Hope Everlastin' Book 4

by Mickee Madden

  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.

  "The women must be furious wi' us," Roan moaned.

  "They weren't too happy when I left," said Winston, his gaze remaining fixed on Reith for a moment longer. "I suggest the three o' us face them and try to explain wha's going on."

  Lachlan grimaced. "Beth'll tie ma testicles in a knot when she hears. Fegs, mon, canna we wait till morn? She's always a wee sluggish efter awakenin’. Her reflexes are slower."

  "Coward," said Roan.

  "Bloody right I am," said Lachlan, exasperated. "You both know as weel as I, I'm responsible for this mess. Beth will no' let me soon forget it, either."

  "Come on," Winston said as he rose.

  Roan stood, but Lachlan vigorously rubbed his palms on his face before rising to his feet. He passed Reith's upturned face a harried look and asked, "Are you hungry or thirsty?"

  "No, sir. Just tired."

  Lachlan heaved a ragged breath. "I'm likely to be back afore long. If there is to be anither miracle this night, I'll be stayin’ in the main house, but I'll see you in the morn wi' breakfast. Do you prefer tea or coffee?"

  "Coffee, if you please." Reith stood and wiped his palms on the ragged material covering his thighs. "Chin up, sir." He smiled timorously. "I'll be hopin’ no' to hear yer footfalls anytime soon."

  Lachlan glanced down at the peacock. "Take care o' Braussaw for me. He's a paughty one, but deserving respect."

  "Aye, sir," said Reith, lifting the bird into his arms. He watched the trio leave, Winston in the lead, Lachlan shuffling along at the rear. Moments after the door closed, Braussaw sprang to life and struggled in Reith's gentle grasp.

  "Wha' have we here, now?" he laughed low. His eyes sparkling with a shimmer of tears, he stared at the door and murmured tremulously, "I so missed this land."

  Chapter 2

  Laura was pacing at the foot of the staircase when Winston led the men into the house. She froze for a moment, her eyes appearing too large in her shocky face as she watched them approach. Winston stopped a short distance from her, but Roan continued on until he was an arm's length away. He fumbled for the right words to break the silence between them, but before he could speak, she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him almost painfully. She wept, quaking against him as he enveloped her in his arms.

  "I'm sorry, Laura," he whispered achingly, hugging her as if to never let her go. "Are you all right?"

  Loosening her hold, she eased back enough to tearfully stare into his eyes. "All right?" she asked in a hoarse tone. "I thought that mob was going to hang you!"

  He told her everything that had happened from the men in the field to Winston's quick wit in covering Lachlan's return. She listened as if dazed. When he stopped, she squirmed until he allowed her to step away then she backed up to the foot of the stairs, her gaze studying each of the men.

  Finally, unable to stand her silence, Roan asked, "Did the lads wake up?"

  She nodded and gulped. "Deliah's with them, trying to calm them down."

  Stepping forward, Lachlan scowled self-consciously. "Where's ma Beth?"

  Laura shook her head. "Don't try to talk to her right now. Lachlan, she's scared and angrier than I've ever seen anyone."

  With a guttural sound, Lachlan headed up the staircase.

  "For God sake, Lannie!" Roan exclaimed.

  Lachlan stopped and looked down at the anxious faces. "I willna let anither night go by wi’ou' her!" he exclaimed and stormed up the stairs.

  By the time he was halfway down the third floor hall, his pace slowed and his resolve faltered. His heart drummed against his chest and a sickening sensation of pressure filled his head. He paused at the door to the master suite for a long moment.

  Something tickled his left temple,
distracting him. He gave the area a swipe with a hand, and was surprised to realize his brow had broken out in a cold sweat, some of which was trickling down the sides of his face.

  Steady, Lannie, he told himself then rolled his eyes heavenward with a mute groan.

  Steady or not, if he entered the master suite, Beth was surely to lose what little restraint she had left on her temper. But if he walked away, he knew the gap between them would only continue to open wide and wider, until it would be nigh impossible for them to find their way back to each other. She might be hurt, angry, and disappointed in him, but he didn't doubt her love or its depths.

  He'd go to hell and back for her. If she didn't know that, she was about to, temper or no.

  He started to rap on the door, then jerked his hand away and stared down at the crystal knob. It occurred to him that, to make a stand, it would be best he acted the part right off.

  Her lover. Her love. Her man, and the man of their family.

  With this bit of fortitude bracing his spine, he boldly turned the knob and walked into the room, but he couldn't help his gaze cutting about, in search of her lunging at him. He closed the door softly behind him and stepped further into the embracing familiarity of his old suite. The bedcovers were turned back, and the hearth was ablaze with warmth. There were no other lights on and, although he squinted to see every corner of the room, he couldn't locate her. His gaze lingered on the circular display of swords on the wall to the left of his portrait. A chill coursed through him. Ignoring it, he went to the foot of the bed, wondering where she could be at this time of night.

  The door opened. Beth walked in and closed it behind her. Her head down, shoulders slumped, and her gait slow as if she were beyond tired, she progressed toward him. She slipped out of her bathrobe by the time she reached the side of the bed and haphazardly dropped it on the floor.

  A pulse of exhilaration thrummed through every part of Lachlan. He felt as he had that first day when she'd arrived last July. For two years prior, his only connection with her had been through the portrait her friend Carlene had painted. The portrait that still hung above the fireplace in the parlor.