Everlastin' Book 1

by Mickee Madden

  “The Lore of Scotland. Ghosts and folklore. Way to go, Beth. As if you're not spooked enough.”

  But at least it would take her mind off Lachlan.

  Curling up on the sofa with the book, she drew across her legs a colorful afghan that was draped on the back of the sofa then began to scan through the pages of print and black and white sketches.

  As the morning waned, her headache worsened. The pain was not the recurring migraines she usually had, but it was enough to make her want to sleep it away. Plumping one of the embroidered pillows beneath her head, she curled up on her side. She placed the heavy book on the floor by the sofa and folded her arms against her chest. Within seconds, she was fast asleep.

  She dreamed of Carlene, standing within a green fog, her arms held out to Beth. “Hurry,” she implored, urging Beth to run toward her, but no matter how hard she tried to breach the distance, Beth could not reach her. “Beth, I'm running out of time. You must hurry! Lachlan's watching. He’s watching!”

  When Beth woke up four hours later, she was exhausted. Her bent legs were cramped. Ignoring her lightheadedness, she sat up and ran her hands down her face. A dull ache thrummed at the back of her neck.

  “Some vacation,” she grumbled and worked her mouth to relieve its dryness.

  She groggily stared into a well-stoked fire across from her. It was several seconds before it dawned on her that the hearth had been cold prior to her nap. The wrought iron stand next to it was missing several logs.

  A ragged breath spilled past her lips when she looked down and saw that the book was not where she had left it. Her movements slow and shaky, she rose to her feet and went to the shelf where she'd obtained the volume. There it sat, snugly in place, making her question whether she had actually taken it down at all. She reached out but stopped herself from touching the book.

  “Get a grip on yourself,” she said, striving to cast off the gloom of her thoughts.

  She left the room and closed the doors. A staccato of heavy rainfall could be heard upon the glass roof panes of the greenhouse beyond the front door. Massaging the back of her neck, she headed in the direction of the staircase. She was about to ascend when an unfamiliar grating bell detonated, echoing discordantly in the hall. Wincing with the pain the sound magnified in her head, she bewilderingly looked about her.

  Again the bell called for her attention.

  “The door,” she muttered, rapidly walking to the end of the hall. She opened the door on the right to find a man standing on the top step of the greenhouse.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted, running a hand over his dripping dark hair. He eyed Beth through rain-speckled, horn-rimmed glasses. “I wasn't expecting anyone to be here,” he added in his cultured English accent.

  To Beth's chagrin, he squeezed past her and entered the hall, where he delighted in having a look at the decor.

  “Marvelous,” he beamed, inspecting the tiles on the fireplace.

  Beth gave herself a mental shake and finally released the doorknob. For a moment there, she'd thought he might be David, but it soon became obvious that this man had never seen the inside of Baird House.

  “I must say, I wasn't expecting anything quite so elegant.” He reached for the door to the parlor. “I'll just show myself around.”

  “Wait a minute,” Beth said breathlessly, walking up to him. Of average build and height, a tan raincoat belted about his middle, he turned a smile on her, which didn't waver when she peevishly asked, “Who are you?”

  “I do beg your pardon.” With a low laugh, he briefly shook Beth's limp hand. “Stephan Miles. I've been checking into this property. I was led to believe the house was vacant. Pleasant surprise finding you here.”

  “Really,” she said dryly. “Despite what you were led to believe, Mr. Miles—”

  “Stephan.”

  “—this house is definitely occupied.”

  “Are you the owner?”

  “No. I'm visiting.”

  Stephan Miles stepped past Beth and stood at the bottom of the staircase, looking up. “I would love to see the rest of the house.” He flashed Beth a toothy smile over his shoulder. “Have you time?”

  “I must ask you to leave.”

  Turning to face her, he slipped his hands into the pockets of his raincoat. “I would like a word with the owner, if it's not inconvenient.” He reached into the front of the raincoat and produced a small, white card. Passing it to Beth, the hand went back into the pocket.

  “I'm prepared to make a sizeable offer for this estate.”

  Beth looked up from the palmed card and leveled an irritable look on the man. “The owners are out of town.”

  “I've come a long way....” His words drifted off. A crooked grin twitched one corner of his mouth. “Are you alone?”

  Beth stiffened as a warning red light went off in her brain. “No, I'm not. There's a burly groundskeeper about. I've been led to believe he fertilizes the gardens with the body parts of trespassers.”

  A short burst of laughter, incongruent of the man's tailored appearance, knotted Beth's stomach. “Dear lady, I'm interested in the estate.”

  “Then I suggest you come back at another time,” she said coolly.

  A moment passed in silence. Then he turned, stepped up onto the first step of the staircase, and gripped the banister. “When do you expect them to return?” he asked, not looking at her.

  “Any time. I want you to leave, Mr. Miles.”

  Facing her, he absently smoothed a hand along the mahogany rail. “You're American.”

  Beth heatedly headed for the front door. The sound of a gasp gave her pause. Looking at the intrusive stranger, she saw that he was frozen on the step, his eyes wide with something akin to consternation. She returned to her former position, a frown questioning his odd behavior. His face was deathly pale, his jaw slack. Beth was about to ask him what was wrong when she noticed his wet hair was moving, as if he was standing in a strong draft. But the coat remained still, and she could not detect anything, although she was standing reasonably close to him.

  “Mr. Miles?”

  Woodenly, almost in slow motion, his hands went to the front of his raincoat. It took Beth a moment to realize he was cupping his testicles through the layers of clothing. Agony contorted his features. His mouth opened wider in an unfulfilled attempt to cry out.

  Beth took a step back as she thought she glimpsed a faint green mist escape the man's ears. The mist swirled about his head then faded from sight, leaving Beth to wonder if she'd seen it at all.

  Stephan Miles jerkily left the step and headed down the hall. Beth watched him close the door behind him, and waited several seconds longer before releasing a breath through pursed lips.

  “Well...that was different.”

  Thunder roared ominously above the house. The rain came down harder, the sound filling the hall almost deafeningly. Beth glanced down at her leveled palm when it tingled. A stab of shock impaled her, for the man's card was no longer in her grasp. After a fleeting inspection of the floor around her feet, she wearily headed into the kitchen where she boiled water for a cup of tea. She sat at the table sipping the hot brew, her thoughts a million miles away until she noticed a long white envelope propped up against the salt and pepper shakers.

  Beth’s name was scrawled across the front in Carlene’s handwriting.

  She hastily opened it and eagerly read the single page.

  Dear Beth,

  Figured I’d better let you know what’s happening since a friend was

  headed to Crossmichael and said he could drop this letter off to you.

  I’m so so sorry, but David got called to Italy on an emergency. We’re not sure how long the job will take. I promise to get back as soon as possible. I’m soooo looking forward to spending time with you.

  See you soon.

  Love ya, Carlene

  “Italy?” Beth groaned. She folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “Great. At least they’re all right.” Sh
e sighed and scrubbed a palm on her brow. “Sure, Carlene, I’ll be here when you return. But it would be lovely to get to spend some time with you before my vacation is up.”

  Disheartened, she finished her tea, placed the cup in the sink, and was about to head upstairs when two ajar doors in the secondary hall caught her attention.

  Although her headache steadily worsened, something compelled her to investigate. The first was a sitting room, its plain furnishings suggesting it was once the servants' area to relax. The second, larger room was a well-stocked bar, with a counter, stools, and three tables with four chairs each. A high-backed, red-leather settee was against the right wall, above which hung a painting of olden times. Depicted was an open room with men gathered by a blazing hearth, mugs of lager in their hands, and a similar settee several feet away.

  She turned her attention back to the bar counter. Alongside an opened bottle of scotch was a short, thick tumbler. Lifting it, she dipped an isolated finger to the bottom.

  It was moist.

  A droll grin twisted her mouth. “So, Lachlan, you are playing mind games.” A low laugh rattled in her throat. “Unless you expect me to believe old Lannie enjoys a swig of scotch now and then.”

  Placing the tumbler down, she left the room. A stroll around the grounds would shake the rest of the cobwebs from her head, if only the rain would stop. At least she was a little wiser. Her jitters had played her right into his hands.

  The next time she came across him, she would know better than to let his teasing manner get to her.

  Chapter 5

  Echoing midnight chimes from somewhere in the house told Beth her birthday was almost upon her. In four hours and twenty-two minutes, she would officially be thirty years old, if the information on her birth certificate was correct. With the last mournful dong of the clock, she continued to vigorously brush her hair in front of the vanity mirror. The low gas lighting in the room lent soft shadows to the contours of her features, appreciably camouflaging the signs of fatigue she'd noticed earlier in the day.

  More than twenty-four hours had passed since she read Carlene’s letter, during which her sense of humor had been sorely tested. To while away time, she had rearranged the cupboards in the kitchen, and reorganized two of the linen closets on the third floor. It wasn't until later in the day, when she'd gone to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea that she'd realized someone had put everything back in the old order. To her further disbelief, the linen closets were exactly as they had been.

  To the best of her knowledge, she'd been alone in the house since Agnes' quick departure after serving breakfast.

  All in all, Beth was getting pretty fed up with the isolation. She had expected—and hoped—to see Lachlan. He had to be around. Someone was undoing her deeds, although it didn’t make sense that he would care about cupboards or closets one way or another.

  She had tried to go to sleep hours earlier, but he kept invading her thoughts. She wasn’t sure psychics really existed, but she was hard-pressed to figure out how he knew certain things that she hadn’t even disclosed to Carlene. Like the roses. She did remember hearing a voice that night that sounded remarkably like his, and even remembered how comforted she felt by it.

  Placing her hairbrush down, she rose from the bench and padded across the floor to the gas lamp. A twist of the key cut off the flame, plunging the room into total darkness.

  In Kennewick, Washington, there were always street and yard lights to take the edge off of the night.

  Not here.

  Such darkness.

  Such encompassing, dark...darkness.

  She was walking toward the bed when two things stopped her; an unexpected, almost overwhelming sense of despair, and notice of a thin strip of light beneath her door.

  Lachlan?

  She was positive she had turned off the hall lights before she'd come into her room earlier.

  The night before, she had lain awake for hours, hoping to hear him go to his room. Although she was sure he was the one playing the pranks on her, she would have liked to have known another living creature was in the house besides herself. If he had returned and left again last night, she wasn't aware of it.

  With a hand over her thumping heart, she opened her bedroom door. Two of the lights were on in the hall. And there was light beneath Lachlan's door.

  Forgetting the fact she was wearing a thigh-length nightgown, she tiptoed across the hall and placed an ear to his door. The only sound she could discern was that of a crackling fire.

  Sinking her teeth lightly into her lower lip, Beth turned the knob and eased the door inward.

  You know what he expects from you, said her mother’s voice in her mind. Don’t you dare air out our dirty little secret, Beth. I’ll never forgive you!

  Beth boldly pushed the door open a little more — then again until she was able to squeeze into the room.

  A thousand objects vied for her immediate attention. The huge, four-poster master bed carved from walnut. The masculine furniture and heavy, royal blue drapes on the far windows. The sword arrangements on the walls. The paintings. The photographs.

  Her gaze swept over the polished, high wainscoting then the canvas ceiling divided by wood moldings.

  Stepping further into the room, she finally focused her attention on the man standing in front of a white-marble fireplace. His hands gripped the mantelpiece. His brow was pressed to its surface, his back hunched. He wore dark trousers, but his feet and broad back and arms were bare. His hair was tied back at his nape by a dark piece of thin leather.

  Beth's hand remained between her breasts as she watched him. The despair in her heart swelled and for a moment, she couldn't help but wonder if in fact she was somehow “connected” to him. He straightened but the slump of his shoulders suggested he was distraught. How could she continue to scoff at the concept when she was reasonably sure what she was feeling at the moment did not spring from within herself?

  And it struck her that her own loneliness the past years in no way equaled his. Despite his merry airs, she was vitally aware of his need for companionship.

  His need for her.

  Her feet soundless upon a thick Persian rug, Beth took several steps in his direction, stopping only when she inadvertently looked up at a portrait hanging above the fireplace. Her heartbeat pulsed loudly in her ears as she stared in wonderment at the face in the painting. Larger than life, it could have been Lachlan who had sat for the artist. The likeness was so startling there was no question in her mind that Lachlan had to be related to the Baird clan. Perhaps a direct descendant of that unfortunate man whose dreams were cut short by a knife thrust into his heart.

  It was little wonder Lachlan loved the house. It was a part of his history.

  But how had he come to be a mere employee within the grand walls?

  Her heart skipped a beat when she imagined his expression as he searched the face of the man in the portrait.

  Taking care of her mother had made her painfully empathize with anyone suffering. She didn't know a thing about the man across from her—except that he could be an infuriating tease at times, could certainly kiss, and had shown her kindness whenever her need for comforting had arisen.

  Rude, crude and charming. All wrapped up neatly in this man she'd only met three days ago. And yet, in her heart, she felt as if she had known him all her life.

  “Lachlan?”

  He thrust back his shoulders. She couldn't help but notice how taut his back and shoulders became, and wondered if she hadn't made a grave mistake intruding where she wasn't wanted.

  The light awarded by two gas fixtures on each side of the portrait, flickered.

  Wresting her concentration free of the mesmerizing globed flames, she said by way of apology, “I'm sorry I disturbed you.”

  But she didn't move to leave. Lachlan turned slowly to face her, his chest heaving with every breath he took. His arms, held slightly out from his powerful build, supported clenched fists.

  His gaze
fixed on the hand Beth held over her heart. She lowered her arm and looked up at the portrait again.

  “You bear a striking resemblance to him,” she said nervously.

  “You dinna belong in here.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  A moment passed in tense silence. A fey fluctuating sensation played around her heart. Although part of her mind tried to reject the notion, gut instinct told her what she was experiencing was Lachlan's attempt to lighten his mood.

  “You should no' be here,” he said finally, a quaver in his tone slipping past his control.

  “I'm sorry.”

  Lachlan forced his stiff fingers to uncurl.

  What has she to be sorry about? he wondered. He was the reason she had been brought to Baird House. He was the one who planned to keep her everlasting.

  Never would she live the life of her dreams.

  He'd waited too long for a fitting bride to bless his house.

  Beth couldn't imagine what was going through his mind, not when his features went through a gamut of expressions within a matter of seconds. She was a little afraid of the intensity in his dark eyes until it slowly began to register that he was looking her over in a way she hadn't experienced since her college days.

  “You're still upset with me,” she said with an airy shrug.

  After a moment, he gave a forlorn shake of his head.

  “I-I know you were only trying to help me. About my mother, I mean.”

  “You must help yerself, lass.”

  Unbidden, tears sprang to her eyes. “I loved my mother, Lachlan.”

  He nodded.

  “She-umm...changed during her illness.”

  “Aye. Tis normal.”

  Beth struggled with indecision. Deep in her heart, she knew she had to let go of the guilt. But it was so hard. As if to say the words aloud was to destroy the image of the woman she needed to cling to. “I...I don’t understand why you keep bringing her up. She was ill and died. It’s done, so why—”