Hope Everlastin' Book 4 (3 page)

"Wha's yer name?" asked
Roan.

"Reith, sir."

"Where are you from?" asked
Lachlan, coldly.

"Originally from this area,
sir. I've been away some time and, as ye can see, I be a wee down
on ma luck. For the past two days I've been tryin’ to find a job in
town."

"Wha' kind o' work do you
do?" asked Roan.

"I'll put ma hands to
anythin’, sir, but I be best working land. Gardenin’ and prunin’. I
be willin’ to work for room and board."

"Are you now?" said Lachlan
suspiciously.

"Aye, sir, on ma honor.
I've really no use for money. A place to lay ma head and food in ma
stomach is all I need."

Lachlan ran the beam down
the man's length, and grimaced. "Ye're dressed like a ragged
tinker, mon. Have you no pride?"

"Pride?" A tinge of
indignation tainted Reith's voice. "Sir, I have mair'n ma fair
measure o' pride, but tis never brought me naught but shame and
grief. All I own be on ma back, and I be as glad to have it as ye
in yer fancy shirt."

Roan grinned despite the
throbbing pain in his head. "Damn me, but I like his
spirit."

Lachlan continued to scowl
into the young man's face. "Do you know who I am,
laddie?"

"Lannie," Roan warned,
which Lachlan impatiently flagged off with a hand.

Reith jerked in surprise at
the question and gave Lachlan a serious looking over. "No, sir.
Should I?"

"Lachlan Baird."

Genuine puzzlement masked
the man's face. "Are ye someone o' importance?"

With a somewhat sardonic
grin, Lachlan pointed to the disturbed ground. "Prior to a few
weeks ago, tha' was ma grave."

A smile of uncertainty
twitched on Reith's mouth. "Ye're a...ghost, sir?"

"I'm a born again pain in
the arse."

Roan rolled his eyes
heavenward and clenched his teeth against a groan.

"Weel, laddie, wha' have
you to say to tha'?"

Reith blew out a breath,
glanced at the grave then closed one eye and searched Lachlan's
face with the other. "I've seen ma fair measure o' wonders, so I
guess I say welcome back, Mr. Baird."

A glint of wry amusement
awakened in Lachlan's eyes. "Are you no' sorry you set foot on ma
land, then?"

"Only for the beating,"
Reith said in earnest. "I need to work, sir."

"For yer room and board,
aye?"

Reith nodded.

Lachlan glanced at Roan,
who shrugged and said, "There's soon to be plenty o' work around
here."

"Tell me, laddie, where is
yer family?" asked Lachlan, suspicion still lacing his
tone.

Reith lowered his head. "Ma
wife asked me to leave."

"Ye're married?"

The blue eyes lifted. "Aye,
Mr. Baird."

"Why did she ask you to
leave?"

"In truth?" Reith
croaked.

"Always," said Lachlan
curtly.

"I shamed her. Shamed ma
clan."

"Och, and you expect us to
trust you?" Lachlan exclaimed.

"I be no longer tha'
immature fool," Reith said. His gaze shifted to Roan, then back to
Lachlan. "Sir, have ye never erred and wished ye could turn back
time to right yer wrongs?"

Lachlan and Roan exchanged
dubious glances and shifted uneasily.

"All right," said Lachlan,
scratching his nape. He glanced at Roan, who nodded in confirmation
as if divining Lachlan's thoughts, then frowned at Reith. "Tonight,
you'll have to share yer lodgin’ wi' us. But wi' luck, come morn,
our women will be forgivin’
our
errin’ and you can have the carriage house to
yerself. Room and board you'll have, but also a fair
wage."

"That's verra generous,
sir."

Lachlan scowled formidably.
"Step ou' o' line and you'll answer to me."

"I'll do ye and the land
proud, sir."

Roan knelt at the edge of
the grave and scooped up a handful of the rich dirt. He considered
its weight and texture then spread his fingers and watched it fall
back to the earth. "You don't have any idea wha' they were lookin’
for?" he asked Reith.

"I overheard the men
talkin’ afore they realized I was here. One o' them said if they
found the graves empty, they would have their proof."

"Proof o' wha'?" Roan
clipped, standing and facing the younger man, his hands on his
hips. It wasn't his intention to appear intimidating to the
stranger, but his stomach was knotted with something he couldn't
quite define, and he was anxious to get away from the
graves.

Reith didn't answer right
away. His shrewd gaze was fixed on Roan's face as if reading his
thoughts, or at the least, pondering the cause of Roan's sudden
testiness. Finally, he said, "Physical proof. That be the term I
heard. I thought it be a strange thing to say, but even stranger
when the ither mon said somethin’ abou’ the scam already bein’ the
hottest story o' the decade. Photographs o' empty graves would be
worth a wee fortune."

"Scam," Roan murmured, his
bleak gaze shifting to Lachlan's now blanched face. A memory
flashed vividly through his mind. "Shortby's. Good God Almighty!
There was a mon sittin’ at the counter wi' a camera!"

"Och, aye, the flashin’!"
Lachlan exclaimed. "Fegs, wha' have I done?"

"Don’t panic," Roan rasped,
his hands held up in a pleading manner. "Those bastards didn’t get
their bloody photos, thanks to young Reith, here. No, no need to
panic. I'm sure we'll come up wi' a plan to prevent this from
happenin’ again."

"Do you now?" Lachlan asked
with a scowl. "How abou' if I lie in ma grave and wait for the next
corbie to come along? A weel-timed
boo
might solve all our bloody
problems, aye?"

"At the least," said Roan
humorously, "the intruder would shit his breeks."

"I dinna think so," said
Reith cryptically, pointing.

Roan and Lachlan looked in
the direction of the manor. The sky between it and the carriage
house was unnaturally lit up. Horns and voices rent the
night.

"No," Lachlan murmured,
swaying on his feet like a drunkard. "Canna be so. Tell me
it
canna
be
so!"

This time Roan took the
lead, Lachlan and Reith closely following as they ran across the
field and into the woods. They stopped and hunkered within a patch
of high brush situated between the houses. From this position, they
could see a horde of men and women, some with varying camera
equipment, others with professional lighting systems. There were
shouts for the occupants of the main house to come out and answer
questions, and heated demands for a response to the accusations of
fraud regarding the supposed hauntings of Baird House.

A media blitz had
arrived.

"Reith," said Lachlan, "go
into the carriage house and stay ou' o' sight."

"But, sir—"

"Do as I say!"

Without hesitation, the
young man stayed low to the ground and made his way to the back
door.

Lachlan met Roan's troubled
gaze and rasped, "Ma God, wha' have we done?"

"We?" Roan rasped. Hadn't
Lachlan accepted the blame at the graves?

Lachlan Baird's convoluted
existence had never been more complicated than it was now. He
watched the media frenzy unfolding a short distance away, his
horror deepening with each passing second, and his fevered mind
scrambling to come up with a simple way to unravel the havoc he'd
inadvertently brought upon the estate and its occupants.

He inwardly winced,
shriveled from the inside out at the thought of Beth's reaction.
She'd already relegated him to the carriage house, temporarily
barring him from seeing her and their two week old twins. Not that
he could blame her. He had been an ass of late. Nothing she
wouldn't forgive after a while.

But this?

She blamed their problems
on his liking for Scotch. How anyone could hold a wee libation
responsible for a man's stupidity was beyond him. Granted, he'd
been in his cups more than he should since their return, but he had
a damn good reason.

Didn't he?

Crouched behind the hedge,
Lachlan looked askance at Roan when he gave his arm a squeeze, as
if to warn him not to make a sound or move. He didn't need coaching
in that respect. He planned to stay very quiet and very
still...unless Winston or one of the women—or, God forbid! one of
Laura's nephews—opened the door to confront the
reporters.

He squeezed his eyes shut a
moment then opened them and glared at the noisy trespassers not
more than twenty feet away. Every shouted accusation of fraud made
his hands repeatedly clench.

Fraud against
whom?

Crossmichael?

The county?

All of
Scotland?

Mentally groaning, he
cursed his now former pride in being the renowned ghost of Baird
House—worldwide. Over the long, long decades, many articles and
stories had been written about his murder and his sometimes very
deliberate, ostentatious shenanigans to verify his spectral
existence. He couldn't count all the psychic investigators who had
visited the mansion over the years, most of whom had believed it
their duty to send the "restless spirit" to his final resting
place.

The reporters had been
equally guilty of underestimating him. While a few came with the
sincere hope of seeing
The Lucky
Baird,
himself, there were countless
numbers who had mocked his existence and strived to prove him an
elaborate hoax. He'd toyed with psychics and reporters alike, using
them to dull the edge of his boredom.

Back then it never occurred
to him a time would come when he would regret the publicity he'd
milked out of his murder.

Now it was all coming back
to haunt him.

Wouldn't the reporters just
love to sink their career-sharpened fangs into this
story!

He could well imagine the
bold headlines:

GHOSTLY DUO ONCE AGAIN
BONAFIDE FLESH AND BLOOD MORTALS!

TWINS! HEAVENLY CONCEPTION
OR DEVILISH DECEPTION?

His stomach churned as he
wondered if Beth had been pregnant before she died. Being dead
himself, he hadn't thought precaution necessary.

Yesterday, an innocent
visit to Shortby's had resulted in a brawl with several of the
regular patrons. What bloody bad luck that one man'd had a camera.
And now, if the media storming his property was any indication,
Baird House was about to make the news again.

This time, Lachlan wasn't
of a mind to play with them. It was no longer a game. His
immaturity in accepting his new life paled in significance to the
fact that he now knew he had to cease being Lachlan Baird. For the
sake of Beth and their children, he had to lose his identity, and
that terrified him.

Everything he'd done in his
prior existences had been for naught, and he had no one to blame
but himself.

Gulping back a burning
sensation in his throat, he shifted his gaze to Roan's profile. The
man's face was like an open book, every line telling the story of
his thoughts. Lachlan knew that for his sake, Roan was trying his
mightiest not to appear panicked or resentful, but it was there in
his gaunt features and the way he searched Lachlan's eyes as if
desperate to understand how Lachlan could have been so careless to
announce his identity at Shortby's.

Roan was right, but there
was no going back. The damage was done and Lachlan didn't have a
clue as to how to defuse the situation.

Wiping his brow with the
back of a hand, Roan began, "No matter wha' happens—"

Lachlan's head shot around
and his eyes widened in shock, effectively cutting off Roan's
intended warning. One of the male reporters was reaching out for
Braussaw, the stuffed peacock sitting atop the partially melted
snowman that Roan, Laura and the boys had put together a few days
earlier. With a howl of outrage, he bolted from his hiding place,
leaving Roan behind to dumbfoundedly watch after him. Just as the
reporter's hand was about to touch Braussaw's tail, Lachlan slugged
the man to the ground. He pulled the peacock into his arms
protectively, cradling it against his chest as he was besieged by
other reporters.

Harsh lights blinded him.
Shouted questions flew at him like an onslaught of bullets. He
turned his back to the crowd closing in on three sides, but turned
again when he heard Roan bellowing for the trespassers to get off
the property.

Microphones and glaring
lights were thrust in Roan's face, which he batted aside again and
again with increasing belligerence.

Panting, Lachlan tried to
clear his mind. He'd really done it this time, but he couldn't have
allowed an outsider to touch Braussaw. He at least owed the defunct
bird that much. But in rescuing a dead peacock, he'd gotten Roan
and himself into deeper trouble, and something told him, an
insidious voice laughing in the back of his mind at his rashness,
that this time, he was in over his head.