A flicker of uncertainty moved across Agnes' face
then she grew pale. Lifting a trembling hand to rest over her
heart, her watery gaze observed the glint of malice in Lachlan's
eyes.

She looked beyond him to the
living room. “Begone wi' you,” she whispered in a plea. “I'll be
there to serve Miss Staples.”

“Will you now?” Lachlan
crooned.