"Can you take the truth o' it?" he asked calmly.
She smiled coyly, inched closer, and fingered the front of his shirt. Her gaze lingered on his mouth and lifted to peer at him through her lashes. "I can take anything you're willing to give."
Lachlan's gaze never left her eyes. "I see you as a womon wi' no respect for life, and no dreams beyond gettin’ through each day."
She stiffened.
"You want a mon who can master you."
"That's bull!"
"Master you and make you desire mair'n just succeedin’ in a career."
She stormed back to the settee and plopped onto it. "You'll never make it as a fortune teller."
He turned and stared down at her, his expression bland, his emotions at bay. "You envy Laura and Beth."
"Get a grip," she grumbled.
"You dinna understand wha' they have."
"Oh, are we talking about love, now?" She jumped to her feet and jabbed an isolated finger in his middle. "Love is crap, Lachlan. For men it's lust, and for women...oh, hell, who knows. I don't envy anyone! I'm a damn good photographer, a better than damn good writer, and damn good at getting my stories!"
"Wha' abou' the womon, Taryn?" he asked softly.
"What about her?" She put her hands on her hips. "Did you see anything in my room that wasn't appealing?"
"There's mair to a person than the packagin’."
She laughed. "But isn't that what first attracts notice?"
Lachlan jerked back as an impression slammed his awareness.
"What? Did I offend your sensibilities?" she asked sarcastically.
"Where are you plannin’ to go when you leave here?" he asked, his face darkening with a scowl.
"Home," she lied smoothly.
Lachlan's dark, riveting eyes bored into hers. "Dinna go."
"Home?"
"Tis no' home ye're headed."
"Oh? Then where?"
"Heed this warnin’, Taryn," he said huskily. "There's a mon waitin’ for you at the end o' yer destination. Dinna provoke him."
Taryn shivered as an inexplicable chill pierced her spine. "It's what I do best."
Lachlan backed away two paces and shook his head. "He'll no' understand yer ways."
"You're cute but crazy."
"Go back to the States, lass. Whatever ye're efter, tis no' worth the price you'll pay."
"My heart?" she laughed. "Is that the price you're talking about? Well, my big-shouldered friend, I don't have one. At least, that seems to be the consensus around here."
He stared at her a moment longer as he tried to lock onto what the knowing was attempting to formulate in his mind. When no more information came to him, he gave a departing gesture with a hand and headed for the dining room.
Taryn watched him disappear into the next room. Anger simmered in her heart of hearts. Anger and a measure of sorrow.
To say she had somehow developed a crush on the laird was a gross understatement. She couldn't remember ever being so attracted to anyone. From the instant they had made eye contact across the crowd two nights prior, every time she saw him she had felt a sickening jab to the pit of her stomach. It was both mind-reeling and frustrating. And frightening.
With a glance he made her feel vulnerable. With a glance he stirred her blood.
She'd lain awake half the night fantasizing about him, which had only worsened her frustration to maddening ambivalence. She wanted his approval, but she couldn't give up the story she was after. It was so much easier to invade people's privacy when they were but a name, and not someone she personally knew or wanted to know. Before the ghost had scared the wits out of her, she'd already decided she had to get away from Baird House.
Away from Lachlan.
It was one thing to be criticized for her bitchiness and her actions, another to be ridiculed for matters of the heart. She wasn't as arrogant or as confident as they all believed.
Lachlan belonged to Beth.
The pathetic irony of it all was, for the first time in her life, Taryn Ingliss had fallen in love. Damnably in love and it hurt like hell to know there was nothing she could do about it.
Her sarcasm and flippancy were ways to shield her true feelings for him. Miss Goody Two Shoes Beth would have a coronary if she suspected.
Taryn was given a jolt of surprise when she realized Roan was standing a few feet away, watching her. Again, her instinctive verbal defense rose to the fore before she could suppress it.
"Missed me, huh?"
"Where's Lannie?" he asked curtly.
Beth's words came back to haunt her. If she thought for one moment the rift between herself and Roan could be closed with a heartfelt apology for her behavior, she would give it. But of course it wasn't that simple. Nothing in life was ever that simple, and she wasn't in the mood to endure another lecture about her character failings. It was easier to let Roan believe she cared for no one but herself. He would only mock her if she told him how much she'd missed him over the years, and that her bitter letters had been her way of trying to provoke him into visiting the States.
Of course, he hadn't responded to those childish tactics. Neither would she, if she were in his shoes. And despite his dislike of her, they were very much alike, only Roan had found people to care for, and people to care for him. People he trusted. People he considered his family. So, instead of asking him of they could have a serious talk, a brother and sister bonding—or at least come to some kind of understanding—she pointed in the direction of the dining room. He left with barely a nod to her and, when he, too, was gone from sight, she felt as if her insides had shriveled.
"See you in the morning," she murmured and went into the hall.
At the second floor landing, she realized she was developing a headache. She entered her room, closed the door, and massaged her temples with growing impatience as she walked toward the bed.
"Tomorrow morning can't come soon enough."
Something struck the back of her head with such force that lights burst in front of her eyes as she pitched forward. She struck the edge of the mattress, bounced off and hit the floor, oblivious to the man whose fist remained in the air where her head had been a moment ago.
Chapter 10
A brief vibrating movement lifted Deliah through layers of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open. Her mind disoriented from exhaustion, she peered into semi-darkness and wondered where she was and why the mattress beneath her felt so strange. As seconds ticked by, her recall gradually came into focus, mostly due to the odors lingering in the room. They had been unfamiliar scents—man-made florals—prior to her entering their hotel room. The bathroom reeked of disinfectants and she'd had trouble keeping her stomach calmed until she'd gotten used to the nasal invasion.
She did like the fragrance of the soap and shampoo the hotel provided.
She lay on her side with her head pillowed by the hollow in Winston's left shoulder. The mattress beneath them was harder than the one they had at the estate, and it had taken her some time to settle into a comfortable position and fall asleep.
What a day it had been.
The sometimes blur of scenery and the jarring motion of the car on rougher areas of the road had made her a little anxious during the half hour drive to Ayr, where they stopped to refuel and eat in a small diner. Winston ordered hamburgers with lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, and a large side platter of deep fried chips. Not only had she eaten her food to the last crumb, but she had helped him to polish off his.
The less than two hour drive to Edinburgh proved less stressful for her. Rolling hills of green and meandering roads held her interest and made the time pass quickly. When they reached the outskirts of the city, though, she was ravenous again. They ate in the hotel where Winston had booked their room from a pay phone in Crossmichael. Then they toured the city, took care of Winston's business with the gemologist, and shopped until Deliah laughingly pleaded to go to their room. Amidst the packages containing her new wardrobe, they ordered room servi
ce and ate their fill. They made love on the bed and, later, in the shower. No sooner had his damp head hit the pillow he fell asleep, while she sat staring at his face, falling deeper in love with him with every minute that passed.
Deliah snuggled closer to his warmth. Hunger pains nipped at her stomach, but she was too tired to do anything about it. She closed her eyes and laid her hand atop his bare abdomen. It was then she realized his skin was feverish, clammy, and that what she'd thought a vibration was in fact his shuddering and twisting.
He moaned a piteous sound. Reaching for the light switch on the nightstand lamp, she engaged it and sat up. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the brightness.
Winston lay on his back, his arms and legs rigidly angled out from his sides. The sheet, which was the only cover they were using, covered his legs and lower hips. His exposed skin was shiny with perspiration. He twitched again and again, and his eyes moved spastically behind the closed lids. His features were taut, as if he were caught up in a nightmare from which he couldn't escape.
She didn't need to touch him to feel the hammering of his heart.
"Winston," she said, shaking him.
He remained locked in his realm of sleep.
"Winston, ye be frightenin’ me!"
Still, he didn't respond.
Deliah pushed out with her mind until she was able to enter his thoughts. Images flashed across his mindscreen. Two consecutively blinked in and out so rapidly that she couldn't formulate a clear picture of what he was seeing. What was readily available was the terror he was experiencing. Its cold, shadowy tentacles reached out from his body and sinuously wrapped around her tighter and tighter. When she could no longer bear her own magnifying terror, she broke the link and climbed off the bed.
She padded into the bathroom, to the sink. Her hand trembled as she filled a glass with cold water. She was lightheaded and queasy, but more worried about Winston than fainting again. Returning to the bed, she threw the water into his face. It should have rescued him from the nightmare's clutches, but he only shuddered and twitched. Shuddered and twitched.
His breathing became louder, faster, and hoarse. Deliah made a graceful swirl of her right hand then blew from the palm the golden dust her skin had produced. It should have gently awakened him. Instead the glittering particle turned black before touching his skin. Breathless with dread, she willed herself to view his aura. It was black, lifeless, and reeked of death and decay.
Kneeling on the bed and gripping him by the shoulders, she shook him until her arms ached and her heart had risen into her throat. Then, not knowing what else to do, she struck him hard in the face. The sound of flesh hitting flesh sickened her. She dashed into the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet.
Winston awakened to the sounds of her retching. Groggily, he swung his legs off the mattress and got to his feet. Dizziness gave him a moment's pause. He blew air out the side of his mouth and stretched the kinks in his legs and the small of his back. By the time he reached her side the spasms had waned and she sat dazedly on the floor, looking up at him as if he was solely responsible for her condition.
He crouched and tenderly cupped her chin. "Can I get you anything?"
"An explanation, if ye please."
A wry grin masked his face. "O' wha'?"
"When did ye start influxin’ again, Winston?" She wiped the back of a hand across her mouth and released a shuddering sigh. "I thought ye had learned to shut off yer mind from extraneous brainwaves."
Winston touched her brow. "You don't have a fever," he said humorously.
"Neither do ye...now."
"Meaning wha'?"
She heaved a sigh of impatience and cocked her head to one side. "Meanin’ ye were twitchin’ like a fly caught on a spider's web. Winston, wha' be the nightmare wha' had ye so fiercely in its hold?"
A denial that he'd had one at all was about to spring past his lips when the two images Deliah had seen returned. He shot to his feet, oblivious that she also rose to hers. At first the images came and went too swiftly for him to grasp, but then they slowed, little by little, and he strained to understand their meaning and more closely focus on the features.
It was the burglar's face behind the ski mask he kept seeing over and over again. Alternately, the black knitted piece changed. Sometimes the man's mouth was visible, other times it wasn't. Sometimes the man's pale eyes were fearful, and other times so evil in their deadness that his gut muscles clenched.
"Winston?"
He lifted a hand to silence her.
Flick in, flick out.
Mouth visible, mouth not. In and out, slower and slower and slower until finally the two faces were side by side on his mindscreen, and the reality of what had been trying to fully escape his subconscious slammed to the fore of his brain.
His legs buckled beneath him and he sat hard on the white tiled floor. The small bathroom went into a tailspin. From far away he heard Deliah calling to him, and he forced himself to concentrate on her in order to find his way back to reality.
Coldness pressed to his face and helped to revive him. Once Deliah lowered the dripping wet face cloth, he braced his back against the tub base and nodded that he was all right.
"Can I fetch ye anythin’?" she asked.
"We have to get back to Baird House."
"Now?"
He nodded and heaved a ragged breath. "He's there. The Phantom. God Almighty, he's been there all along."
"Tis no' possible."
"Deliah," he said weakly, "he is. The mon who attacked Alby and then me wi' the knife, his ski mask didn't cover his eyes or mouth, and his eyes were almost colorless. The mon who broke into the house the same night wore similar dark clothes, but his mask covered his mouth, and his eyes were light blue, but definitely blue. And he was right handed, no' left like the Phantom."
"But I would know if this mon be in the house!"
A choked sound rattled in Winston's throat. "I've finally figured ou' how he's managed to elude us all these years. He's psychic, Deliah, and a telepath. Tha's why."
Deliah's expression turned to one of stark bleakness. "So he be blockin’ our reception o' him?"
"And manipulating us. Deliah, he's after Laura and Beth, and there's no telephone at Baird House to warn them."
* * *
Lachlan looked up and smiled from the island counter in the kitchen. "Dinna tell me ye're hungry again?" he asked teasingly, and placed the tenderized steak into the frying pan he had heating on the stove.
"No," said Roan. "I remembered I hadna fixed anythin’ for Reith."
"It willna take me long."
Roan nodded then grinned pensively. "I was checkin’ on the laddies, and Kahl asked me why I talk more like you now."
Looking up from the stove, Lachlan asked, "Do you?"
"It seems so."
Lachlan placed two large potatoes in the oven to reheat then faced Roan. "You sound normal to me."
"Accordin’ to young Master Kahl, I've 'fallen into the Scottish lingo'. Then I remembered you tellin’ me some months ago tha' I talked mair like an Englishmon. Remember?"
After a moment, Lachlan nodded. "Aye, I do, now. Tis true. You barely use 'can't' and 'don't' no mair."
"You were raised speaking Gaelic, though. Right?"
"Aye, but many a lowland Scot worked for ma faither. When I moved here, I adapted to their language." Lachlan flipped the steak over and deeply inhaled the aroma before adding, "No' many Lowlanders speak Gaelic. Tis a pity, for sure, for Gaelic comes from the heart."
"Maybe I'll get around to learnin’ it one o' these days."
Lachlan's eyes held an internal light of amusement as he regarded his friend. "You should. Efter all, mon, you have a Highlander's blood in yer veins."
Several seconds passed in silence. Lachlan was aware that Roan was a little unsettled by his remark. He hadn't said it to belittle Robert. Robert Ingliss Baird was no more responsible for his parentage than was Lachlan.
Roan sig
hed, then asked, "Now tha' Robbie's fragmented soul has passed over, does it mean you and me...weel, tha' half-brither business no longer exists, does it?"
"Did you fancy the idea?"
Roan glanced downward for a moment. "Actually, I think I did. Itherwise, I'll have to think o' you as a verra distant uncle."
Lachlan laughed and faked a shudder. "How many greats would tha' make me?"
"Too bloody many to count."
Lachlan nodded. He turned off the gas burner beneath the steak and reached for the paring knife in the oak rack on the island counter. Walking up to Roan, he jabbed the point into his right palm, just enough to draw a bead of blood. Roan was hesitant at first. He stared at Lachlan's palm for a time, frowning before he finally held out his own. He winced when the knife point pricked his skin. Lachlan clasped his palm against the inside of Roan's right wrist. Roan did likewise, and experienced an inexplicable warmth building up inside his chest. The men stood with their hands and gazes locked.
"We're brithers," said Lachlan, his voice husky with emotion. "There is no' anither mon in all the world I trust mair'n you. So from this day forward, our blood to one anither's wrists, I claim you as ma brither and ma only livin’ clansmon."
Roan lowered his head in a bid to hold back the tears pressing behind his eyes. He felt as though he had just been bestowed the greatest honor of his life, and he was too choked up to speak right away. When he did, his tone was soft with reverence.
"And I claim you as mine." He looked into Lachlan's eyes and smiled a bit tremulously. "Ye're too generous wi' yer heart...old mon."
With a laugh, Lachlan embraced Roan, clapping him soundly on the back. "Are we a pair o' sentimental fools, or wha'?"
"Brithers."
They separated and stared at each other, both lost to the emotional moment, both straight-backed with pride.
"I had best feed Reith afore he thinks I've forgotten him."
"I'm sure Laura is wonderin’ where I am." Roan turned to the door, but paused to regard Lachlan. "Lannie, are you really thinkin’ o' moving to the States?"
Lachlan nodded. Although he thought he was careful to guard his apprehension, Roan seemed to sense it.
Hope Everlastin' Book 4 Page 19