Hope Everlastin' Book 4 (4 page)

A piercing, clanging sound
rang out, then again and again until the reporters moved away from
Lachlan and Roan and shuffled closer to the carriage house like a
swarm of bees preparing for an attack. One alarmed glance from Roan
prompted the two men to push through the jostling group, whose
voices were rapidly crescendoing in another verbal assault. The
portable location lights blinded Lachlan as he led Roan to where
Winston's car was parked in front of the carriage house. His first
thought had been that Reith had caused the ruckus to draw attention
away from him, but it was Winston casually holding a hubcap in one
hand and a tire iron in the other.

Winston again clanged the
implements, eliciting immediate silence from the
onlookers.

Vapored breaths rose into
the night sky. Lachlan settled himself to Winston's right, Roan to
Lachlan's right. Winston passed a knowing grin their way, then
leveled a peeved look on the media, who were so quiet and still,
the situation was almost laughable.

Clutching Braussaw's stiff
body against him, Lachlan muttered out the side of his mouth to
Winston, "Any ither grand ideas?"

Winston cocked one black
eyebrow, a lopsided grin suggesting he did in fact have a plan.
Then the eyebrow lowered and his grin vanished when a blond woman
in her thirties stepped forward. Dressed in a three-quarter length
beige wool coat, black boots, and a black knitted tam pulled down
on one side of her head, she clutched a small tape recorder in one
leather-gloved hand.

"Are you Lachlan Baird?"
she asked dispassionately, her eyes on Lachlan both accusatory and
cynical.

A painful tightness
manifested in Lachlan's chest, and his throat closed off. He cast
the main house a remorseful look, his mind scrambling for something
to say that would end this nightmare, but not a viable thought
formulated. Nonetheless, he opened his mouth in the hopes something
would roll off his tongue. Preferably, something that wouldn't cook
their carcasses any more than his antics already had.

"I..." The single syllable
sounded inordinately deep. He sucked in a roar of breath and was
about to make the plunge when Winston laughed, completely
disorienting him.

"I detect a slight New York
accent," Winston said to the blonde reporter.

"Marette Cambridge, New
York Times," she said, her intense blue gaze riveted on Winston
now. "I've come a long way for this story." She cast Lachlan a
disgruntled glance. "For an obvious hoax, it seems."

Questions erupted from the
mass. Winston lifted the hubcap and tire iron in a threatening
manner. When silence prevailed again for several seconds, he
lowered his attention-getters and smiled ruefully at the crowd. He
glanced at Lachlan and Roan with a look that warned them to let him
handle the matter. Then he frowned as he turned his attention back
to the reporters.

"The trouble in this
electronic world o' ours," Winston began amicably, "is tha’ rumor
spreads faster than the speed o' light." He bowed his head
graciously to the blonde. "It's a shame the one responsible for
releasing the information on the newswire didn't bother to verify
his story."

A tall, bushy-haired man
pushed forward and held out a large microphone inches from
Winston's face. "A man claiming to be
the
Lachlan Baird of Baird House was
reported to have started a brawl at a local pub," he charged in an
accent of German origin.

Without thinking, Lachlan
boasted, "Aye, but ma monhood was insulted!"

"Lachlan," Winston warned,
shooting the laird a scowl.

The German went on
excitedly, "The same ghost Lachlan Baird, I witnessed perform the
alleged miracle last Christmas Eve?"

"Alleged!" Lachlan
fumed.

"You don’t look much like a
ghost now!" accused a man with a Highland accent. "Wha' did it cost
to perpetrate tha' hoax?"

"O' all the
bloody—"

Winston nonchalantly
flagged the tire iron in front of Lachlan's face, cutting him off.
Then, with a long sigh of impatience, he addressed the media.
"Ladies and gentleman, I introduce Horatio Lachlan Baird." Ignoring
Lachlan's startled grunt, he went on, "Cousin many times removed o'
the original laird o' Baird House."

Murmurs passed among the
media, while Lachlan inwardly groaned,
Horatio? I wouldna name a stuffed bird Horatio!

"Mr. Baird arrived two
weeks ago at the request o' Baird House's new owner, Mr. Roan
Ingliss. Mr. Ingliss is planning to open his home as a retreat, and
asked Mr. Baird, who—" He gestured to Lachlan. "—as you can see,
bears a remarkable likeness to the now departed Lachlan
Baird."

Skepticism appeared on some
of the faces across from him. Others were peeved. A few were even
more curious than before.

Winston gave an elaborate
shrug. "This Mr. Baird has been rehearsing for the grand opening,
which Mr. Ingliss hopes will be sometime this summer."

Roan nodded
stiltedly.

"Mr. Baird," Winston went
on, "has been studying the original laird's background, mannerisms
and dress, to perform as the laird, himself, during the grand
opening.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen,
we did go to Shortby's, and yes, a brawl ensued. Mr. Baird's
declaration tha' he was Lachlan Baird o' Baird House, was no' a
lie, and it certainly wasn't his intention to imply he was
the
deceased
laird.
Had he been given the opportunity he would have explained. When we
left Shortby's, we had no idea his presence in Crossmichael would
cause such a stir."

Another man, young,
dark-haired, shoved his microphone toward Winston. "Am I mistaken,
or are you Detective Winston Connery?"

"I am. After the exhausting
conclusion o' the Phantom case, I needed to get away. Mr. Ingliss
was kind enough to offer me a room here during ma
holiday."

A woman in her late fifties
called from the center of the group, "Is Agnes Ingliss' spirit
still present in the house?"

"Ma aunt just recently
passed over," said Roan, emboldened by the brilliant cover-up
Winston had initiated. "Baird House is now free o' ghosts, but the
magic and serenity o' the place remains. And I would like to add at
this time, it would be greatly appreciated in the future if the
media would no' jump to conclusions in regard to anyone or anythin’
connected to this estate. I plan to marry soon and raise a family
here. I'll no' stand for the press or anyone else trespassin’ on a
whim. You'll find me verra accessible to answerin’ yer bloody
questions, but as equally hostile if ma privacy is
mistreated."

For what seemed an eternity
to Lachlan, a myriad of questions were asked about Roan's plans for
the estate and Winston's experiences on the Phantom case. Lachlan
remained gratefully silent, vaguely listening, wishing he could
escape before someone demanded a response from him. He was now
feeling the chill of the night seeping into his bones. He was also
overly conscious of hugging the bird, but he couldn't bring himself
to release it. The feathered solidity against his chest gave him
comfort, as if the bird helped to lessen the pounding of Lachlan's
heart. He was sure that if the media could hear its wild, erratic
beat, they would deem his willing reticence the fear it
was.

In truth, he was sick with
fear.

What if Beth had emerged
from the house?

Could Winston have
explained away her "remarkable resemblance" to Beth Staples, as
easily?

Perhaps the press could
accept the story of Horatio Lachlan Baird, but he doubted if a
Baird with a duplicate of Beth would even fool a blind person.
Winston had temporarily given them a reprieve. It certainly
wouldn't last long, though.

As if compelled by some
inner voice, he looked across the sea of faces, many of which were
blotted out by what few lights remained trained on him and his
companions, and spied a woman at the back of the reporters. She
stood behind another woman's shoulder. He could only see her nose,
eyes, and a portion of her brow. A hood covered her hair. She
stared at him with eerie directness, unblinking, as if she were
reading his thoughts and held him in contempt of the charade his
silence was validating.

He stared back at her with
all the calm he could muster. Although she was four bodies away
from him, he thought there was something familiar about her eyes,
but he was too rattled to concentrate.

A male voice commented that
he didn't remember the new oak as having been there Christmas Eve,
and panic lanced Lachlan's heart. He saw the mysterious eyes still
watching him, and his panic deepened until he was sure he would
burst with need to escape the crowd, the night, and the woman's
scrutiny.

His nose detected a potent
whiff of smoke. Looking over his shoulder at the carriage house, he
muttered, "Excuse me," then passed Roan and went into the building,
where he found his new employee sitting on a crate in front of the
wood stove. Blue eyes looked up at him through the lantern light,
eyes betraying Reith's concern for what was going out outside.
Pulling up one of the other crates, Lachlan sat, placed Braussaw on
the floor and ran his hands wearily down his stubbled
face.

Reith remained quiet and
placed the lantern at his feet further away from the peacock. He
waited a time longer before clearing his throat and asking in a
hushed tone, "Be ye the true laird?"

Lachlan eyed him peevishly.
It was on the tip of his tongue to continue the lie, but there was
something about the lad that told him it wasn't necessary. He
nodded while planting his hands on his thighs, and again flexing
the stiff muscles in his back.

A hint of a smile appeared
on Reith's generous mouth as he braced the underpart of his
forearms on his thighs, and linked together the fingers of his
hands. "I heard ye spoken o' in town," he said, again keeping his
voice low.

Lachlan frowned. "Regardin’
the brawl at Shortby's?"

"Aye, and mair, sir." Reith
sighed deeply. "Three days back, I was sittin’ by the loch and
heard a womon and two men talkin’. From wha' I gathered, one o' the
men was visitin’ from Edinburgh, and the ither mon and womon were
braggin’ abou' Crossmichael's esteemed ghost. I thought them a wee
bent in the mind, talking o' ghosts as they were, but I listened
nonetheless.

"Sir, earlier, ou' in the
field...I thought ye mair'n a wee daft when ye said twas yer grave
wha' was bein’ desecrated by those men. Ma apologies."

Lachlan chuckled tiredly.
"Weel, laddie, tis no' every day you happen across a beleaguered
lot as we here at Baird House."

"No, sir. Sir?"

Lachlan looked expectantly
into the earnest blue eyes.

"Ye can trust
me."

Smiling with appreciation,
Lachlan nodded. "Tis the damndest thing, laddie, but I know I can."
He frowned thoughtfully at the young man. "You should let yer wife
know where you are."

"I will."

Lachlan focused on Reith's
hands and nodded. "Dinna make ma mistakes. Get yer priorities in
order, and dinna let anythin’ sway you from them."

"Ma faither used to say,
'if ye be lookin’ into the past, yer head isna on
straight'."

Lachlan chuffed a laugh and
nodded in agreement. "Sounds like a verra wise mon, yer
faither."

"He is," said Reith sadly.
"I've been a disappointment to him a verra long time." He looked
into Lachlan's eyes and smiled halfheartedly. "But I be workin’ on
redeemin’ maself."

"I'm sure you are. You
strike me as being an intelligent, compassionate mon. Wha'ever
happened in the past, shouldna cloud yer future. Time has a way o'
healin’ wrongs. For those o' us who are prone to mishap—bloody
hell, let's call it wha' it is,
trouble
—time can seem like a long
sentence. So I say to you wha' I've been tellin’ maself, never give
up the struggle to do right. Especially to do right by yer loved
ones."

Reith's gaze drifted off to
one side. "Be all women complicated?" He looked at Lachlan. "Or is
it we males be inordinately dense when it comes to wha' they want
or need?"

Gesturing his hopelessness
with a shrug, Lachlan said, "Something atween the two, I think.
Maybe if we—"

Lachlan bit back his words
when the door opened. Roan and Winston walked in, the former
dragging the last crate to Reith's right, while Winston crouched to
Lachlan's left.

"They're finally leavin’,"
said Roan, his tone deep with fatigue and strain.

Lachlan noted Winston
staring at Reith and introduced them, briefly describing what had
happened in the field.

"Ye did a fine job ou'
there, sir," Reith told Winston, with a respectful bob of his
head.

"Fine?" Lachlan clapped
Winston on the shoulder. "You saved our arses, you did." He noticed
Winston cast a wary look in Reith's direction, and added with a
chuckle, "The lad knows the truth."

Winston nodded, but it was
obvious he wasn't pleased with Lachlan bringing the young man into
his confidence.