Time Everlastin' Book 5 (38 page)

"Aren't you cold?" she
asked, not looking up.

"A wee."

Silence.

"I met Braussaw—the
peacock," he said, staring where the bird had
disappeared.

Taryn rubbed her arms for
warmth and sighed contentedly when he scooted closer and draped an
arm about her shoulders.

"Do you want to go inside,
lass?"

She rested her head on his
shoulder and murmured, "No. I'm okay. You?"

"I be now."

Silence.

A dog howled from some
distant place. Peafowl rustled branches in the surrounding
shrubs.

"I'm sorry," she
said.

"Ye have naught to apologize
for."

"You look so much
like...him."

"Aye, the mon you once
believed you loved," he said solemnly.

Taryn sat up and stared into
his eyes. "I-I need to explain my reaction. When I...saw you step
into the parlor...."

"Twas a shock."

"Yeah, but...in a matter of
seconds, Broc, I questioned my feelings for you."

"I dinna
understand."

"I know you don't, and I'm
not sure I can explain what ran through my mind. You see, when I
saw Lachlan at the standing stones, I knew I never loved him, and I
was relieved."

A puzzled grin formed on
Broc's face. "I'm mair confused now, lass."

"So was I, believe me. I-I
didn't have those feelings for him, Broc, which in a way—at least
to my way of thinking—validated my love for you. In fact,
I-uh...did question how I came to love you so quickly. I mean...I
was confused. After so many years of not allowing myself to care
about anyone, I find myself willing to give up everything to be
with you. If you knew the old Taryn, you would question me,
too."

"Would I?"

"Oh, yes." She focused on
his bare knees and frowned. "I have a reputation for being a
conniving bitch."

"Ye're talkin' abou' ma
womon."

She met his smiling eyes and
grinned shyly. "Ask anyone, Broc. I've never been
exactly...lovable."

With a chuckle, he kissed
her brow.

"Anyway," she went on,
worrying her hands atop her lap, "when you stepped into the
parlor...I thought...well, I convinced myself I knew all along you
were related to Lachlan."

"How could you ken,
Taryn?"

"Your eyes." She stared into
them. "They were so familiar. So like his."

"How would ma relationship
to Lachlan make ye doubt yer love for me?"

"I know it sounds crazy,
Broc, but I got it into my head that my obsession to have Lachlan
was merely transferred to you. Everything jumbled in my
mind."

"Naught to do wi' Ciarda?"
he asked softly.

"Honestly, I didn't think
about her until after I got to our room. Then...yes, I was snapping
in the face of a green-eyed monster."

His eyebrows lifted
quizzically.

"Jealousy," she said. "I
wanted to rip her eyes out for having a history with you. I know
it's childish, and I know she was a part of your life a long time
ago. I guess it's a stupid woman thing. A Taryn thing."

"Aye, Ciarda was a long time
ago, lass. For two weeks, she was ma life. We didna love each
ither, but we found comfort an' happiness for a time. She was a
gentle womon, Taryn. A wee lost. A wee sad. And, aye, a wee
lonely."

"Do you resent her not
returning to you?"

Broc shook his head and
sighed. "I knew she would return to her husband. Many a time,
though, I regretted no' tellin' her wha' she brought to me durin'
her stay. She gave ma bitter heart hope, Taryn, tha' one day I,
too, would leave Karok's realm."

"Why didn't you tell me that
you read her journal and knew about Lachlan?"

Broc shrugged. "Too much
happened too fast efter I finished it. As for thinkin' yer Lachlan
was
ma
son, how
could I? I already felt our connection afore I met him, but I didna
believe him ma son, Taryn. Mayhaps a descendent. Ma son would've
been dead many a year, aye?"

"If your son were a normal
man," she grinned.

"Aye, like his da, he be far
from normal."

"Do you know what else I
figured out?"

Again his eyebrows lifted.
"Tha' you love me for me, I hope!"

She laughed. "That, too. You
know, in the last year, I've met a born again ghost—Lachlan, of
course...and Beth! Can't forget her—fairies, other ghosts, and a
gargoyle. The pinnacle of this collection is, of course, you. I'm
in love with a man over two hundred years old."

"And?"

"You're five years younger
than your son," she said straight-faced.

Broc blinked, frowned, and
blinked again.

"You're twenty-eight, and
Lachlan's thirty-three."

Broc scrinched up his face
thoughtfully. "Wha' a crownin' oddity."

"People are going to assume
you're brothers, maybe even identical twins."

"I canna claim to be his
da?"

"Not without causing a
helluva uproar," she chuckled. She sobered. "Have you seen Lachlan
since he stormed out of the house?"

"No."

"He'll come around, Broc. He
will."

"You an' I have a physical
bond to build on, lass. Lachlan and I...well, I dinna think he'll
easily get past the fact I seduced his mither."

Taryn sighed wistfully. "I
agree you could have worded that better."

"I wish, Taryn, he would
have read Ciarda's journal. Tis lost to fire now. Her words were
meant for him and none ither."

"What was she like,
Broc?"

"Beautiful and soft-spoken.
She had an extraordinary laugh. Musical. She didna speak o’ Guin.
Readin' her journal filled me in on wha' she endured wi' him.
Lachlan was her one joy, Taryn. He was her world. I didna tell
Lachlan but, she wrote tha' every time she looked into his eyes,
rememberin’ her 'dream' at the inn helped her to cope wi' her life
wi' Guin. It saddened me to read tha'. Ma lover and ma son left to
the machinations o' tha' sadistic bastard."

He clenched his teeth and
released a breath through his nostrils. "Guin knew Lachlan wasna
his. He never said so, but Ciarda wrote she suspected such. She was
afraid he would one day harm Lachlan."

"From what little I know, he
made Lachlan's life hell," Taryn murmured.

"Despite Guin, I couldna be
prouder o' the mon ma son became," Broc said, pride glowing through
him. "Blue told me o' his past. Gawd...left to die in yonder tower!
She told me abou' Beth, too, an' Winston an' Deliah. Each a
miracle, aye?"

"Aye," Taryn beamed. "Like
us."

"Aye, like us."

"I know Lachlan will accept
you," she said, entwining her fingers through his, "because he's
like his father. His real father."

"Meanin'?"

"You're both stubborn and
dead-damned determined to do what's right. You, Mr.
I-have-to-stay-with-Karok. It's that honor thing."

"A mon isna a mon wi'ou'
it."

"There are a lot of manless
men around, believe me. Lachlan will approach you because he'll
feel he must. You're his father. His sense of honor won't let him
stay away long."

"Know me tha' well, do you?"
asked a deep, disgruntled voice from behind them.

Taryn stood. Broc rose
slowly, his posture stiff, his mind preparing for an unpleasant
confrontation.

"Lachlan," Taryn said with
shaky cheerfulness.

"Lass," he greeted somberly,
his gaze riveted on Broc. "Would you mind leavin' the mon and I to
talk?"

"Would I mind leaving you
and your father to talk? Not at all."

Before she could step away,
Broc gripped her arm. "Dinna go."

Taryn glanced at Lachlan
before conjuring up a smile for Broc. "I need to. You two have a
lot to discuss." She kissed him on the mouth then headed to the far
side of the gazebo, stopping on the steps when Lachlan muttered,
"Thank you."

"You're welcome. And
Lachlan?"

He looked at her,
frowning.

"Be nice."

He watched her until she
shrank into the distance then leveled his frown on Broc. A long
silence followed, their gazes locked, their bearings racked with
hostility. Then Lachlan's shoulders relaxed and he released a long
breath.

"I heard wha' you said abou'
ma mither and Guin."

"Twas for Taryn's ears
alone, I spoke," Broc said coldly and stepped onto the
platform.

"You dinna love
her."

Broc shook his head. "Adored
her, aye. Was grateful for her company, och, aye."

"At least ye're honest abou'
tha'," Lachlan muttered.

"Tis no' ma disposition to
lie, Lachlan."

Lachlan glanced off to one
side for a time. "Ye're five years younger than me."

A reluctant smile quirked on
Broc's mouth. "One mair anomaly in the MacLachlan saga."

Lachlan nodded
distractedly.

"Lachlan—"

"I need to say somethin',"
Lachlan cut him off, and moved two paces forward, stopping short as
if wary of standing too close to Broc. "I loved ma mither. I should
have read her journal, but...you only know a wee portion o' wha'
she suffered."

"I realize tha'."

"Truth be, I was afraid I
would find in those pages, her disappointment in me as a son. As a
mon."

"There be none." Broc rolled
his eyes heavenward in an attempt to dam tears pressing for
release. "For neither o' us." He forced himself to look at his son,
who studied him intensely.

"How do you feel abou' her
no' tellin' me o' yer existence?"

"Lachlan, she had her
reasons. When Karok first brought her below, I was loud and
demandin', an' full of rage and contempt for ma fate. I can
understand her no' willin' to risk returnin' to me wi' a child. I
wouldna let her or you leave, even if it meant imprisonin' ye both
wi' me in tha' cursed realm."

"You forgive her?" asked
Lachlan quietly.

"She did right by ye,
Lachlan, as any proper mither would. Do you resent her
silence?"

Lachlan's frown smoothed
into bewilderment. "No' resent. Confused she didna tell me. I
thought we were close...confided in one anither."

"She wanted to protect ye,
Lachlan."

He nodded and stared at Broc
with an intense gleam Broc couldn't define. "Why did Onora bring me
to Karok's world? Why no' tell me abou' you?"

"I canna guess her
motives."

"She wasna a figment o' ma
imagination. I know tha' now. Why or how she came to be in ma life,
I'll never know."

"Is it tha' important to you
to have the answers?"

Lachlan sighed and offered a
half grin. "No' really. Canna wish for wha' I know I canna have,
aye?"

"True enough." Broc nibbled
on his lower lip. "Where-ah, do we stand, Lachlan?"

Lachlan glanced about him.
"In the gazebo."

"I meant—"

"I know wha' you meant,"
Lachlan sighed. "An' I know you are ma faither. Younger than me.
Tis hard to digest."

"Can you accept me in
time?"

"I accept you now," Lachlan
said matter-of-factly.

Taken aback, Broc made a
feeble gesture with his hands. "Ye do?"

"I may be stubborn, but I'm
no' daft," Lachlan quipped. "I canna look at you wi'ou' the truth
slappin' me in the face."

"Ye accept the truth." Broc
heaved a breath to quell the unease in the pit of his stomach. "But
do ye accept me?"

Silence stretched for a long
moment. Lachlan closed the distance, his nose but an inch from
Broc's. Broc held his ground, anticipating a backlash of emotion
from his son.

"Do you expect me to call
you faither or da?"

"It doesna matter wha' comes
from yer mouth," said Broc, and poked a finger at Lachlan's chest,
"but wha' comes from here."

"Respect, then?"

Broc shrugged. "I must earn
tha'."

"Me, too."

"To ou'siders, we could be
brithers, aye, as long as we ken atween us, Lachlan, we're faither
and son. Ye're a MacLachlan, blood and soul. Our clan is the oldest
in recorded Scottish history, and for centuries, twas MacLachlans
who placed kings on the thrones o' Ireland. Descended from kings,
ourselves, we are."

Lachlan chuckled. "From
kingship to sheep farmer?"

"Aye, tis life. Farmin' be
no less important in the strength o' a people, than those who rule.
We bear the blood o' warriors—no' always admirable when it
interferes wi' common sense, mind you."

"I'll call you
Broc."