Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2

by Mickee Madden

  The silence terrified him more than anything else.

  What would prompt a mob—especially a superstition-driven mob—to be quiet?

  Cresting the hill and rounding the Rhododendron hedge, he blink repeatedly at the immobile figures gathered by the carriage house. Bent like an ape to accommodate his aching muscles and poor balance, he forced himself to keep moving, his brain seemingly afire with his efforts to rationalize the scene.

  The detective tightly grasped Roan's upper arm, forcing him to halt. Roan gingerly straightened and was about to warn the man to release him when his vision zoomed in on Lachlan. It took another second before the actual scene penetrated his alcohol-induced stupor.

  "Laura," he wheezed, violently wrenching his arm free of the cinching fingers. He staggered closer, his eyes widening in sick horror, his jaw slack. The detective remained at his side, his hands nested within the deep pockets of his trench coat. Snow flurries began to fall. Large, virginal and downy flakes that mocked the sepulchral ambiance. Roan teetered to a stop, the toe of his boots within inches of Laura's still body.

  The instant the detective saw the dagger protruding from the woman's chest, he reached into the breast of his coat and removed a slim-line mobile phone. Tersely, he explained the situation, and requested an ambulance. He replaced the instrument, grateful that he'd already called in for backup. Despair seeped into his awareness, despair emanating from Roan Ingliss.

  "Laura," Roan whimpered. Tottering on his feet, he took a step back and dropped to his knees.

  Lachlan's dark eyes, surprisingly misted with tears, searched Roan's ashen face. "She jumped in front o' me," he said, his tone riddled with perplexity.

  The detective went down on one knee, reached out and pressed his fingertips to a spot below her jaw. "She's alive, but her pulse is weak. An ambulance is on the way."

  "Laura," Roan choked, his trembling hands held out. "Why, Lannie? Is this wha' you've been waitin' for?"

  Lannie?

  The detective drew back, his penetrating gaze watching the man who held the woman in his arms.

  "No, Roan. The dagger came ou' o' the crowd. She was suddenly in front o' me. I couldna stop it from happenin'!"

  Roan quaked with raw grief. Rage boiled up from the pit of his stomach until he was compelled to throw back his head and release a heart-wrenching wail.

  "Roan," Lachlan rasped, "listen ta—"

  With the speed of lightning, Roan clutched the front of Lachlan's shirt and shook him. His teeth locked and bared, he cried from the deepest depths of his anguish, "Take it from her body and put it in ma heart!"

  Horrified, Lachlan shrank back.

  "Do it, mon!" Roan wept, his fists trembling. "You have the power. Send us off togither!"

  "The boys," rasped a weak voice.

  Roan leaned back on his folded legs. Tears wet his face, blurred his vision so that he could only hazily make out Laura's pained-racked beautiful eyes staring at him.

  "The boys," she repeated, an edge of desperation in her tone.

  "She should lie quiet," the detective advised.

  "Roan—" She coughed, and a whimper of pain escaped her.

  "Don't talk, Laura-lass."

  "Promise me...Roan...you'll—" She clenched her teeth against the agony radiating through her, then forced herself to complete, "—take care of the boys."

  "There's plenty o' time—" Roan desperately met Lachlan's somber gaze before going on. "I promise you, love. I'll take care o' you all."

  Laura eased her head to the right, and stared into Lachlan's features. "I couldn't let the...dagger hurt you... again."

  "I loved you, Tessa," the laird said huskily.

  "I know. We...know. I'm...sor...." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Sor...ry. Lachlan...forgive us."

  Her eyelids closed, and she went limp.

  Liquid warmth spread through Lachlan. The rage that had fed the curse, floated out of him, freeing him of its ugly weightiness. At that moment, he felt more alive than he ever had in either of his existences. Alive, and powerful with the grace of forgiveness.

  Without thought as to how Roan would react, he pulled the dagger free of Laura's body.

  Roan gasped, his horrified gaze riveted on the weapon.

  "Use it!" he cried to Lachlan. "Damn you, you pathetic old mon, use it, now!"

  Simultaneously, Lachlan removed his left arm from beneath Laura, and placed the dagger on the ground with his right hand. "I've told you, laddie, it buggers me to no end when you call me old."

  His right hand shot out, cinching Roan's left wrist. His left hand deftly opened the front of Laura's coat. With inhuman strength, he forced Roan's balled hand to press atop the bloodied breast of the woman lying between them.

  The detective recoiled, a hand flattened across his mouth. Nothing in his extensive training had prepared him for this.

  In the distance, sirens lanced the night.

  Help was at last on its way.

  Lachlan smiled, his mischievous eyes sweeping over Roan's livid countenance. "Do you believe in the magic o' love, laddie?"

  "Ye're insane," Roan sobbed, the blood beneath his hand seeming to sear his flesh.

  "Do you believe?"

  Roan became aware of a strange tingling in his fist. He breathed in hoarse spurts, his heart thundering behind his chest. Desperation and a hint of hope, softened his eyes. "Aye. Aye, I believe!"

  "You've got to believe you both deserve to live, Roan."

  Roan couldn't tear his gaze from the dark, mesmerizing eyes in front of him. His chin quivering, he shamefully stated, "I buried you alive...in the tower."

  "A wee part o' you did. But then was then and now is now. It'll take us both to give her a spark o' life. Understand, laddie? We both."

  The sirens cut at the edge of the property. Bobbies stormed through the hedges and made their way to the front of the house. Conscious of their arrival, Winston Connery rose to his feet and, with his identification raised for those approaching to see, he held out his other arm in a warning for them to stay back. All the while he observed the strange scene of the two men and the woman, he was conscious of electricity charging the air.

  Something miraculous was about to unfold.

  Roan trembled uncontrollably. "How?" he whispered.

  "Open up, mon. Ye're questionin' ma motives."

  "No."

  "Yer distrust is keepin' ou' the magic. Roan...dinna lie to yerself."

  Squeezing his eyes shut, Roan tried to clear his mind of its burgeoning guilt. Then a thought struck him. Breathlessly, he asked, "When did you first know I was Robert?"

  A smile of satisfaction softened the lines of Lachlan's mouth. "Over ma grandfaither's scotch."

  Roan bewilderingly searched Laura's peaceful face before meeting Lachlan's gaze. "Tha' long? And yet you...."

  "Aye. Now we're cookin', laddie."

  The tingling in Roan's hand intensified. Hope swelled within his heart. "You made me yer heir."

  "Ye're the closest thin’ to a son I'll ever know."

  "Despite...?"

  "The heart speaks louder than the tongue," Lachlan said sagely, his eyes seeming to possess firelight within their enigmatic depths. "And you know in tha' bloody big heart o' yers, you've purged the weakness tha' companioned you when you walled me up."

  "Aye. I'm no' tha' mon, Lannie," Roan said in a barely audible voice. "And Laura's heart is good, too. We're no' the same as we were back then."

  Liquid warmth gushed through Roan's veins. "We're free."

  Lachlan released a thin sigh of relief, and nodded.

  "Free," Roan repeated, staring lovingly down at Laura. "Can you hear me, lass? We're free!"

  A moan of ecstasy rumbled deep within Lachlan's chest. The power of his soul was magnifying and ebbing outward to Roan, seeking to bond them spiritually. Roan, too, experienced the waves of raw electricity crashing through his body, submerging his brain in a boundless plane of awareness.

  Blindly, he reached ou
t with his right hand. Lachlan eagerly clasped it, soaking in the natural warmth it offered. Both men closed their eyes, breathing sparingly in perfect sync with each other.

  Unbeknown to them, a luminescent green mist materialized around them, pulsating in rhythm with Roan's heartbeat. The bobbies fanned out, their billy clubs held out as a barrier to keep back the awestruck spectators trying to edge closer to the scene.

  Detective Connery hesitantly reached out to touch the strange mist. The instant he made contact, he felt every nerve in his body sing. Stunned by the euphoric feeling throbbing through him, he jerked back, keeping his hands tightly pressed against his midriff.

  Roan felt exquisite pain rip through him. An electrical spasm rocked him. Then the pain concentrated in his chest, shot down his left arm and flowed through his fist. A shudder coursed through him, a shudder not unlike a fierce orgasm. Despite the wintry night, perspiration beaded his brow and the space between his nose and upper lip. The cords in his broad neck stood out. A hoarse cry escaped Lachlan as he was propelled back on his butt by a whiplash of electricity. Roan was struck a second later, his back striking the ground.

  The mist vaporized.

  Murmurs rose among the onlookers.

  Fighting against the tides of weakness washing through him, Roan rolled over and got onto his hands and knees. He crawled the short way back to Laura's side. Breathing heavily, he looked up to see that Lachlan was wavering between solidity and translucence.

  "Lannie."

  The laird's head slowly lifted. A lopsided grin broke through his strained, gaunt features.

  Roan looked down at Laura's face. At first he couldn't see any difference in her then he saw her eyelids flutter.

  "My God," he murmured repeatedly, nervously drawing her into his arms as he sat on folded legs. "Laura? Laura-lass, ye're back!"

  Her eyelids lifted. Bewildered green eyes peered at him.

  With a burst of laughter, Roan rocked her against him then lowered his head and kissed her deeply until he felt her hands push at his chest. He lifted his head, his sparkling, tear-filled eyes hungrily taking in every contour of her face.

  "I remember...." She reached beneath her sweater, to where the dagger had been. Smooth skin met her probing fingertips. "Roan...I don't—" Her gaze swerved to Lachlan. "—understand."

  "We're free, Laura," Roan laughed unsteadily, his gratitude radiating from the look he passed to the laird.

  "Why would you do this, Lachlan, after everything we did to you?"

  Leaning over his legs, Lachlan wearily gave a shake of his head. "Weel, lass, I guess you caught me in a moment o' weakness. Speakin' o' which...." He grimaced as he stared through his fading, raised arm. "The grayness is beckonin'."

  Sitting upright, Laura held out a hand to the laird. "Don't go yet, Lachlan. There's so much I want to say."

  "It has all been said," he grinned.

  "Detective!" one of the bobbies called.

  Winston Connery frowned at a man standing on the wrong side of the barricade. He impatiently gestured for one of the bobbies to bring the man to him.

  William Finney kept his head lowered, even when he was urged to stop within arm's reach of the detective.

  "He claims to have thrown the dagger," the bobby informed, his narrowed gaze riveted on the man's profile.

  Lachlan, Roan and Laura got to their feet, Roan's arm protectively around her shoulders.

  "Wha's yer name?"

  The man's head came up. Large dark eyes stared at the detective from a sickly pallor. "Bill Finney."

  "Mr. Finney, you claim to have thrown tha' dagger at this womon?"

  Bill's despondent gaze cut briefly to Laura. "No' at her, sir. I'd no intention o' throwin' it at all, I swear!"

  "It simply flew from yer hands, is tha' it?"

  Bill looked back at his mates then at the detective. "This womon crowds next to me, sir and puts the bloody thin’ in ma hand. And next I knew, I was throwin' it, but I swear, it was against ma will!"

  "Wha' did the womon look like?" Roan asked.

  "An old womon." Bill strained to search the faces in the crowd. "Old, and wearin' a long, dark, hooded cape." He turned to address the detective. It was then he spied the woman standing on the stoop. "There! She's right there!"

  All eyes turned in the direction. Standing demurely, her hands clasped in front of her, Viola Cooke calmly regarded the faces of her peers.

  "Miss Cooke?" Lachlan glided into a half turn. "Why would you hand this mon tha' dirk?"

  "To spend you of energy, of course," she crooned, a hand gesturing theatrically. She walked toward Lachlan, leaving several feet between them.

  "It was you I saw on the stairwell just before the fire," Laura accused.

  "You and Roan Ingliss have been a thorn in my side for far too long." Her hardened gaze targeted Lachlan. "My whole life has been spent preparing to join you. How dare you accept that Staples woman as your lover! I saved myself for you! All these long years. These cursed lonely, long years. And what did I get for my devotion, my loyalty? Old and shriveled!"

  "I didna know," Lachlan murmured.

  "It's all been for you, Master Baird. Borgie...Agnes. These two murderers—" She glared at Roan and Laura. "—had you not interfered! They all hurt you." Her gaze softened on Lachlan. "I alone have loved you. I died for you, Lachlan Baird."

  "Mother o' God," the detective gasped, recognizing her as the corpse that had been found that afternoon.

  Mindless of him, she went on, "I dug my own grave, set the house on fire then covered myself in snow and waited for death. It took so very long, my dear Lachlan. So very long. I nearly lost my courage. I had to keep reminding myself that I had to die here in order to remain with you. It's all been...for you."

  "The boys!" Laura cried, remembering that Viola had taken them for the night.

  The faded blue eyes cast Laura a hateful look before once again softening on the laird. "I can give you something that whore can never give you, Lachlan. Can Beth give you sons? Three magnificent sons?"

  Realization staggered the laird's reasoning.

  "We'll be a family," Viola sang out, her arms opened to the night.

  "Where are the lads?" Lachlan asked in a strangled voice.

  Tipping her head to one side, Viola sighed, "Preparing, my love. You can't stop me. You haven't the power left. Be patient. All will soon be right."

  No sooner had she finished, a series of explosions detonated in the house. Screams razored the air. Bodies scurried to find shelter from flying rock, mortar and wood. Roan, clutching Laura's hand, pulled her into a run out of the blast area.

  The explosions continued for what seemed an eternity. Lachlan and Viola stood their ground, staring at one another, his expression one of stark desolation, hers one of utter triumph.

  Hunkered by the Rhododendrons alongside Roan and Laura, the detective stared at the flames billowing out from the window portals as if observing fire for the first time in his life. The element seemed to possess infinite rage, lapping furiously at the night, reaching out far beyond what remained of the exterior walls.

  Laura wept hard, her face buried against Roan's chest, who refused to believe that the boys had been caught in the inferno. Long minutes passed.

  The sirens of the fire brigade closed in.

  All the while, Lachlan numbly stood amid chunks of fallen wall, staring at the woman across from him. It all made sense, now. She'd been the one who had flung Borgie from the window. She'd been the one to provoke Laura's memories, to deliver the dirk to Edinburgh.

  Yes, he'd known about that, but only from Laura's thoughts after her return.

  He'd been blinded to her vileness, to her purpose all these years.

  She was indeed powerful. He could sense it, feel its pulsing force. But it was an evil power, one born to destroy and breed misery.

  The flames quieted inside the structure. Tunnels of black smoke rose into the air. The explosions were done. Morbid peace blanketed the grounds.<
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  "Come boys," she joyously called out, her arms held out toward the house. "We're a family now."

  Rage filled Laura. Shoving herself away from Roan, she jumped to her feet and ran toward Viola. But before she reached her, the woman whirled about. The fiery malignant look in the blue eyes stopped Laura in her tracks.

  Roan came up behind Laura, and anchored his hands on her shoulders.

  "You'll no' get away wi' this!" he swore to Viola, trembling with frustration and anger combined. "They were innocent children!"

  "What is innocence but a condition by which to be led?" she flung scathingly. "You had the audacity to think you could take over this house—become master of it!" She laughed, but it held no mirth. "I am the mistress of Baird House, and no one shall ever claim it from me!"

  "It’s Baird/Ingliss land, and will be for as long as this earth exists," came a strong voice from out of the night.

  "Aggie!" Roan cried, his gaze searching for her.

  Winston Connery edged closer to Roan and Laura, his incredulous gaze also sweeping his surroundings. He was beginning to wonder if this was ghosts 'old home' week, although he still couldn't accept that this Aggie was the same Agnes Ingliss who had died a few days ago.

  "Aggie!" Roan cried out again.

  From around the west end of the house, Agnes urged the boys toward the awaiting group. Half the distance away, the boys took off in a run, flinging themselves into Laura and Roan's waiting arms. Agnes, her stride slow yet purposeful, brought herself to stand between the reunited family, and Viola's deepening wrath.

  "The lads remain wi' the livin'," she said regally, her cold blue eyes boring into Viola's livid face. "I removed them from the house before the gizmos you left behind, went off. And I plan to protect them into their old age, you sorry bitch!"

  "You don't belong here!" Viola hissed.

  "It’s because I've been connected to this place so long, is why I'm here." Her gaze cut to Lachlan, who stood in the distance. "Ma apologies for thinkin' it was you who done me in. Least it gave me the strength to remain till I learned the truth."

  Arching a path around Viola, Lachlan came to Agnes' side. On impulse, he swept up her wrinkled hand and pressed his lips to its cool back. When he straightened his expression was one of sheer gratitude. "Yer daith saddened me," he said, a telltale crack in his voice.