Her stomach in knots, she eased out of the bed so to not awaken her nephews then tiptoed barefoot in the direction of the door. She groped in the darkness until she found the doorknob and cautiously stepped into the dim grayness of the hall.
Two gas wall lamps were all that provided light. Remaining on tiptoe, she slowly made her way toward Roan's room, casting fearful looks at the sideboards and antique tables she passed, as if expecting something hideous to spring out from them and grab her.
Then a feminine voice stopped her in her tracks.
"You weigh a ton, you big ox."
A warble of a laugh followed. "Tis ma heart-filled joy to have you back, weighin' me down."
"Cut the blarney," the woman said on a sigh.
“Blarney is the Irish!”
Laura lit into a run, but stopped again when she reached the staircase. Her heart rose into her throat. A woman's white gown and a pair of man's black boots, were all that she could see ascending to the third floor.
"Wait!" she called out, then was given a jolt when a piteous groan caught her attention. She looked up to see that the couple was no longer in sight. Another groan beckoned her from somewhere below, and the thought of Roan in some kind of distress, lanced her through the heart.
Moving in swift descent, she stifled a cry at the sight of him sprawled on the floor at the bottom of the staircase.
"Roan!" she gasped, turning him onto his back. Her trembling hands framed his ashen face. "Roan, what happened? Are you hurt...or ill—"
He belched, and she unwittingly caught a whiff of his breath.
Amid a stomach-churning odor of eggs was a distinct vapor of whiskey. Her head reeling from the fumes, she stared down into his face for a long moment.
He moaned again. Laura smacked him on the chest.
"You're drunk!" Taking him by the shoulders, she tried in vain to draw him into a sitting position. "Roan, wake up! You'll catch your death if you stay like this in this drafty hall! Damn you, Roan—" She slapped him twice on the cheek. "—wake up!"
Anger heightened the color in her cheeks as she looked up the staircase. Part of her wanted to leave him as he was and let him pay the price later, but she couldn't bring herself to abandon him. However, she was damned if she was going to sit beside him while he slept off a drinking spree.
She ran to the kitchen and returned a minute later with something clutched in one hand. Kneeling beside him, she took a moment to search his face. A fluttering sensation swirled around her heart. Never had she met a man so utterly masculine, and it was more than his rugged face and muscular build. There was something about him she couldn't quite put her finger on, something in the way he took charge that gratified a primitive need in her.
She'd never allowed a man to try to dominate her in the past. She thought, prior to this Scotland experience that she'd never allow herself to give up even a small portion of her independence. So why did she, in her heart of hearts, gladden whenever he blocked her threats to leave?
Was it because she had subconsciously known she was being irrational, or was the actual reason, she didn't want to leave before getting to know him?
Uncurling her fingers, she took a pinch of the dark ground substance, but stared down into his face for a time longer.
Had she not been in such a state—or so damned proud!—she would have enjoyed further exploration of his preeing.
She focused on his sensuous lower lip and sighed.
Such a wonderful, beckoning mouth. She knew in her heart, she would never work up the nerve to tell him how devastatingly charming was his burr. Part of her initiating their confrontations was to listen to him, although it caused her to inwardly ache to hear the enchanting lilts his tongue created out of the simplest words.
"I've got to purge my system of you," she said in a solemn, low tone, her gaze drinking in every detail of his features.
Heaving a throbbing breath, she sprinkled the black substance beneath his nostrils then clamped the same hand over his mouth. Anxiety began to work its strangulating fibers through her conscience when long moments passed.
Then he sneezed. His hands clumsily tried to pry hers from his mouth.
Laura scooted back as a sneezing fit fully snatched him from unconsciousness. Rolling over and getting onto his hands and knees, he conceded to the paroxysms until they finally began to wane.
Pain sliced through his head with each movement. Numbness tingled through his limbs. His stomach heaved, settled then heaved again before he began to gulp in draughts of air.
"Are you all right?"
His head slowly turned and his bloodshot eyes strained to focus on her.
"Wha' did you do to me?" he moaned.
"I couldn't revive you," she replied nervously, scooting back further until her spine met with the bottom step.
Roan gingerly turned on his hands and knees to face her. "Wha' did you—" He sneezed again, groaned, grimaced, and narrowed his eyes on her. "—do to me?"
She held out a trembling fist, then uncurled the fingers and exposed what lay in her palm.
Closing one eye, Roan stared at the substance. "Pepper? You made me snort pepper?"
The wounded, incredulous look in his eyes racked her with guilt. "It worked, didn't it?" she asked in a small voice.
Crawling to the newel post and hoisting himself onto his feet, he issued a guttural, "I'm feelin' a wee wabbit."
Laura sprang to her feet, a look of horror masking her face. "Are you going to throw up?"
His eyes narrowed on her as he strained to steady the tottering of his large frame. "Twould be fair play." He sneezed and nearly keeled over.
"Don't fall, please!" Laura pleaded, wrapping an arm about his middle. "The owners have returned. I'll get them to help—"
"Leave 'em be," he growled, placing his brow on the rounded post in front of him. "They're probably makin' love."
Laura's cheeks reddened as she peered up the staircase.
"They've it comin', lass," Roan murmured, looking up as well. "Lannie's okay. No' the devil I thought him to be."
"The two of you got drunk. By any chance, did you talk about my predicament?"
As if to move was excruciating, he placed an arm about her shoulders and stared down at her upturned face. "Aye, we talked abou' you and the laddies."
"What did he say?"
Roan scrinched up his face. "Can't it wait till the morn?"
Taking a fortifying breath, she nodded. "All right. I've waited this long."
"Can you help me up the stairs?"
"I'll do my best," she replied with an edge of skepticism.
The ascent was slow and tedious, Roan's legs threatening to buckle beneath him about every other step. By the time they reached the second floor landing, Laura was winded and her shoulders ached from the strain of trying to support him. She led him into the bedroom he'd been using, through the dark, to the bed, and helped him to sit on the edge of the mattress.
"I'm going to get you a cold cloth. Don't move."
A grunt was his response.
Frustration unnerved her as she stumbled around the room in search of a bathroom. When it finally occurred to her that this room did not have a private bath, she went into the hall and ran to her room. She stopped only long enough to assure herself the boys were still asleep then, by memory alone, went into the dark bathroom. Something strewn across the floor nearly caused her to trip. Ignoring it, she removed a towel from the rack, and soaked it beneath the tap in the sink.
Careful of her footfalls this time, she exited the bathroom.
After closing the bedroom door behind her, she ran back to Roan's room, saying as she passed the threshold, "Good, you have a light on— Where are you?"
Panic settled in her brain as she ran to the far side of the large, decorative oak bed. Her breaths roared in her ears when she found him not to be on the floor as she'd thought. Trying to reason where he could have gone, she cast a wild look about the spacious room.
The towel in
her hand dripped on her bare feet, drawing her attention. Feeling lightheaded, she pressed the cold wetness to her face and held it there for a time.
"Somethin' crawled inside ma brain and died," said a guttural voice.
Laura looked in the direction of the door. An instantaneous stupor wrapped about her at the sight of Roan staggering into the room, an index finger inserted into his mouth, rubbing a blue substance on his teeth and tongue. Perhaps at another time she would have thought the scene comical, but his nakedness shocked her. He staggeringly padded across the room. Lifting a hand over her pounding heart, she watched him with wide wandering eyes.
His masculine physique caused her mouth to go dry. Never had the sight of a man affected her so poignantly—not that she'd seen many in the nude. Still, she couldn't imagine another man having this same effect on her sexual awareness.
He spared her a disgruntled look as he made his way toward the bed. A shiver coursed through him. "Damn the drafty house! And damn the scotch cloudin’ ma mind!"
By the time he reached his destination, the thundering in his head had worsened. "I'm dyin'," he groaned, crashing face down atop the quilt covering the feather mattress.
Barely able to breathe past the tightening in her throat, Laura again buried her face in the towel.
If she didn't get away from this man soon, she was positive she was going to get involved in something she would later regret. Just what she needed. Another complication.
Wasn't it enough that she had the boys to worry about?
What good could possibly come of her succumbing to a whim to make love with this crude, dour Scot?
Silently groaning, she lowered the towel just enough to peer down at him.
Thank God he was too drunk to test her willpower!
Chapter 4
Laura had never thought of herself as a prude until this moment. She resented his unabashed display of nudity, resented her weakness to stop herself from gawking at him. Incendiary sensations moved over her skin and coiled within the pit of her stomach. Sparks of desire ricocheted inside her skull. Though the lighting in the room was soft, the image of his physique would always remain clearly branded in her memory.
Clothing did not make the man in Roan's case.
She was thirty years old, and unable to cope with the sight of a naked heinie!
No...not just any naked heinie. Roan Ingliss' in all its raw glory.
He'd strutted toward the bed as if she hadn't been in the room. But he had spared her a brief glance, telling her that this scene had been a deliberate move on his part to rattle her again.
The thought evoked a reserve of her pride, and she slowly lowered the towel. Rigid, she slowly ran her gaze down the length of him then dwelled on the firm curvature of his buttocks. Most of the men she'd known couldn't fill the seat of a pair of jeans two sizes too small. Not Roan, damn him.
Muscular thighs and calves. His back and shoulders and biceps. He either vigorously worked out in a gym, or owned of the most incredible genes.
Laura gulped, her gaze traveling over him once again. Her palms itched. It had been—what?—more than a year since she'd made love. Actually, love had had nothing to do with it. She'd known Dan Faradey for four years. They'd been working at her place late one rainy, damp night, and for the first time in a long time, she'd found herself needing physical comfort.
She'd approached the idea with the same directness she used in all her business relationships. Dan had been divorced a little less than a year. Obviously lonely. It seemed natural at the time.
His idea of making love had soured her needs after that night. Dan had been crudely oblivious to satisfying her, and later had left her feeling completely empty, little more than a vehicle that he'd used to grunt his way to a climax.
Tears misted her eyes as she unexpectedly became angry with Roan. Without a thought as to the consequence, she whipped the towel up and lashed a corner portion of it across his back.
His gasp rang out amid a blur of motion. Stunned, Laura felt something cinch her wrist and yank her down onto the mattress. She found herself pinned beneath Roan, staring into his anger-darkened face. Cursing in Gaelic, he planted his elbows to each side of her upper arms, and leveled himself threateningly above her.
"Wha' the bloody hell is wrong wi' you?" he asked harshly.
Dazed, she pondered the scent of toothpaste on his breath. Her brand of toothpaste.
"Answer me, womon! Have you no sense than to bugger a mon in his cups?"
"You're drunk," she accused, a telltale quaver in her tone.
"No' tha' drunk!"
She became aware of his cool, muscular, inner thighs pressing against the outer sides of her knees. "I-I dropped the towel."
"You did, eh?" he growled. "Weel, it had a mean sting to it, Laura-lass."
"I'm sorry. I don’t know why I...I— Get off me."
His bloodshot eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Don't want you to catch a chill."
"I'm warm enough, thank you."
A sardonic grin ticked at one corner of his mouth. "Aye. I'm feelin' a bit warm maself. Wha' could be the reason, I wonder?"
"Get off me!"
To her immense relief, he rolled onto his side and allowed her to scramble from the bed.
"There is nothing more disgusting than a drunk!" she flung, trembling as she glared down at him.
"Aye, there is," he glowered. "A womon colder than a winter's night."
"Cold? Cold!"
"I take tha' back." The sardonic grin returned. "Frigid best describes you!"
"Pathetic best describes you! You leave me cold!"
Roan appeared to sober, a wounded look in his eyes. "Wha' are you afraid o', Laura?"
She stormed several paces toward the door then turned, her fists clenched at her sides, and glared at him through tear-glazed eyes. "Certainly not you! When I accused you of being 'pathetic', I was being kind! You're a blustering, ill-tempered drunk!"
"Am I, now?" he murmured. Unsteadily sitting up, he ran a hand down his face. Pain drummed against his temples. His skin felt hot, despite the chill in the room. "Come to bed, Laura."
Shock swept through her, stiffening her posture.
"We'll talk. Nothin' mair."
Crimson flooded her face. Anger brightened her eyes. "I've no doubt you're incapable of anything but talk," she jeered, raking a condemning look over him.
Blinded by fresh tears, she ran into the hall and headed in the direction of her room. An inner voice lashed out at her mind with harsh recriminations. She shouldn't have attacked him with the towel. It was as if she gave in to every impulsive thought that traipsed through her mind.
But then, he had no right to accuse her of being frigid, either!
Sobs caught in her throat.
Did he really expect her to fall into his arms like a love-starved schoolgirl?
Men. Their pursuit of pleasure goaded their every waking moment. Yet when a woman desired physical contact, any given number of derogatory names branded her.
Talk!
That was a new one.
Damn him. Damn him!
From the moment she'd laid eyes on him, he'd been making her crazy!
A breath of freezing air unexpectedly passed through her. Dazed by the deathlike kiss of it over her skin, she staggered to a halt, bracing herself against a wall with a straightened arm. Her breaths came in gasps as she inwardly struggled to understand what had just occurred. It had been by no means a mere draft, and yet she couldn't begin to speculate what else it could have been.
Taking a moment to gather her wits, she placed a hand over her heart. She closed her eyes just long enough to miss a flicker of blue light glow beneath the hand.
A tide of calm washed over her. The anger, stress, and frustration she'd been juggling the past two days, melted away beneath a blanketing state of euphoria. She didn't want to question what was going on, not when she felt so lighthearted and free of spirit.
A spring to her gait now, she went on.
She would apologize to Roan in the morning. It wasn't fair to chastise him for drinking, not when it was actually her father's alcoholism problem that spurred her resentment of libations taken in excess. Were she to be fair, Roan had bent over backward to make her and the boys as comfortable as possible. She had to remember that he was also under a great deal of stress.
She was nearly to the bedroom when something grabbed her by the arm, swung her around, and pinned her against the wall. Through rapidly blinking eyelids, she focused on Roan's scowling face looming in front of her.
"I'm no' a drunk, womon!" he said harshly.
"Then stop acting like one."
Anger emanated from his every pore. His eyes bored into her own, condemning her challenge. At that moment, Laura feared his ability to check his dark mood while in his inebriated state. Labored breaths pumped through her weighty lungs. She was about to offer an apology when she saw a blue aura appear on the center of his massive chest. Her gaze flitted up to study the bewilderment in his eyes. She realized he wasn't aware of the phenomena. Before she could draw his attention to it, the glow retreated to its heartland. Trembling in awe, she stared into his expressive eyes.
"Laura," he murmured, "I feel...verra strange all o' a sudden."
She nodded, although she didn't understand what was going on, either. He was an attractive man. She'd been aware of that from the beginning. But now she was so vitally aware of the chemistry between them and it was almost frightening. Their hearts were being pulled together as if by a powerful magnetic force. And somehow, she knew he was aware of it, too.
"You are...so lovely," he said, as though amazed at his courage to say the words aloud.
Her chest and throat painfully filled with psychological tears. What was wrong with her? She'd never been this out of control! At least in her fantasies he would always be a wonderful lover, attentive, gentle, soaring her to fulfillment as no actual man had ever done. She wanted him, but she knew when it was over, she'd have nothing but regrets. The wake of emptiness hurt too much, far more than the occasional awakenings of her physical needs.
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 7