Roan didn't hesitate. "Aye, lad, although I hope you show us poor adults a wee compassion in tha' respect. But, if demolishin’ our clothes puts a smile on yer face, then do it."
"Naw. I was just testing you. It would be too gross if you all walked around naked." Kahl looked at Deliah, who had retracted her wings and had just finished donning the dress, and he blushed. "Except Deliah. I like it when she lets her wings out."
Roan smiled in gratitude at her. "Aye, we're fortunate to have our own fairie princess." He lowered Kahl to the floor, but not before planting a kiss on his cheek. "Tell the ithers we won’t be long, okay?"
"Okay." Kahl's eyes searched Roan's a moment then he wiggled an isolated finger in a gesture for Roan to bend over. When he did, Kahl flung his arms about his neck and gave him a quick hug. As quickly, Kahl opened the door and ran from the room.
Roan straightened with a wondrous look on his face.
"Ye be a lucky mon to have the love o' those children," Deliah said softly.
Roan nodded and stepped up to her, his eyes downcast in shame. "I must apologize, Deliah."
"For makin’ me act the part o' a pestin’ fly?"
He grinned. "Tha' and mair." He searched her delicate features. "How are you feelin’ this morn?"
"Verra good. Winston said the knowin’ o' ma condition might ease the symptoms and ma fears, and tha' it has."
Gently, Roan drew her into his arms. "Ah, lass, I am happy for you. Have you any idea how precious you are to us all?"
"Ye be ma family," she said contentedly then tilted back her head and peered into his eyes. "Tis why I worry so when I know ye be hurtin’ in the heart. Roan, ye must trust the mon ye are. And ye must trust those who love ye to stand by ye, no matter wha'."
Stepping away, Roan raked the fingers of one hand through his hair. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. His eyes ached to tear, but he held back the need with all his willpower. To tell her that he feared what Taryn knew was to admit there was more to Robert than he wanted to remember. But her next words told him she was already aware of what was tormenting him from the darkest recesses of his subconscious.
"I dinna trust yer sister. She doesna have yer heart, Roan, and she speaks no' wi' a light o' whole truth in her words."
Roan forced himself to meet her troubled gaze. "You know wha' happened ou'side?"
She nodded. "She hasna said anythin’ mair regardin’ yer family history, but she has—and I be verra gracious in ma words, Roan—manipulated Lachlan and Beth into tellin’ her abou' their return. She doesna know ma origins, but she watches me too closely. I think she be aware I am mair'n I appear on the surface."
"I don’t trust her, either."
"There is somethin’ mair ye need to know."
Roan frowned as dread formed a knot inside his stomach.
"I glimpsed her thinkin’ o' the dirk."
"The MacLachlan dirk?"
"Aye. She wants it."
"Wha' on earth for?"
Deliah shrugged. "Somethin’ abou' a project she be researchin’. Wha' concerns me is, I canna locate the dirk. I know it be in the house. I sense its vibrations."
"Vibrations?"
"Aye, Roan. Maist times tis barely perceivable, but tis there, nonetheless."
"Wha' kind o' project could she be workin’ on tha' could possibly have anythin’ to do wi' tha' damn weapon?"
"Roan, yer sister be a reporter."
This shocked him more than hearing of Taryn's interest in the dirk.
"She be hard to probe, but tha' much and this abou' her I be certain: She be here for a story, and I believe she be ruthless enough to go to any lengths to get wha' she wants."
"Verra perceptive o' you," said Roan dryly. "She was always demandin’ her own way. She could do no wrong, accordin’ to ma parents."
"This, too, ye must know," Deliah went on. "She be envious o' ye and this estate, but she does love ye."
"From wha' I've deduced from her meager letters over the years, I don’t think she's capable o' lovin’ anyone."
"Aye, her heart be hard, but I sense she be mair lost than gone."
"Wha' do you mean by 'mair lost than gone'?"
A secretive smile appeared on Deliah's face. "We shall see. Three paths await her. One will lead her back to her home. Two ithers will take her into anither realm, where she will find love or she will find daith."
Roan paled and gave in to a shudder. "Anither realm? The grayness?"
She shook her head. "I can say no mair. She must choose her path. Ye canna help her."
"She may be a royal pain in the arse, Deliah, but she is ma sister!"
"Ah," she said wistfully, her bright eyes sparkling. "Here now stands the brither I knew ye to be."
"Humans are verra capable o' lovin’ and hatin’ the same person," he grumbled.
"Do ye truly hate her?"
With a hangdog expression, he muttered, "I guess no'."
"I will take the lads to the nursery and watch them and the babies. Keep Winston wi' ye, Roan. He knows wha' I have told ye. If she be hidin’ mair, he will know."
Roan heaved a ragged breath. "I don’t know if I can hold up to wha' Taryn has to say."
"Aye, ye can, because ye be a strong mon, Roan. But if ye feel yer knees gettin’ week, think o' me sittin’ on yer nose."
He laughed at this. "I'll keep tha' in mind."
Chapter 6
Taryn Eilionoir Ingliss wasn't happy about being the center of attention in the library at Baird House, although she was confident enough about her acting abilities to know the others viewed her as being cool, calm, and unperturbedly collected. Sitting on one corner of the sofa, an arm across its back and one leg crossed over the other, she represented the "Queen of the Paparazzis", a title her editor at The Investigator magazine had given her three years prior. She had been dubbed that because of her ruthlessness in obtaining photographs of reluctant celebrities, and later had added journalism to her accomplishments, using her fertile imagination to embellish the story behind the photographs.
She'd been approached by competitive rag magazines, but no one would give her the creative freedom Dan Whitecomb did. Now and then she free lanced, especially with her writing, often taking one of their older space alien or hairy-creatures-in-the-woods stories and rewriting them with a new slant on the supposed sightings. The Loch Ness monster was always a favorite.
Ironically, it'd been a light conversation at a Christmas Eve party two years ago that had brought about her latest obsession. Dan's wife, Julia, had commented on the current fad of Scottish movies and books, and had asked Taryn about her background. It was the first time Taryn realized she didn't know that much about her heritage. She was six when her parents had moved to Providence, Rhode Island, and she considered herself an American. She'd never had any interest in anything Scottish, until she remembered her parents had a set of journals hidden away in a locked cedar chest in their bedroom.
She remembered finding the journals in a box shortly after their move to the States and asking her mother if she could color in them. Brusquely, her mother had said they were very old, and Taryn watched her lock them in the chest. Until the party, she hadn't given them another thought. And until she'd read them she'd had no idea of the incredible story of her own ancestry. She wasn't through investigating the past.
The dirk was the key to unlocking all the secrets.
The others in the room grew more restless by the minute. She inwardly gloated at her ability to camouflage this meaner streak in her personality. An unsettled audience was one easily swayed to playing the game according to her rules. She was here on a give-and-take mission. Her brother's less than cordial welcoming had smarted a little, but when he found out she'd left with the dirk, he would probably disown her, anyway. Such was the price of obsessions. They didn't keep her warm on winter nights or ease the occasional itch of sexual need, but they kept her mind as sharp as a honed knife, and she wouldn't trade any of it for a man.
W
ell...maybe she would detour for a bit of time with a man like Lachlan. During the past five hours, she'd barely been able to keep her eyes off him. He made her tingle in places that hadn't shown life for some time. Four years, to be exact. Maybe she was due for another fling. The possibility of it happening with him made her mouth water. Now that she knew he was alive again, she regretted wiping off the taste of him from her lips.
Beth Stables was a problem, though. She hadn't left the laird's side except to feed the twins. Imagine that. Twins from the womb of the departed-returned. Dan's ulcer would petrify if she wrote this up. Somehow, she figured telling him she'd had an affair with Nessie would ring truer to him.
Whatever.
She didn't plan to expose the duo's secret. Robert Baird and Broc MacLachlan were her targets. She would resurrect their long-dead carcasses through her reports. Fame awaited them in the annals of the bizarre and the unknown. The world, especially the female populace, would have a fantasy love-affair with them through her planned series.
More so, Broc. Thus far, he was the hero of the two, but she still had a great deal to investigate on his background. For all she knew, he probably had more skeletons in the closet than not.
She would have to be careful about how she wrote up Robert. After all, he was her direct ancestor, and her parents were going to pitch a fit when she deliberately exposed the Baird/Ingliss entanglement. But a good writer could make a reader weep for a villain, even one embroiled in betrayal and murder. By the time she finished writing Robert's history, he would stir passion in women's hearts and understanding for what he'd done.
She withdrew from her reverie and locked eyes with Winston. Realizing his intense stare meant he was delving into her thoughts, she paled and stiffened her spine. Roan, Laura, Beth, and Lachlan didn't possess a threat. Not even the sickeningly-sweet Deliah, although something about that woman made Taryn damn uneasy.
But ol' Winston was another matter. A psychic in the group made it more difficult for her to hide information.
"Taryn," Roan clipped, scowling at her.
He stood with an arm braced on one end of the fireplace mantel, Laura next to him. Beth and Lachlan sat on the window seat. Winston was seated on the opposite end of the sofa, right ankle resting atop the left knee, his gaze unwavering and his expression guarded.
"Yes, my room is very comfortable," she said sarcastically to her brother. "Thank you for asking."
Roan rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Spare me the theatrics."
She grinned, but there was nothing pleasant about it. "By the way, Mom and Dad send their love."
Roan's jawline clenched.
"Okay," she sighed, casting each of the others a weary glance. "Pardon my bitchiness, but I wasn't expecting to have to spill my guts in front of an audience."
"Think o' them as ma family," Roan said.
"I'm your family."
He crossed to the coffee table and sat on it facing her. "No, ye're a dim memory," he countered, his tone holding more sadness than bitterness. "I know that's no' yer fault, Taryn, but you can’t show up efter all these years and expect me to welcome you wi' open arms."
"I never expect anything from anyone," she said airily.
"Ye're a reporter."
His blunt statement took her aback. She glanced accusingly at Winston, who arched his eyebrows and offered a hint of a smile.
"Paparazzi slash reporter. So what?" she challenged, peevishly meeting Roan's gaze. "A girl has to make a living, doesn't she?"
"Among a pool o' sharks?"
She chuffed a laugh. "We're not all sharks."
"No? Haven’t met a reporter yet I would trust wi' ma garbage."
She winced. "Ouch. Well, big brother, I'm not into garbage. And before you start flinging accusations, I have no intention of reporting a word about the Baird/Stables miracle."
"Did you say Stables?" asked Beth.
"That is your name, isn't it?"
Beth drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. "Actually, it's Staples."
After a moment, Taryn released a burst of laughter. "That explains it."
"Explains what?" Beth asked.
"Why I couldn't get information on your background. It came across the newswire that Beth Stables of Kennewick, Washington, had died at the Baird Estate and then returned to haunt the walls alongside her lover, the nefarious laird himself."
Lachlan grunted at this.
"Why were you checking into my background?" Beth asked.
"You were a hot story for a while." Taryn was pensively quiet for a few moments. "Do you have any relatives who know of your death?"
Beth shook her head.
"Hmm. Then it's possible no one in the States really knows it's you who died."
The thought brightened Beth's features. "Wouldn't a death certificate have been filed here and the American Embassy notified?"
Lachlan's expressive eyebrows drew down in a frown. "Viola Cooke took care o' the details. I know Beth's passport and paperwork are still in the armoire. There was an autopsy, but Miss Cooke brought Beth's body back here in a casket. I dinna know wha' ither information she gave to the police."
"Which means there's a possibility my bank was never contacted about my death," Beth murmured.
"Why is tha' important?" asked Roan.
"My mother's will had everything put in a trust for me. The taxes on the house and the monthly bills are all paid through a lawyer. So this could mean my house and trust are still intact. I just hope the neighbors are still feeding my cat."
"I can look into it," said Winston. "Use ma association with the agency to screen wha’ever information the police have on their files."
"Watchit," Taryn grinned wryly at Winston. "You're divulging plans in front of the enemy."
"Are you?"
Roan's soft tone put a chink in her sarcasm. "No. I told you, I won't reveal anything about their return or the twins."
"So wha' is yer interest—and don’t tell me it's me."
"Oh, Roan," she sighed, "you never change, do you? You were a self-righteous prig when we were kids, and you're a bigger one now. For your information, I do think of you, and often." She briefly lowered her gaze. "Mom and Dad are getting on in years, and you and I only have two cousins and one aunt left. Then it's the end of the Ingliss line—unless you and Laura decide to have children."
"I'll bet ma last Scotch you don’t give a damn how much o' the family remains," Roan said, again no bitterness in his tone. "You see, Taryn, these folks here, they don’t judge me, and they're here for me no matter wha' happens."
"Your family, I know," she said coolly.
"Right. They could tell me the sky was pink, and I would believe them. But you, lass...we're mair strangers than anythin’ else."
"As you said, that's not my fault."
"Aye. Is there no Scottish left in you, Taryn?"
"I've spent the past twenty-one years in the States. Dammit, what do you expect, Roan? No, I don't have your accent, and I tend to be American blunt and American crude when cornered. That doesn't make me any less your sister!"
"I wasn’t talkin’ abou' yer accent or yer crude behavior ou'side the house. Wha' I'm referrin’ to is the coldness I see in yer eyes. You were a bonny brat as a girl, wi' eyes tha' sparked life when you were up to no good. Wha' I see now is a stranger who looks at me as if measurin’ me for a kist."
"A what?"
"Coffin," he replied impatiently, disappointed that she had lost her knowledge of the Scottish language.
"Thanks."
Taryn considered telling them all to go to hell in a hand basket, but decided it would only make her "mission" more difficult. Her original plan had been to cozy up to Roan, play the kid sister to the hilt, then disclose what she'd uncovered with all the emotional fanfare she could muster. But alas, she was left no choice but to expose the family skeletons with the bluntness of an anvil.
"Perhaps I take after Robert Baird," she said, glancing down at her manicured finge
rnails with their dark red polish.
She looked up in time to see her brother wince as if in pain. It occurred to her she should feel something for him, something kinful, but he was only a larger version of the jerk she remembered.
"You keep referrin’ to this Robert Baird," Lachlan said with an air of boredom. "Wha' I find maist intriguin’ was yer comment abou' this man's legal name bein’ Ingliss."
Taryn eyed him through an unreadable expression. God, he was a lot of man. She'd bet a month's wages he was hung like a horse. He was too damn masculine for his own good. So...virile. So...nineteenth century. So....
Forcing herself to withdraw from that runaway train of thought, she focused her attention on her brother. She was a bit surprised to see how gaunt his features had become. He looked older, somehow. For the first time, she realized how tense he was. Did he already know?
"Do you remember Papa Ailbert?"
"Vaguely remember hearin’ abou' him," said Roan wearily. "Faither's great grandfaither, wasn’t he?"
She nodded. "He published six short stories in his heyday. Guess I inherited the writing bug from him. Anyway, he was also a ritualistic journal keeper. Ever read any of them?"
The question was delivered with an air of lightness, but Roan's eyes narrowed on her.
"No. Why?"
"Papa Ailbert was also a historian of sorts, especially when it came to the family." She sighed and flicked a glance at her fingernails again. "After reading his journals, I couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't actually trying to unburden his soul, poor man."
"Get on wi' it, Taryn."
The way Roan rolled the R in her name caused a delightful thrill to pass through her, and she realized just how hard her parents had worked to get rid of their accents.
Collecting her thoughts, she said, "Anyway, he came to this house at the turn of the century."
"Baird House? Why?"
Roan's clipped tone gave her pause. "To interview Tessa Ingliss. It didn't go too well. She ended up demanding he leave and never return."
Laura jerked as if she'd been pinched. Staring off into space, Laura/Tessa stated in an accented monotone, "He came to the house wi’ accusations tha’ Robert's faither had masterminded the Baird-Aiken marriage."
Hope Everlastin' Book 4 Page 11