The presence melted away from her awareness. A shudder coursed through her as she stood poised, air trapped in her lungs while she waited for something more to happen. After seconds ticked by and nothing occurred, she sank to her buttocks and braced her back against the side of the tub.
Tears welled in her eyes.
Laura Bennett, senior designer for Holly Coe Cosmetics, Inc., was not one to easily lose touch with reality. And yet, the past five days had badly shaken her convictions about herself. If she could convince herself a good cry would lessen her misery, she would weep a river.
Ha!
All she would likely get was another headache.
* * *
"So where the bloody hell are you, Lannie, you swineheart!"
Roan continued to pace beneath a circular array of swords mounted on one parlor wall.
"I didn't bargain for this, I can tell you! Where are you? Laughin' off yer fool head, no doubt!"
He sharply looked over his shoulder, his heated gaze targeting a large portrait hanging over a Victorian marble mantel. A snort escaped him then, turning on a heel, he walked to the stoked hearth and glowered at the heart-shaped face of the woman in the painting.
"Beth, give me a hand, here. I know ye're still around. You brought me here to help. Weel, I did. Now, dammit, I would like to return to Aggie, if you please."
A sigh of frustration heaved his chest. "The wind's pickin' up. I wasn't plannin' on gettin' stuck here. No' even for you."
Hooking his thumbs onto the waistband of his trousers, he sighed. "Beth, lass, I don't want the responsibility o' a spunkie Yank and her obnoxious laddies. I've no' the patience to put maself ou' for strangers. I've ma own life to worry abou'."
Something compelled him to look to his right. His heart rose into his throat when he found himself staring into a sea of fiery green eyes. It felt as if an invisible fist slammed into his gut. The skin on his arms and nape tingled uncomfortably.
"How long have you been standin' there?"
Laura released the crystal doorknob and advanced into the room. Pale, her eyes seeming too large for her gamin features, she stopped within an arm's length of her host.
"Long enough." She spared the portrait a glance before spearing Roan's eyes with a look of unquestionable hostility. Then her gaze swept over him, and her right eyebrow haughtily arched. Snug, dark brown trousers accentuated his narrow hips and muscular thighs. Dingy white wool socks covered his feet. In place of the sweater she'd soiled, a dark purple and blue plaid lap blanket was draped over his otherwise bare shoulders.
Placing his balled hands on his hips, he further exposed the pale, curly blond hair matting his chest to his collar bones.
A pulse drummed at Laura's temples. Her skin twitched. "For the record, Mr. Ingliss, I didn't deliberately drive onto this property to have a wreck. I lost control of the car...which, considering the condition of the roads is quite understandable. At least it would be understandable to a reasonable person!"
"Save yer temper for the laird o' this...." Roan offered a snide, lopsided grin. "...house."
"You're not the owner?"
Shaking his head, he folded his arms across his chest. "There's no consanguinity between an Ingliss and a Baird."
The news took her aback, but she nonetheless kept her spine stiff. "When do you expect the owner to return?"
"He's somewhere abou'," he replied, casting the room a scornful glower.
Somewhere about? Laura narrowed a fuming look on him. He talked to that portrait kinder than he talks to me! "Look, I'm grateful for what you've done—"
"No!" Roan exclaimed with a flag of a hand. Turning, he went to a pink and gold embroidered settee positioned atop an enormous red and blue Persian rug, and seated himself. "I don't want gratitude, Miss Bennett. I responded to the heat o' the moment. Nothin' mair."
"Have you always been such an ass, or is this little performance being staged strictly for my benefit?"
Roan was at first shocked by her words then threw back his head and released a booming laugh. When he looked at her again, his bearish countenance had softened. A gleam of mischief brightened his eyes beneath the arched precipices of his eyebrows.
"It’s been a long day, Miss Bennett. Forgive ma ill mood."
"Don't talk to me about long days, Mr. Ingliss," Laura said through clenched teeth. "My first and last visit to Great Britain has been nothing short of a nightmare. So, please...." She affected a sickeningly sweet smile. "...please forgive my ill mood."
"Tea, Miss Bennett?"
"No thank you, Mr. Ingliss. What I really need is a telephone."
Raking a slow, measuring look over her, Roan gave a shake of his head. "No phone. No electricity."
Laura crossed half the distance to the marble coffee table in front of the settee. "You can't be serious!"
"Aye, lass." His gaze lifted to the portrait. "No' long ago, a Yank abou' yer age came to this bloody place. She died here. When the house is verra, verra still, you can feel her presence—"
"Oh shut up! I don't believe in ghosts."
His unsettling gaze searched her features. "Yer car's beyond repair. And if the howlin' o' the wind is any indication, the storm's worsenin'. I would say a good part o' yer vacation is goin' to be spent wi'in these walls."
"Why are you trying to frighten me?"
"I doubt the boogeymon could frighten you, Miss Bennett. But you see, I know this house and the powers tha' control it. Old Lannie is undoubtedly derivin' some perverse pleasure in burdenin' me wi' you and the laddies."
"Burdening you!"
Laura hastened to the side of the settee, her hands balled at her sides. Bright splotches of red stained her cheeks. The wild disarray of her short curly hair lent her a look of almost comical madness. "I need to get to Edinburgh."
Roan's eyes rolled up to deliver her an amused look. "Be serious. I'm no' abou' to risk ma life ou' in this storm."
"Then who can I contact who would be willing to help me?"
Shifting his gaze to the coffee table, he ran his hands up and down his face. "I've no idea."
"I don't believe you."
Releasing a short burst of breath, he got to his feet and faced her. His eyebrows drew down in an angry scowl as he informed, "Believe this, lass: if it were in ma power to send you and yer sons on yer way, you'd've been gone hours ago."
"They're my nephews."
"Ma condolences," he grumbled. Seating himself, he propped his feet atop the coffee table, one ankle crossing the other. Despite his determination to ignore the twitching of his skin, he crossed his arms against his chest and rubbed the irritating sensation moving along his flesh.
Laura gulped past the tightness in her throat. It was obvious the direct approach wasn't going to work. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she said in her most beguiling tone, "I need help. Please, Mr. Ingliss, you must help me."
His eyes closed and he lowered his head. Laura stared down at him, using all her willpower not to succumb to the tears pressing at the back of her eyes. This arrogant stranger had no idea how hard it was for her to ask help of anyone. But she was frightened, not of the woman who supposedly haunted this house, but of what to do about the three lively spirits asleep on the second floor.
This man kept his heartstrings well secreted from outsiders, but she had to find them, even if it meant groveling.
"My sister-in-law died giving birth to Alby," she blurted, and rushed on, "Jack, my brother, remarried a little over a year ago; a nineteen-year-old British girl named Carrie Wilks. Eleven months ago, Jack suffered a stroke and died within a few days."
Tipping her head to one side, she looked to see if she'd spurred the slightest reaction in him.
Nothing?
"He was thirty-seven," she added, but to her chagrin, it came out sounding like a cold-hearted afterthought.
Her heart slowly rose into her throat. His silence was a blaring indication that he wasn't going to make this easy.
"We weren't a clo
se family," she went on, a genuine tremor in her tone. "I...didn't even come to England to attend his funeral. Neither did my parents. They couldn't bring themselves to interrupt their Hawaiian vacation, and I was...engrossed in a project at work."
Ahh. His shoulders jerked. He is actually listening.
"Two weeks ago, Carrie called. I'd never spoken to her before that day. She was crying, pleading with me to come for a visit. She claimed the boys were having a rough time without their father, and said she believed a visit from their aunt would make a world of difference. For the first time, I realized I knew nothing about the boys."
What is he thinking? she wondered, moistening her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.
"Jack had never sent pictures. All I'd ever gotten was a call after each of them was born."
A dispassionate, "Charmin'," was all Roan said.
Me or Jack? Is it just my imagination, or is he taking this all out of context?
An edge of perplexity to her tone, she continued, "I arrived in London six days ago. Carrie and the boys were there to greet me. I remember thinking she didn't look old enough to be married, let alone to pass for a stepmother to three children.
"The first couple of days went relatively well. Oh, the boys proved to be royal hellions, but then I've never really been around children. I just kept telling myself that these were Jack's boys and that I only had a few days left to be with them. Little did I know at the time, I was psyching myself up to fall into Carrie's trap."
When she fell silent for a time, Roan turned his head and narrowly eyed her. "Wha' kind o' trap?" he asked gruffly, as if driven to satisfy his curiosity.
A tremulous smile quirked at one corner of Laura's pouty lips. At long last he was responding. "She suggested I take the boys out for the day. A picnic at the playground. She even packed our lunch. What a disaster that turned out to be. Kahl took a dive in a brook. Alby vanished for nearly two hours and, while I was searching for him, Kevin heavily peppered all the food. They fought me every inch of the way when I dragged them back to the house. Carrie wasn't there. I just figured she went shopping or visiting."
With a nod of his head, Roan straightened his gaze to the hearth. A muscle ticked along his well-defined jawline.
Laura swallowed a moment's disappointment. Was she losing him again?
"When she didn't return that night, I really began to worry. The following morning, Kevin informed me that she'd packed up her things, and had told the boys that they were going to return to the States with me. I went into shock. Kevin handed me a letter she'd instructed him to give me after she'd left. Basically, it said she refused to raise the boys. She was off with her new boyfriend and it would be useless for me to try to find her."
"Charmin'."
One more 'charmin'' out of him, and I swear I'll...
"Things became really complicated when I couldn't find the boys' birth certificates. I took the house apart and couldn't find a one. Then that evening, a large burly man showed up at the door, informing me the house was supposed to have been vacated two days prior. He wouldn't listen to a word of reason. Two men were waiting in his van. The three of them stormed into the house and barely gave me enough time to pack two bags of clothes for the boys. Then they rudely ushered us out onto the street."
Laura cranked her head to one side to observe Roan's reaction. A flutter of nervous tension moved in her abdomen at the sight of his grimly set mouth.
"Carrie had at least left her car and the keys in the ignition." She moved to the back of the settee. "What else could I do? It didn't seem very important at the time that I hadn't touched a stick shift in ten years, or that I hadn't a clue how to drive on British roads."
She returned to her former position, absently wringing her hands at his continued silence.
"The sidewalks roll up in St. Ives after five o'clock. I had no idea where I was going. I drove until dusk then the boys and I slept in the car that night. In the morning, I found a small cafe and checked the phone directory for the closest American Consulate. A waitress was kind enough to highlight the shortest route to Edinburgh on the map I'd purchased. After that, I went to a gas station across the street, and we started out."
Damn you, Ingliss! Do you even have a heart?
"The storm began shortly after we entered Scotland. I located a B&B last night, but when I went to prepay for our rooms, I discovered I didn't have my purse. My money, passport, and return ticket...all gone. The last place I remember seeing my purse was at the station, and I don't have the foggiest recollection of which town that was in."
Roan continued to stare across the room. Frustration gnawed unmercifully on Laura's nerves. Her gaze lifted to study a circular display on the far wall, of ancient swords, their points meeting in a tight center. The sharp, shining metal of the blades winked at her. For a fleeting moment, she visualized holding one of the razor-sharp edges to his throat.
Let him squirm.
A feeling of absolute loathing swelled inside her, turning her blood to ice. Shivering, she seated herself on the coffee table alongside his right foot. His disquieting gaze shifted to her face. There was something in his eyes she could not fathom, but it filled her with a sense of foreboding. A shiver of primitive awareness swept through her mind, an instinctual awareness, as yet, she didn't understand. He'd done nothing to her to warrant the gloom moving like a mist through her system. She wasn't afraid of him, but definitely chary, and even that was not the normal wariness she experienced when in a man's company. Something deep inside her craved to touch upon his soul. For a reason totally arcane to her consciousness, she had a burgeoning suspicion that to comprehend the components of his personality would lead her to understand herself.
Nothing that had happened to her since arriving in Great Britain had made much sense.
There was no denying he was the most handsome, virile man she'd ever met, but she was level-headed enough to know that a cover—however well designed—was nothing but a means by which to entice aesthetic proclivity.
Leaning to, she braced her forearms atop her knees. "Mr. Ingliss, I'm practically desperate. No. I am desperate. Help us to get to Edinburgh. Please."
For what seemed an eternity, they stared into each other's eyes.
Somewhere in the house, a clock gave forth three chimes. Then all became silent, an encompassing silence, further stoking her unease.
What would he say if he knew what an uncharacteristic impact his build and rugged countenance had made on her? Would he bend over backward to send her on her way? Or would he take advantage of her inexplicable weakness?
His features completely occupied her vision. Excellent, defined cheek bones. A thicker, sensual lower lip. Straight nose. But his eyes were his best feature. Surrounded by pale, thick lashes, the soft-brown color of his irises cried out to be noticed. A woman could easily get lost in those eyes.
A woman could easily fall victim to their spell, and fail to question the real man residing behind them.
Her gaze lowered to the downy hair on his chest and her palms began to itch. Fighting back a fierce desire to rake her fingers across that sea of masculine planes, she said almost in a monotone, "I washed out your sweater. It's laid out over a towel on the side of the tub."
He eyed her skeptically then reached up and ran his fingers through the thick, longish hair capping his head. After a short time, he placed his feet on the floor, leaned forward, and boldly rested his brow to hers.
Excitement quivered through her. What was wrong with her? She knew that he was testing her courage not to shrink away. What would he think if he knew that it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms?
"Despite all yer woes, you thought o' ma sweater, aye?"
Her heart flip-flopped behind her breasts. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of what she was feeling. He was a stranger! And a rude, crude, infuriating one at that!
The skin of his wide brow was hot. The tip of his nose met hers, and she swallowed reflexively. His
musky scent filled her nostrils. She wanted him—
"You know, lass...." A slow, tormenting smile strained across his mouth. "...you nearly roped me in."
In a barely audible voice, she asked, "Beg your pardon?"
Leaning back against the settee, he mockingly bobbed his head, the devilish gleam brightening his eyes, sorely unsettling her. "All tha' is missin' from yer sad, sad story is a wee dog givin' his life for the sake o' you and the laddies."
Several seconds later, his words sank in. As if wrenched from the spell she'd been under, she sprang to her feet, hissing, "You heartless bastard!"
Without thought, she swung out a hand, and dealt him a stinging slap to the side of his face. The satisfaction she experienced was brief. With a swiftness that left her breathless, his large hands caught her by the waist and swung her down on his lap. He growled deep within his throat as he twisted around and effortlessly lowered her shoulder blades to the embroidered upholstery. Her hand swung up again, but he caught her wrists and pinned them to the material above her head.
The massive, naked breadth of his chest and shoulders filled her vision, mentally disarming her. Fear wedged in her throat. Not because he had effortlessly overpowered her but because she found his actions inexplicably exciting.
"Let me up," she sobbed.
"The last time I fell for a womon's soft tone, I lost somethin' verra precious to me."
"Everything I've told you is true!"
"Maybe, maybe no'. As far as I'm concerned, ye're Lannie's problem."
"All right, I'm...Lannie's problem. And I’m sorry I hit you. I don’t know what got into me. Now, please let me up!"
He retained his hold, his thumb lazily massaging the inside of her left wrist. Pleasurable sensations frolicked down her arms, rippling to the core of her heart. When she could no longer tolerate the havoc his touch wreaked on her skin, she stammered, "W-when can I t-talk to him?"
"When it suits him, no doubt."
She gulped. The one thing she feared most was fear itself. Too many men had tried to master her, to take care of and dominate her, during the past twelve of her thirty years. Small build. Youthful features. They were a curse. She'd fought hard for independence, but had never before quite found herself in such an uncompromising position.
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 2