Gritting his teeth so hard a muscle ticked along his jawline, he lit into a run to the far end of the house. Just as he rounded the corner he glimpsed a flash of bright red material disappear around the next corner. Without thought as to what would happen once he caught up with the woman, he ran after her.
He came around to the front of the house and staggered to a stop. She was no more than seven feet away. All he could see of her beneath the rim of the black umbrella was the coat and boots. She didn't appear to be in a rush but rather was taking her time, as though lost. He knew she wasn't though. She was glancing through the windows to see what she could beyond the panes. She stopped at each of the three dining room windows, peering in then moving on.
Lachlan's nostrils flared, and he breathed heavily to combat the anger knotting inside him.
Was she so brazen because she was a woman and didn't fear coming face-to-face with one of the occupants?
Next he knew, Lachlan yanked the umbrella from her grasp and tossed it aside. He ignored her gasp of alarm and pinned her to the bricks between two of the windows, one forearm planted across her covered collarbones to keep her secured.
"Where the bloody hell do you think ye're goin’?" he asked harshly, his face inches from her own. All he could see was eyes widened with fear amidst an ashen face.
Her mouth opened then closed. Lachlan stepped back, dropping his arm as if contact with her sickened him. His gaze raked over her contemptuously. She was tall for a woman, at least five-foot ten. Her hair was hidden beneath the hood of her coat, and she clutched an oversized purse against her chest, as if expecting him to snatch it from her grasp. She was around Beth's age, he guesstimated, her pale skin almost translucent.
Then her eyes registered in his fevered brain. They were overly enhanced with thick black mascara, black liner, and gray and moss-green shadow. He recognized those eyes. Their shrewd, pale amber depths had unabashedly watched him during the media onslaught the previous night. There was an edge of hardness in her features that rankled him. She was a beautiful woman, but he sensed she lacked the emotional attributes he most loved in women. There was nothing kind or patient in her character. The porcelain skin and classical bone structure of her face was but a mask to conceal a devious, cunning mind.
"Who are you?" he bit out.
She swallowed so hard that he could hear it. Lowering the purse until it hung from the thick strap draped on her right shoulder, she unzipped the top compartment and began to anxiously rummage through the contents.
"Dinna bother showin’ me a press badge," he clipped, placing his balled hands on his hips. "It doesna give you license to invade our privacy."
She snorted a disgruntled sound and hastily removed a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from her purse, and a blue lighter.
Lachlan scowled as he watched her place a cigarette between her lips, light the end, and inhale deeply before returning the items to the purse and zippering it closed. She took another drag and released it slowly while staring into his eyes. Her fear of him had passed and was replaced with an air of haughty tolerance.
"I'm surprised you recognize me," she said, smiling in a manner that was wholly mocking. "I must say, you were a good deal more passive last night."
"You are a bloody reporter," he accused.
"I wasn't here last night—or now—in that capacity. If you recall, I didn't ask questions, and I didn't have a mike or a recorder with me. I'm only guilty of bad timing."
Her accent made him grimace. It held a bastardized hint of the Queen's English to it, but he was relatively sure she wasn't British.
He caught a whiff of the smoke her pursed lips emitted, and wrinkled his nose disdainfully as he eyed the cigarette. He had never seen a woman smoke. It certainly contributed to her less feminine mannerisms.
"Sir, is everythin’ all right here?"
Lachlan turned his head to see Reith approaching to his right. The young man's gaze was on the woman. It was obvious he was displeased to see her, also not impressed by her somewhat garish appearance. Lachlan glanced at her in time to see her red-colored mouth twist in a parody of a grin.
"Nothing lacking with the males around here," she chuckled unpleasantly. "At least with the packaging." She cocked a penciled eyebrow and looked Lachlan up and down. "You're definitely the brooding type, but real easy on the eyes." Taking another drag of the cigarette, she scandalously perused Reith. "And you, honey, are sweet looking enough to eat."
Reith's face turned beet-red with embarrassment, while Lachlan's reddened with indignation. "Laddie, go on. I'll take care o' her."
Reith hesitated then turned and hastened in the direction of the carriage house.
The woman laughed, her singsong tone falling short of sounding sincere. "Even his ass is cute!"
"Is tha' yer luggage on the back stoop?" Lachlan asked curtly, too repulsed by her to hide the fact.
Her disconcerting eyes regarded him for a time. She took another deep drag, dropped the cigarette and crushed it beneath the toe of a boot. She sighed with regal impatience when she again met his gaze. "If you are planning to co-host the grand opening of this place, I suggest you work on your attitude. Growl at prospective tourists the way you've been growling at me, and you'll have children, women and men alike pissing in their pants as they run for the nearest exit."
Lachlan winced. "I'll escort you to yer luggage and off the property. I suggest you go on yer way and dinna ever return."
She released a nasty little chuckle. "You may look like the former laird, but you don't have any say around here." She reached out and patted his cheek with a cold hand. "You have to be careful you don't take the role-playing too seriously." She stepped closer, planting her mouth mere inches from his, her eyes lit with a challenge for him to abandon his ground. "Besides, from what I know of that bastard, a dirk in the heart was the least he deserved."
Lachlan stiffened. A breath lodged in his throat and his heart hammered at his chest.
With an isolated index finger the woman traced his lower lip. He wanted to distance himself from her, but he refused to cow to her seductively intimidating ploy to unnerve him.
"Did you know that your ancestor got off playing to the media?" She chuckled. "Never to me personally, I regret, although I don't think I would have been too impressed by his antics. Men will be boys, even in death, and the late, great Lachlan Baird was a mischievous little devil, wasn't he?"
When Lachlan remained silent, she grinned knowingly and cupped her hands around the curvature of his shoulders. "Cat got your tongue?" Her gaze flitted across the breadth of his chest and shoulders before returning to stare deeply into his eyes.
"I wonder if the inglorious ex-laird had your build. I've seen pictures of his portrait, and you do look like him. But was he as tall and as broad-shouldered as you? Is that why poor Viola Cooke had the hots for him, and Miss Stables was willing to come here and die to remain with him?"
She seemed to gauge Lachlan's silence for a moment then asked, "Was he a good lover in death? Are you a good lover in the flesh?"
She arched her eyebrows at his continued silence. "I don't know, big guy. I think I would bed you even if you were the worst lover on the continent. Especially if you wore a kilt, without trews, of course." She sighed wistfully. "I'm a pushover when it comes to big shoulders, and yours are...big, Horatio. Big and solid."
Before Lachlan could react to the repulsion he felt at her words, she clapped her hands to each side of his face and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. He gripped her arms and finally shoved her away, his face dark and stormy, his brain floating in a sea of fire. But before he could give her a piece of his mind, he noticed two small faces pressed in the center window. Alby and Kevin’s eyes were wide and their mouths agape. To his further chagrin, the woman glanced over her shoulder at the boys and clapped her hands in delight.
"Oh, this is too precious!" she laughed. "I certainly hope you're not married, Horatio. I wouldn't want the little woman—"
"To
what?" interrupted a husky voice from Lachlan's left. "Pull your hair out by the roots?"
To Lachlan's horror, Beth, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, came to stand next to him, her fiery glare fixed on the stranger. Her hair was in wild disarray, lending her ill mood a more sinister edge.
"Beth," Lachlan said between clenched teeth, "get inside."
The stranger's expression lost its humorous glow, paling and becoming taut with disbelief. She backed into the house, her gaze riveted on Beth, labored breaths channeling through her nostrils.
"Screw it," Beth said heatedly, passing Lachlan a look that could quiet gale-force winds. To the woman, she said, "Would you care to explain why you were lip-locked with him?"
"My, God...it's true," the stranger murmured sickly, her gaze pinging between Beth and Lachlan. "I didn't know." Parting her lips, she sucked in a ragged breath. "You both returned."
She blinked as if struck by a thought then looked horrified at Lachlan and swiped the back of a hand across her mouth. "I kissed a dead man! I'm gonna puke!" She clamped a hand over her mouth and gagged, but the hand fell away when another voice, deep and cutting, intruded on the scene.
"Still up to yer old theatrics."
Lachlan and Beth's heads shot around to see Roan ambling toward them. Barefoot, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt left unbuttoned down the front, he wore an expression of thinly veiled anger. Lachlan gave a start and looked into the woman's eyes. Finally, the reason for their familiarity hit home.
"Roan. Nice to see you," she said flippantly.
"I can’t say the same." Roan stopped next to Beth and folded his arms against his chest. "Wha' do you want here, Taryn?"
"You know her?" Beth asked.
Roan nodded grimly. "She's ma kid sister. And by the looks o' her, the parents spared her the rod."
"Still as charming as ever," Taryn Ingliss said to her brother. "I didn't expect you to welcome me with open arms, but siccing your resident spooks on me is low, even for you."
Roan exchanged a smug grin with Lachlan and Beth before responding to her comment. "Haven't you heard, little sister, there are no mair ghosts at Baird House? Lannie and Beth are as alive as you, only they have hearts, no' the stone you have wedged behind yer breast."
"Yer sister," Lachlan murmured, grimacing.
"Aye." Roan frowned at her. "I don’t remember okayin’ yer visit."
"I didn't think I needed your permission," she said airily. "I arrived last night, but ended up in the middle of a media feeding. I stayed at a B&B in town, but I was anxious to see you."
"Why?"
"Why?" A sour laugh ejected from her throat. "You're my brother, that's why! I haven't seen you for damn near twenty years!"
"It's been twenty-one years, but who's countin’."
Exasperated, she looked at each of the angry faces in front of her. "Fine! I should have waited for a goddamn invite! But I'm here. Are you going to invite me inside, or chuck my ass off the property?"
"Chuck—"
Lachlan cut Roan off. "Fegs, mon, she's yer kin."
"Damn me if she is," Roan said with a scowl. "She was born a brat, and has obviously grown into a shrew. Trust me, Lannie, you don’t want her around. She's trouble."
"Thanks," Taryn said dryly, but a slight tremor was in her tone. "I'll just get my bags and get the hell out of here."
"No," said Beth, peeved. She was torn between going for the woman's throat and chalking up the whole incident to bad taste and worse timing. "She's here. I suggest we all calm down and get a grip. The boys don't need to see us acting like a pack of adolescents."
Roan glared at his sister. "I know her. She wants somethin’. She didn’t come all the way from Rhode Island because she needed a sibling fix."
Three pair of eyes fixed on Taryn. After a moment of trying to ward off her deepening sense of futility, she sighed and gestured placatingly. "Even before the story of Lachlan's return hit the newswire in the States, I had planned to visit. I uncovered some information, Roan. Information that warranted more than a letter."
"Information abou' wha'?" Roan asked coldly.
Taryn gave an exasperated roll of her eyes. "Family history stuff."
"I know all I need to abou' the family."
A pained expression softened her features. "Do you?" She sighed and gave a shake of her head. "Then tell me, Roan, how do you feel about Robert Baird?"
Roan frowned while Lachlan asked, "Who is Robert Baird?"
The pale amber eyes searched each of the faces before she replied, "The bastard son of Guin Baird. You're probably more familiar with his legal name." She grinned tauntingly. "Robert Ingliss."
An insidious swell rose up from inside Roan's gut, something not unlike bubbling tar, immersing his vital organs and brain in its searing thick blanket. His vision and hearing clicked off. Images sparked his memories of a time he longed to forget, memories not belonging to the man he was now, but the man he had been in the nineteenth century. He slammed each file shut as it opened and reopened. Denial was all that kept him sane, and he clung to it like a man whose life depended on clinging to a piece of flotsam out in the middle of a turbulent sea.
Before Laura and the boys had entered his life, he would have gladly given in to the cold embrace of death. Life could be unbearably painful and unforgiving. The loss of his son had taken away his will to fight for anything. Originally, he'd even come to Baird House to challenge the then Ingliss-hating Lachlan Baird—not in hopes of freeing his Aunt Aggie from the ghost's tyrannical demands, but of provoking the powers of the unknown to end his misery.
Some people believed reincarnation allowed troubled souls to return to atone for the wrongs done in a past existence. How many times would Robert's soul be cast into another body before his crimes were forgiven? A conscience swayed by greed was a conscience damned to unrelenting torment. Whatever the name or physical appearance, the soul shared by Robert and Roan could not escape the avenging sword of its guilt.
Five hours later, Roan remained lost within the thick mire of his shame. Although he had yet to confront the inner demons his sister's revelation had loosed, he was little more than a zombie. He remained blind and deaf to everyone around him. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten back into the house, or what had gone on since. Deep in his subconscious he knew he would have to face the others and listen to what Taryn had to say.
But for as long as possible, he needed this nothingness, and would remain lost within its infinite realm until forced to leave.
Now and then, little spurts of awareness intruded. He knew he was in the bar, elbows braced on the counter and staring at a shot glass of Scotch. He knew he was hungry and thirsty. He knew the ache plaguing him was his bladder seeking relief. He also knew there was a fly in the room because it kept buzzing in one ear then the other, and occasionally brushing against his eyelashes, forcing him to blink. To swat the insect would take more energy than he was willing to expend. Besides, movement could wrench him from the realm of the lost, which he wasn't yet ready to leave.
The fly careened off his right eyeball and he jerked upright. Blinking hard, he tried to will himself to ignore the trappings of his sense, but the buzzing, which was now in his left ear and growing louder and more persistent, was more than he could bear. But before he could raise a hand to bat at the nuisance, a voice penetrated the thinning layers of his stupor.
"Don't hurt her!"
He reacted as if someone had doused him with ice water. His head shot around and he stared at Kahl, whose pale, freckled face dominated his vision. Disoriented, he wondered what the boy was doing in the bar. He should have locked the door. Of course he hadn't. That would have been the responsible thing to do, and Roan wasn't always a cautious man.
Something whizzed past his line of vision, again startling him. His right hand shot up at the same moment a tiny figure perched on his nose. He froze in shocked realization. The fly was Deliah, no more than three-quarters of an inch tall.
"She's only tryi
ng to help," said Kahl . "Don't hurt her."
His eyes crossed in a vain attempt to focus clearly on her, Roan laid his palms on the counter. She cast off his nose, circled three times a short distance away, then suddenly assumed a human size on the opposite side of the counter. Standing five-foot-six inches, her ankle-length hair concealing her nakedness, she scoldingly eyed Roan.
She lifted the shot glass and regarded the golden liquid for a moment before it and the glass vanished into thin air. Her magnificent blue and gold wings fluttered at her back, the light in the room enhancing their iridescent webbing. While she and Roan continued their visual showdown, Kahl retrieved her dress from the floor and held it out to her. Reluctantly, she tore her gaze from Roan's and looked down at the boy with a loving smile.
"He be one o' the livin’ now," she told Kahl, her tone light and deceptively calm. "Tell the ithers we'll be along in a while."
Roan's gaze crept to Kahl. The resentment in the boy's eyes made him cringe.
"I don't like it when you make Aunt Laura cry," Kahl said angrily, his small shoulders trembling.
"Why is she cryin’?" asked Roan, still a bit dazed.
"Cause you wouldn't talk to her! If you hate us so much—"
Roan dashed from behind the counter and swept Kahl up into his arms and hugged him so forcefully, the boy yelped with surprise. He rolled his misted eyes to the heavens, relishing the paternal warmth spreading through him.
"How can you think I could ever hate you?" he choked and lessened his hold. He smoothed a hand over the back of Kahl's strawberry-blond head. "Kahl, you lads and yer aunt are ma life."
A sob escaped Kahl. Roan eased him back enough to look into his hazel eyes. "I'm sorry I frightened you. I love you, Kahl. Don’t ever doubt tha'. I don’t care if you unravel every sweater and tear into strips every piece o' clothin’ in this house, I'll love you."
Mention of unraveling sweaters brought a hint of a grin to Kahl's mouth. "You mean it?"
"Wi' all ma heart."
"About shredding the clothes?" the boy asked impishly.
Hope Everlastin' Book 4 Page 10