Hope Everlastin' Book 4 (10 page)

Except for an occasional
crackle or pop from the fireplace, quietude mantled the house like
an old, faithful security blanket. The rain had stopped. Lachlan's
eyelids drooped more from contentment than fatigue as he watched
Beth nurse their son.

With his back braced
against one of the decorative walnut foot posts, his sleeping
daughter cradled against his bare chest, he wondered if life could
get any better than what he had now. In one respect, it was a
little scary. He had more to lose. In the past, all that could be
taken from him was his life and his estate. In death, though, he
had managed to hold on to not only his belongings, but also a
semblance of life.

His gaze shifted to regard
his daughter. Pale peach fuzz covered an otherwise pink head. Blond
eyelashes and eyebrows. Her nose was barely bigger than his
thumbnail, her mouth a darker pink and pouty. She was a tiny
replica of her mother, with one hand poking out of the pink
blanket, the gracefully spread fingers twitching against one
rounded cheek. She had been the one to awaken and exercise her
lungs to be fed. Surprisingly, the boy had slept through the
ruckus.

When their daughter had her
fill of mother's milk, Beth had asked Lachlan to hold the squirming
bundle. He'd panicked at first then hesitantly nodded. Now, with
the baby's warmth against his chest and bare arms, he couldn't
believe he'd ever been afraid to touch his children. It felt
amazingly natural to hold his daughter, as if he'd done it a
hundred times.

Straightening his right
leg, he looked up when Beth chuckled and commented, "Are you trying
to entice me into jumping your bones again before your son's belly
is full?"

He frowned at first then
glanced down at himself when her gaze pointedly flicked to his leg.
For a moment longer, he puzzled her remark. Dawning brought a deep
blush to his cheeks. Before Beth had handed him the baby, he'd
haphazardly draped one corner of the top quilt across his lap. His
bent left knee was visible and most of the right leg. Now he looked
as if he was posing, but in truth, he wasn't. With her second
chuckle, he peered at her with a mischievous glint in his
eyes.

There she sat with their
son attached to her left nipple, only the top of his dark head
visible behind the sheet she had draped over her right shoulder to
hide her nakedness from Lachlan. With her damp hair a mass of curls
framing her face, and her round eyes sparkling with happiness, he
had never seen her look more beautiful or desirable.

"Darlin’, twouldna be
proper for our daughter's faither ta—ah—come up, so to speak, while
he's holdin’ her. So I say to you, love o' ma life, tarry no' wi'
our son's feeding. The sooner they're both fed and snug in the
crib, the sooner you and I get back to the business o'
lovin’."

"You forgot one
thing."

He considered her
lighthearted manner with a tad of wariness. "Oh?"

"Their diapers will need
changing before they return to the crib."

A blank look fell over
Lachlan's face as he glanced down at his daughter, then up again at
Beth. "I dinna do diapers. Tha's a womon's task."

"The rules have changed a
wee since your time."

His eyebrows shot up. "Some
changes are no' for the better."

Beth playfully wrinkled her
nose at him. "You haven't lived till a baby wee-wees on
you."

With a grimace, Lachlan
cast each infant a dubious look. "I've lived mair'n
maist."

"Now, now, darling, you
only think you have."

"I have," he
insisted.

Beth shook her head and
flashed him a teasing grin. "Trust me. Changing diapers is a
character builder."

"Some would say I've enough
character."

Beth sighed with theatrical
martyrdom. "Fine. I'll do the messy ones."

"Messy ones?" He grimaced
again then made a feeble attempt to appear brightened by his
decision. "All right, lass. We're parents thegither, through the
good and...no'-so-good."

"And?"

He wrinkled his nose at
her. "I'll do ma fair share, and no' a whimper you'll hear from
me."

She smiled, her features
soft and radiant with love. "I've missed you," she whispered, one
hand smoothing the tiny head at her breast.

"And I, you," replied
Lachlan. He became pensively silent for a moment and regarded her
with such sadness, concern leapt into her eyes. "Beth, I canna say
enough how sorry I am for ma behavior these past weeks."

"It's in the
past."

He nodded, glanced down at
his daughter, and smiled. His jaw still ached from Beth's blow
earlier, a reminder of how close they'd come to letting their anger
wipe out all the love they had for one another. But he didn't want
to think about that now.

Instead, he met the
somewhat anxious look in Beth's eyes and said, "We have to name
them."

The infant in her arms
stopped suckling. He was asleep, and she studied his face for a
time, her expression dreamy. There was no doubt in her mind he
would grow up to resemble his father. Unlike his sister's fuzzy
pate, he had a mop of thick dark hair, almost black with fiery
highlights. He pursed his lips and she looked up at Lachlan and
smiled.

"You choose the
names."

Lachlan was both startled
and gladdened by her words. He'd always wanted a daughter named—
"Weel," he began hesitantly then worried his lower lip for a time.
"Twould be best if we combined the names we maist
fancy."

"Let's start with our
daughter. Does a name jump out at you when you look at
her?"

Lachlan grinned.
"Beth."

Beth wrinkled her nose.
"One in the family is enough. My mother's name was Rita Elizabeth.
She never liked Rita, and wanted to be called Beth, but her mother
insisted on her proper first name. I would rather not use Rita, so
what about your mother's name?"

She knew by his intake of
breath that this was what he was hoping for.

"Her name was Ciarda."
Kee-ar-da.

Beth slowly pronounced it
then nodded. "It's beautiful."

"She was a beautiful womon.
I adored her. I remember bein’ wi' her in the efterlife. Do
you?"

"No. Sometimes I get
flashbacks, but most of them I can't make any sense of. I do
remember my parents and Borgie. I think I remember Carlene and
David."

"Me, too. Vaguely." He
frowned. "Ma mither tried to tell me somethin’, but I canna
remember why she didna carry it through."

"What was she
like?"

Lachlan wistfully looked
heavenward then lowered his gaze to Beth. "I have her family’s hair
and eyes. Ma brithers all took efter our faither. By the time I was
born, ma brithers were workin’ wi' him, so it was maistly ma mither
and me at home.

"She was a compassionate,
lovin’ womon, Beth. Sometimes, I can still hear her laughter, like
sweet bells ringin’ in a distance. She had a bonny voice, she did,
and eften sang to me, even efter I reached ma teens. Never did I
hear her raise her voice in anger. For it all, though, she was the
maist lonely, saddest person I've ever known."

"In what way?"

Lachlan gave a gentle
shrug. "I dinna think she really loved ma faither. He was a
difficult mon and seldom at home. I have all her journals in the
attic. Never read them, though. Too painful, and I guess I've
always been a wee fearful o' learnin’ just how miserable she was in
her marriage."

"At least she had you,"
Beth said softly.

He nodded and sighed. "I
could have been a better son."

"We all think we could have
been better children or better parents. That's human
nature."

He nodded again. "So, lass,
wha' do you think o' the name Ciarda Elizabeth?"

"You don't have to use my
name."

"Aye, we do. Ciarda
Elizabeth MacLachlan Baird."

Beth softly chuckled.
"That's a mouthful."

"But a fine
name."

"I agree. Then Ciarda
Elizabeth MacLachlan Baird, it is. Now, what about our
son?"

"May I hold him,
Beth?"

"Thought you'd never
ask."

Lachlan reverently kissed
his daughter's brow then scooted across the mattress. He positioned
himself next to Beth, his back to the headboard. With great care,
so as not to awaken either baby, Beth first passed their son into
the waiting crook of Lachlan's arm, and took their daughter into
her own. Lachlan was quiet for a time, the fingertips of one hand
tenderly brushing the mass of hair on the boy's crown. When he
looked at Beth, tears misted his eyes, magnifying the pride glowing
in the dark depths.

"They're are both so grand,
Beth."

She nodded, unable to speak
for her throat was tight with emotion.

"Wha' was yer faither's
name?" he asked her.

Beth swallowed hard before
answering. "Jonathan. But your son is going to be the spitting
image of you. He needs a Scottish name."

"Ma poor wee bairn,"
Lachlan cooed with mock sympathy. "Look like yer faither, will
you?"

Beth chuckled. "As if that
doesn't thrill you."

"Aye, I'm a vain, sorry
mon," he beamed at her. "A Scottish name, eh? Certainly no'
efter
ma
faither."

A chill gripped his spine
then coursed through him as a zephyrous sound passed through his
skull. He shuddered and blinked, feeling as though someone walked
over his grave, but he knew no one had, at least, not right
then.

"What's wrong?"

Lachlan didn't answer right
away. When he finally spoke, a name rolled off his tongue. "Broc
Laochailan."

"What?"

"Tis
neònach."

"What did you just say?"
she asked humorously.

He looked bewilderingly at
her and jiggled his head.
"Neònach.
Strange. Strange tha' his name came to me so
forcefully."

"Who is he?"

"A many times great-uncle
or such on ma mither's side, born mid-eighteenth century." Lachlan
frowned as tidbits of information rose to the fore of his mind. He
couldn't recall his mother or grandfather imparting the facts, but
they were there in his memory as if just released from a well deep
inside his subconscious.

"Lachlan?" Beth asked
softly, concern lacing her tone. "What's wrong?"

He gave in to a mild
shudder and managed a wan smile. "Old age, love."

She grinned but it faded
when he frowned again.

"Tis
orra,
Beth. I canna shake a feelin’
tha'...."

"Of what?"

"Weel, tha' I should know
mair abou' him. For the life o' me, I canna understand why I even
thought o' him now."

"Was he an important figure
in your clan's history?"

Lachlan released a breath
through pursed lips, his expressive eyebrows forming a lazy,
reclining S above his dark eyes. "No' really. He was a crofter, as
was his faither, brither and cousin. For centuries, Beth, a
clansmon crofter paid his rent in fightin’ service, but efter
Culloden, warrin’ became a thing o' the past. Many o' the Highland
Chieftains demanded money but the crofters had none, so the chiefs,
enamored wi' greed, took to removin’ the crofters and sellin’ or
leasin’ their lands to the English and Lowland Scot sheep
farmers."

"That's
terrible."

"Aye. Weel, Broc wasna
happy abou' it. His family had fought long and hard for their land,
and he wasna abou' to leave wi’ou' a fight o' his own.

"There was an old mon
called Mad Fergus who was so old, it was said no one remembered his
birth. He told o' treasures hidden on the Isle O' Lewis. No one had
ever taken his stories seriously, but Broc was desperate enough to
listen to anythin’. Wi' his younger brither, Niall, anither mon
from the clan, and two Campbells, he set off to the isle. Three
months later he returned wi' a small fortune, but he was alone. The
ithers had died. He never said how or why."

"No one ever found out what
happened?"

Lachlan shook his head. "He
turned the treasure over to his cousin, Lethan, who he trusted to
divide it among those who still held their land. He told Lethan he
was returnin’ to the isle. Alone. No one was to follow
him."

"Was he after more
treasure?"

"Aye, and he claimed he had
unfinished business there."

Beth shivered. "He never
returned, did he?"

"No. And despite wha' was
offered in rent, the chieftain sold the land ou' from under Broc's
immediate clan. Broc's parents, grievin’ the loss o' their sons,
moved to Edinburgh. Lethan took his wife, two sons and daughter,
and two male second cousins, to the isle. They used wha' remained
o' the treasure to build a tavern and inn near Callaway, close to
the Callanish Standing Stones. Twas where ma mither was eventually
born, and where ma grandfaither died."