Hope Everlastin' Book 4

by Mickee Madden

  Now Beth frowned in amused bewilderment. "Okay. Demon faces. Why aren't I surprised?"

  "No' demon faces, Beth. Lachlan thought them tha', but in fact, they be gargoyles."

  Beth laughed, "Which means what?"

  "Weel, there be few relics remainin’ o' the time o' their reign."

  "Their what? Weren't gargoyles first made as water spouts?"

  "Aye, for their speech resembled tha' sound."

  "Gargoyles. You're saying they were once alive?"

  "Aye, but they have been extinct for thousands o' years. Beth, maist myths were real at one time. To ma knowledge the Picts were the last to worship the gargoyles. Accordin’ to Winston, their temples remain. One be called—"

  "Stonehenge," Beth interjected breathlessly.

  Deliah nodded. "Winston scanned the pendant, and believes it dates long afore the time o' the Picts. Because o' its aura, he couldna get an exact fix on when it was made."

  "How would Lachlan's mother come to have it?"

  "Tha' and the dirk both. I agree wi' ma brither. No coincidence be this. Taryn only came to Baird House to find the dirk. In trackin’ its history, Beth, she be delvin’ into matters verra dangerous. The secrets o' the ancient gods be no' for mortals to know—or fairies."

  "Even when she's not around, she's a pain in the ass," Beth grumbled.

  "Mair'n ye know." Deliah took in a deep breath and massaged her brow. "I be tellin’ ye this because the menfolk dinna want us to know they be talkin’ abou' goin’ efter her. Winston let it slip from his mind in his sleep. I have already told Laura."

  "How did she take it?"

  Deliah shrugged. "Weel, but said she would shackle Roan to the bed if he tried to leave afore the weddin’. Our men have no right to think we be too fragile to know the truth."

  "I agree."

  "Wha'ever is decided to do abou' Taryn, we six should discuss it through. I have no' lived this long to be coddled and expected no' to have a mind o' ma own."

  "Deliah," Beth laughed, "you may look as delicate as a flower, but you're as tough as a weed."

  A dubious frown appeared on the fairy’s face. "Thank ye...I think. Shall we go?"

  "No more revelations?"

  "No' at the moment."

  Although the sky of the outer world was overcast, Beth had to squint as she emerged from the new oak behind Deliah. The air was cool and held a promise of rain, and from the sounds of the peafowl's chatter they were gathered on the rooftops.

  "Lachlan be waitin’ at the south gazebo," said Deliah. "Are yer eyes now sensitive to the light?"

  "A little. Go to Winston. I don't see a gray haze in front of your face anymore. I'm sure I can find Lachlan."

  "When the twins be returned to the house, Laura and I will watch them."

  "I can't ask you to do that."

  "Ye no' be askin’," Deliah interrupted. "Laura and I discussed it this morn. Efter wha' ye and Lachlan have been through, a wee time alone be wha' ye both need. He's been a bit o' a grouch wi’ou' ye."

  "I'll do my best to de-grouch him, then. Thanks, Deliah."

  "Ma pleasure."

  Deliah headed toward the house. Beth watched until she entered the front doors then headed for the gazebo. As she walked through the rose gardens she searched for him, but didn't see him until she'd stepped onto the planked floor of the gazebo.

  He sat on the lower step across from her, talking to himself—or so it seemed, at first. His light blue, full-sleeved shirt was stretched tautly across his broad back, and she released a thready breath in anticipation of caressing his warm, naked flesh.

  Barefoot, her tread was silent as she closed the distance and positioned herself against the arch post, behind him. Braussaw stood on the ground in front of him, looking eerily alert for a stuffed bird.

  "...and when you put two females thegither, ma friend, time has no meanin’. They'll chatter away the hours, they will, wi' no' a thought for their poor menfolk waitin’ on the side for a wee loving." He sighed dramatically, and Beth had to compress her lips to keep from chuckling out loud.

  "Ah, Braussaw, to be fair to ma Beth, when she gives me her all tis far mair'n maist men can hope for."

  The peacock released a guttural coo, which nearly made Beth jump out of her skin.

  Braussaw was alive?

  "Ahhh, you have it bloody good, you do," he said to the bird. "You eat and you sleep, and strut yer stuff for all ye're worth. Wha' do you worry abou'? You have naught to lose, except maybe yer tail to a feather bandit. I'm sure, though, maist are no' willin’ to brave the ire o' Baird House's ghost to pluck you clean."

  He sighed again, a lonesome sound that tugged on Beth's heartstrings.

  "Two days wi’ou' Beth is an eternity. I never knew how large was ma bed till she wasna in it. Tis a curse, you know. Aye, Braussaw, a curse a mon must bear when he loves a womon so much he canna think beyond the strain in his breeks for want o' her."

  Kneeling behind him, Beth said, "A curse is it?" and wound her arms about his chest. He gave an initial start of surprise then laughed and clasped her forearms.

  "You took yer sweet time," he said happily. He turned his head and she kissed him by the side of his mouth. "I was afeared the fairies had decided no' to let you go."

  "Blue was worried you would start shoveling to find me."

  He shook with a laugh. "It crossed ma mind."

  Braussaw released a shrill caterwaul and flew to perch atop the peak of the gazebo. Beth winced when the sound stabbed at her eardrums and released a mock cry as Lachlan finagled her atop his lap. Her eyes were bright with excitement as she linked her arms about his neck, and peered into the passionate depths of his eyes.

  "Miss me a wee?" she asked teasingly.

  Lachlan's eyebrows arched and a slow, devious grin formed on his mouth. "Yer pillow is no compensation for you, lass."

  "And what were you doing to my pillow?"

  A dark flush suffused his face. "Och, Beth. Shame on you! I was snugglin’ wi' the bloody thing, naught mair!"

  Burying her face to one side of his neck, she laughed until his arms tenderly enfolded her and drew her closer against him. Her pulse racing, her lungs suddenly heavy, she looked up to see him lowering his head. She'd thought herself ready for his kiss, but as his mouth covered hers and began to move with languid sensuousness, her blood turned to liquid fire and her head went into a tailspin. She had never thought of kissing as an art until meeting him. He had a way of making every nerve in her body feel as though it was part of her lips, part of his exploration.

  The muscles of his arms flexed against her, thrilling her with their masculinity and strength. Beth moaned when his right hand cupped the side of her outer thigh. His palm was hot, causing the skin beneath it to tingle. He trailed the fingers of the same hand up her thigh, stopping to caress and pamper and taunt her flesh. She squirmed and lost her fingers in the thickness of his hair, and pushed at the back of his head to urge him to kiss her deeper, deeper. Maddening sensations built inside her, not unlike those connected with the throes of a climax. She was sensitized to his musky scent and every curve and hard plane of his body. Sensitized to the wild thudding of his heart, and to his fingertips sliding over the roundness of her left buttocks.

  He was somehow carrying her to the brink of gratification when he reared back and gasped, "Beth!"

  Dazed, breathless, she blinked and rasped, "What?"

  "Where are yer wee bloomers?" he asked in stunned indignation.

  "Panties, Lachlan. They're called panties, and fairies don't wear them."

  "Weel," he sputtered righteously, "you are no' a fairy, are you! Fegs, lass, are you tryin’ to make ma heart come to a cold stop?"

  With a sigh of resignation, she straightened atop his legs and primly folded her hands on her lap. Too sweetly, she asked, "Do you realize there's only your breeks separating us?" and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  His eyes wide, his face beet red, Lachlan could say nothing for a long mome
nt. Then he expelled a breath and leveled a scolding look on her. "Ye're wicked. Exposin’ yer privates in the light o' day—ou'side, no less!"

  She playfully nuzzled the tip of his nose with hers. "If we were in our bedroom, you prudish hunk you, we would both be naked and—"

  Her sentence died in her throat when he shot to his feet with her cradled in his arms. He headed for the house in a trot-run, the strain of carrying her carved into his face. His gaze remained fixed on his objective, and he didn't slow down until they reached the outer doors and he grunted for her to open them.

  Once they were in the hall Beth demanded, "Let me walk. Dammit, Lachlan, my ass is hanging out!"

  She buried her face against his neck when a surprised Roan stepped aside on the first landing of stairs. She heard him chuckle as Lachlan took on the ascent with all the speed he could muster and marveled at his stamina when they reached the third floor. The hall passed in a blur. A door slammed shut. Suddenly she found herself on her back atop the bed, watching Lachlan hastily peel out of his shirt.

  He was breathing heavily, and his face and chest were coated with a fine sheen of perspiration. She scooted into a sitting position, pulled the tunic over her head, and tossed it over the far side of the mattress, noticing when she watched it fall that the broken window across the room had been boarded up.

  "You make me crazy, womon," he panted, and sat on the edge of the bed. He grunted and cursed in Gaelic as he struggled to remove his boots. One at a time, he tossed them across the room.

  While he stripped out of his breeches, socks, and undergarment, Beth's gaze went to his portrait above the fireplace. She faced it, sitting on her folded legs, and dreamily likened the painted image to the man she knew. The artist had captured both Lachlan's pride and arrogant bearing, and also the mischievous glint that was often in his eyes.

  Naked as the day he was born, Lachlan stood and turned to Beth, but his intended pose became lost to the wonder he experienced at seeing her sitting like a wingless cherub, adoringly staring at his portrait. The light brown ringlets of her hair fell past her shoulders, framing a face he believed grew more beautiful every time he looked at her. Tears welled up in his eyes and filled his throat. Of all his treasures she was his most precious, the one thing besides his children that he would fight to hold on to with everything he had in himself.

  He placed a hand over his heart and sank to his knees then folded his arms atop the mattress and rested his chin on them. The joy he felt eased his breathing. And when her head turned and her blue eyes met his, the devotion in their depths caused a tear to slip down his cheek.

  "Beth," he said, the way he spoke her name a declaration of love in itself, "wha' you do to ma mind, ma heart, and ma soul."

  A ragged breath passed her lips. Stretching out on her front, she rested her chin atop her folded arms and brought her nose to within an inch of his. "If it's anything like what you do to mine, then I think we're in love, Lachlan."

  He smiled timorously. "Probably so."

  Nearly a minute passed while they contentedly stared into each other’s eyes.

  Lachlan lowered one side of his head atop an arm and said, "I do love you, lass. Bare arse and all."

  "Even when I'm wicked?" she grinned.

  "Shame on me," he said, sighing with exaggerated desolation, "but even then."

  "It's chilly in here, Lachlan."

  "Is it?"

  "There are goose bumps the size of my ass, on my ass."

  He winced, then closed one eye and gave her a thoroughly paternal look. "You love to shock me."

  "Only when your nineteenth century prudery surfaces."

  "Prude, am I?"

  His movements slow and as graceful as a prowling panther, he climbed onto the bed. Beth luxuriously stretched out on her back and opened her arms to receive him, but this time Lachlan would not be rushed. Impish delight gleamed in his eyes as he knelt between her thighs and braced rigid arms to each side of her rib cage. Her legs and feet stroked his hips and outer thighs, and her hands caressed his face, throat, and chest.

  She was ready.

  No foreplay, this time.

  She wanted him now.

  He wanted to hear her moan, though, especially that hitching sound she made deep in her throat when she reached the end of her patience for him to enter her. Her eyes were glazed with passion, her pouty lips parted in invitation.

  "Prude, am I?" he said huskily.

  For the next hour, he made love to her skin with his hands and mouth, bringing her just to the brink of ecstasy so many times that she weakened with need. He tasted of her salty perspiration and of her passion, leaving no part of her untouched. When she tried to touch him, he held her wrists to the mattress until she acquiesced, then proceeded to take her again and again on various paths of pleasure.

  Caressing and kissing every part of her body, he took her through heaven and hell and everything in between. When he was satisfied she could take no more, he entwined his fingers through hers and gently anchored her hands to the bed above her head. He lowered himself atop her, entering the heat of her without the use of a hand, and drawing her into a kiss that caused her to shudder with the depths of its passion. His muscles were taut with his determination to hold back when she climaxed, and her inner muscles demanded his joint release.

  Coated in perspiration, his lungs aching to breathe, he continued moving inside her until he felt renewed throes gripping her body. With a cry of primordial rapture, she clutched him tightly within her legs and forced him deeply inside her. Shudders of exquisite ecstasy racked him. For a matter of seconds, he was one with her. Time and space didn't exist, nor reality in any form. When he was finally spent, he collapsed to one side and nuzzled her damp neck with his face.

  Their panting breaths fell into synchrony. Lachlan laid a hand on her slick abdomen. He wanted to knead her soft skin, but he couldn't summon the strength.

  "I think that...bordered on...torture," she wheezed.

  "No' bad...for a prude, aye? Fegs, I'm exhausted."

  "You? Exhausted?" she chuckled.

  "Lass, I did all the work."

  "Torture, you mean."

  "Wha’ever you say, love."

  "Okay." She grinned up at the ceiling. "Again."

  Lachlan frowned into the moist tendrils of her hair. "Wha'?"

  "Again."

  "Make love?"

  "Aye," she gurgled.

  Weakly, he managed to prop himself up and look into her eyes. "Are you serious?"

  In response, she arched one eyebrow.

  Muttering Gaelic, he lowered his brow to the area between her breasts. "I canna...for a while, at least."

  Stroking the back of his head, she whispered, "Wanna make a bet?"

  Chapter 14

  Everyone at Baird House had practically forgotten about the attempted burglary of over a week ago, until two officers arrived to remind them. For the next three days, there had been no time to relax and begin the plans for the wedding. The younger of the two constables had been present the night of the break-in. The second was an older man, an inspector, with a burly attitude. Mornings, afternoons, and sometimes twice at night, they had come to question the original statements made by Laura, Roan, Lachlan, Deliah, and Winston.

  No one in the household had ventured near the backyard to see the bulkhead, where the area had been cordoned off with yellow police tape. Beth and the infants remained hidden on the third floor, while Winston mostly handled the officers, for which Lachlan, Roan, and Laura were immensely grateful.

  Inspector Douglas Grant was the problem. He was fond of telling them he didn't believe in coincidence, especially the convenience of Cuttstone and the burglar, Robbie Donnely, targeting the same house. It was this that made Grant a tenacious investigator. Winston again and again went over the details of the night the Phantom died, only omitting the MacLachlan dirk, Beth, and the twins. During each visit, Winston had remained calm—until the inspector had deviated from his questioning last
night and asked about "Horatio" Lachlan's background, birthdate, place of birth, and occupation.

  Before Lachlan could think up a viable history, Winston informed the inspector they had been patient and cooperative till that point. Then he informed him that no more questions would be answered without a solicitor present. Inspector Grant had been wryly amused by this tactic, and assured Winston it wouldn't be necessary.

  This morning Inspector Grant came to the house without another officer in tow, and on a different matter he said might possibly tie in with the recent deaths. To everyone's discomfort, he had encountered Reith at the carriage house and insisted the young man join the questioning.

  Laura, Roan, Winston, Deliah, and Reith gathered in the parlor, while the boys remained in their rooms despite Grant's insistence they, too, be questioned. Roan adamantly warned the inspector he was stepping over the line, and Grant had acquiesced.

  It was barely 8 AM, and tempers were on the rise. This time, Laura refused to offer Grant coffee. His mood was overly cheerful as he sat in one of the high-back chairs and thumbed through a small pad. When he looked up he insisted everyone take a seat and waited until they had followed his order.

  Then his bombshell detonated, and the immediate tension in the room was so thick that it couldn't have been cut with a chain saw.

  "Wha' can you tell me abou' Beth Staples's headstone?"

  Silence and grim expressions met his inquiry.

  "The one in the field?" he asked with a sardonic grin.

  Again, silence was the only response, and Grant sighed with a theatrical flair. His gaze lingered for an excruciatingly long moment on Deliah, then Reith. During this time Winston scanned the man's mind, and his stomach clenched in to a sickening knot to discover that this time there wasn't a lie that could save them, or even bide them enough time to get Lachlan, Beth, and the twins out of the country.

  The inspector's smug attitude permeated the room as he crossed one leg over the other and bobbed the raised foot. "We're no' very cooperative this morn, are we?" He grinned, his bushy dark eyebrows stretched upward as far as they could go. "Perhaps I'm confusin’ you. Forgive me if I am. I'm sure you were prepared to go over yer previous statements. Yet again."