Her head shot around and her eyes widened. Braussaw was nowhere in sight. Again a chill clawed up her spine.
“Heard you talkin’ to someone,” said Borgie, his gaze searching about.
“Good morning,” she greeted somewhat stiffly. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”
He chuckled and removed a red plaid cap from his head. “I just got here.”
Beth managed a quirky smile. “I-I was hoping I could trouble you for a ride into town.”
“No trouble at all. It'll be a few hours—”
“No!” Beth laughed at the edge of desperation in her voice. “I'm sorry. It's just that I have to make a very important phone call. Please, Mr.—”
“Borgie.”
“Y-yes, Borgie. I'm willing to pay you for your time and trouble.”
A shiver passed through her. Borgie Ingliss was smiling pleasantly enough, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that unnerved her.
You're being paranoid, she scolded herself, straining to maintain what little composure she possessed.
“I'll be glad to drive you to town, Miss. Let me put up this trimmer. Ma car's in front o' the house.”
The immense relief that washed through Beth left her feeling lightheaded and weak-kneed.
“Thank you. Should I tell your mother you'll be gone?”
Borgie leveled a questioning look on Beth. “She's away. Went on vacation nearly a week ago. Barely said a word to me.” He scratched his head before donning the cap again. “She's a wee senile at times.” His smile broadened. “I won’t be long.”
Beth watched the man turn down a pathway through the hedges then released a thready breath.
Agnes went on vacation a week ago? She fixed me breakfast yesterday morning.
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, she turned in the direction of the house.
Perhaps Borgie wasn't quite right in the head, but the fact that he drove a car and was willing to take her into town endeared her to him.
If she could only get to a telephone, she could put this whole nightmare behind her.
She walked directly to a small red Volvo parked in the graveled area to the right of the house. Opening the door on the passenger side, she was about to climb onto the seat when a cold draft passed completely through her body. A long gasp ejected from her throat. Straightening, her left arm braced atop the open door to hold her up, she looked at the towering structure.
A pulse drummed through her, humming beneath every part of her skin like a hive of bees. Her eyes widened with fear. As if seen through a zoom lens, the house appeared to slide up to her, then fall back at a far distance. Her lightheadedness intensified. A sickening sensation churned in her stomach, its waves slapping the walls of her stamina.
Beth lowered her head and shut her eyes. Her legs threatened to buckle beneath her as a frightening rush of weakness washed over her. She placed her right arm on the roof of the car, using all of her willpower to resist the spinning in her head that was making the world go round and round, faster and faster. Panic lanced her heart, rooted her feet to the ground.
She looked up at the bright blue sky above the carriage house and released a whimper. The world began to pass her swiftly on all sides, as if she was moving with blinding speed. It grew more difficult to breathe as the optical illusion moved faster and faster, until there was but a gray blur whizzing past her.
Then she experienced a sensation of falling.
“No!” she cried.
With startling abruptness, the phenomenon stopped.
Quaking violently, she blinked until she could focus on the carriage house. When nothing else occurred for several seconds, she looked over her shoulder to the main house again. And there it stood, looming behind her, every window seeming to be an eye of something watching her, of some unknown, unspeakable thing waiting for her to return within its clutches.
Heavy footfalls upon gravel brought her head around.
Borgie approached from the direction of a storage shed at the far end of the carriage house. Still trying to bring her lassitude under control, she remained by the open door, waiting for the man to look at her—really look at her—and realize that something was wrong. But he went directly to the opposite side of the car, opened the door and flashed her a smile before climbing in behind the steering wheel.
She waited a few moments longer, closing her eyes and taking several gulps of air in an attempt to steady her nerves.
Had the entire world gone mad and deserted her on the plains of sanity?
Or would she wake up from the strangest dream of her life and discover that she hadn't even left for Scotland yet?
The purr of the Volvo's engine cut through her reverie. Willing her taut muscles to loosen, she lowered her numbed body onto the seat and pulled the door closed. Adjusting her seatbelt, she looked at the driver.
“I really appreciate this.”
Borgie grinned broadly as he backed up the car. Now that the vehicle was in motion, she released a thready sigh of relief.
“Wha' was tha', Miss?”
“Oh...nothing.”
Forcing herself to relax in the seat, Beth raked the fingers of one hand through her hair. Then a thought occurred to her.
“Is there somewhere I can exchange American money for British?”
Borgie glanced at his watch. “It's only seven-thirty. Won't be a bank open till ten.”
“I'll just wait around until one opens.”
“For the call, Miss?”
Beth looked at his profile. “Yes. I need to contact the airport and change my departure time. Would you happen to know the name of the taxi service that picked me up at Preswick? The driver said his name was Calum. I'm afraid I didn't notice the name of the company.”
Borgie took several seconds to think on her query. “Afraid I can't help you.”
There was a stretch of silence while the driver pulled out onto the main road. Then he looked at Beth, and again she saw something in his eyes that troubled her.
No, she chided herself. She was letting her nerves get the better of her.
“I have a phone at ma cottage. Ye're more'n welcome to use it.”
The drumming pulse returned to invade Beth's body. “Thank you, but I don't mind waiting for the bank to open.”
“As you wish.”
Beth shriveled within. It was obvious by his taut features that she had insulted him by refusing his generosity. And was she really up to hanging around the small town until the bank opened? Although she didn't know the man beside her, he'd certainly been the least complicated person she'd met since her arrival. And the most friendly.
Not that Lachlan hadn't been friendly in his oblique way.
Lachlan.
Why did her heart ache at the thought of leaving him?
Remembrances of her previous night's experience in the parlor blared in her mind with such force that she unknowingly flattened herself against the back of the seat.
Logic dictated that what she thought had happened, couldn't have happened. And yet it had been as real as anything she had experienced in her life.
Was she going mad?
Were the headaches in fact a symptom of something that was affecting her mental perception?
“Borgie, I'd like to accept your offer,” she said on a rushed breath. It was imperative she return home and find out what was wrong with her. “That is if it's still good.”
The man at the wheel turned his head and smiled kindly. “O' course, Miss. I just thought it made more sense than you hangin' around town for more'n two hours.”
Sighing, Beth thoughtlessly said, “I hope your mother isn't upset that I ran out on breakfast.”
Borgie gave a snort. “I told you, ma mum's been gone for a week.” He turned his attention to the road ahead of them and frowned. “First holiday she's taken in many a year. It's tha' house and its curse on us.”
“Why do you work at the place if you hate it so much?”
Borgie w
aited until he had completed a turn onto the main avenue in town. “He threatens us.”
“Lachlan? Threatens you how?”
“Hard to put to words,” Borgie sighed. “He's got a long arm. The last folks to try to rent tha' place, died in a motor wreck no' a mile from the house. They're buried in a field at the back o' the house. I say he did it to them. He doesn’t like anyone to leave unless he's the one to run them off.”
Beth's heart constricted. Lachlan might be a lot of things, but she was sure he was not a murderer.
“Carlene and David trust him,” she said defensively.
“Do they now?” Borgie asked with an eerie undertone. “Might be they've changed their minds.”
Suddenly, Beth was sure going to the man's cottage was not a good idea. She knew Agnes had not been away on holiday for a week, and she was as sure as she'd ever been about anything that Lachlan wouldn't deliberately take someone's life.
For whatever reason, the Ingliss clan was determined to blacken Lachlan's name. She might be confused and unnerved by Lachlan's mysteriousness, but she refused to accept that he possessed this darker, heinous side to him.
“I think I'll wait for the bank to open,” Beth said, trying to keep her tone as light as possible. “I need to pick up a few things in town, anyway.”
“Too late,” Borgie said matter-of-factly as he steered the Volvo into a driveway. “We're here.”
The engine was turned off, and he was climbing out of the car even as his last words were only beginning to penetrate Beth's mental haze. Then her door opened and he was reaching in to help her out.
“Come along. I don't bite,” he laughed.
I do, Beth fumed as she straightened up in front of him.
“Home sweet home,” he intoned, gesturing toward a white, thatched-roof cottage with brown shutters. “The place is a wee messy. Pay it no mind.”
Beth inwardly revolted at the firm hold Borgie had on her elbow. She couldn't help but feel like a lamb being led to slaughter, and when he opened the unlocked door to his home, a spasm of fear sparked off her nerves. At the instant she was to wrench herself free, turn and flee, the man released her and went on inside ahead of her.
Releasing a quavering breath, she lingered at the threshold. Her mind told her to go on in and make the call to the airport before her emotions dissuaded her from leaving. But her heart told her to run and not look back.
Forcing herself through the doorway, she entered a cozy parlor and closed the door behind her. A sweeping glance revealed Borgie was not in the room, and she stepped further inside and scanned her surroundings.
The room was by no means messy. Simple furniture. Country-print curtains on the two windows. The wainscoting was a deep, dark color and highly polished. Magazines were neatly piled on a pine coffee table.
It was a nice, rustic room with a definite homey ambiance.
“Have a lager?”
Borgie's appearance startled her and she stared wide-eyed at the bottle being proffered to her. “No...no thank you. Your phone?”
“In the bedroom.” He casually pointed to a hall to the left of the parlor. “Tha' way. There's a directory in the drawer o' the night table. Help yerself.”
Beth glanced in the direction he'd pointed and managed a wan smile. The bedroom, huh? The hairs on her arms seemed to squirm against her sensitive skin.
“Thank you. I won't be long.”
“No rush,” Borgie said as he sat on the couch. Popping the lid off his bottle, he saluted his guest then took a long swig of the tepid brew as he stretched out his long, thin legs atop the coffee table.
Beth walked to the closed door of the bedroom and opened it. Her nervousness prevented her from noticing the dark pine interior, or the masculine decor. She went directly to the night table and opened the drawer. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she opened the directory and began to scan the yellow pages for a listing of the airport.
Pain squeezed the back of her neck, robbing her of breath and blinding her. Fighting down the threat of panic trying to overwhelm her, she leaned slightly to and cupped a hand over the throbbing area. Pursing her lips, she forced herself to take slow, easy breaths. Bursts of tiny lights went off in front of her eyes.
“A problem, Miss?”
Again, Borgie startled her with his sudden appearance. Inexplicably, the pain in her head vanished. Not even the usual residual aftermath remained.
She looked to Borgie. The sight of him hanging in the doorway, gulping down the last dregs of his beer, filled her with sudden apprehension. There was something in his demeanor that triggered her awareness. The man across from her was no longer the gardener who had offered to help her out. Her feelings toward him when he had been making those accusations about Lachlan returned with more force.
“No. No problem,” she said finally.
She slid the directory back into the drawer and closed it. As much as she wanted to return to the States, her first priority was to get away from Borgie Ingliss before her fears came to life.
Swiping an arm across his mouth, he swaggered further into the room. “Make yer call?”
“No. I've changed my mind.”
“Good. Good. I didn't think you were the hasty sort, Beth.”
Shifting his weight to one leg, he cooed, “Oh...you don't mind me callin' you by yer given name now, do you?”
“No. No, I don't mind,” she said warily.
“Good. Good. We Scots are friendly folk. Like to be on a first name basis wi' those we take a fancy to. If you get ma meanin'.”
Her body tense with disgust, Beth stiffly rose to her feet. “No, I don't get your meaning, Mr. Ingliss.”
“I'm just a friendly mon, sweetness.”
“I'm sorry I've wasted your time. I'll be returning to Baird House now.”
“No' a waste, sweetness.” With a swing of his arm, he slammed the bedroom door shut then tossed the emptied beer bottle onto a nearby dresser. “Ma mum told me some scary things abou' you, Beth. She said you were sleepin' wi' the devil, hisself. Tha's a fearsome notion. But I keep thinkin' to maself—” He haughtily, slowly approached Beth. “—why would a womon as fine as you be hot for the likes o' him? Can you explain tha' to me, Beth sweetness?”
“I think you've gotten the wrong idea about me,” she said heatedly. Standing, she tried to brush past the offensive man, but he took a steely grip on her arm and forced her against him.
“You promised to pay me for ma trouble, didn't you?”
Beth winced at the fetid, bitter breath spilling past the man's lips. “I meant cash!”
“Cash won't warm ma bones,” he crooned, then made a clumsy attempt to kiss her, which she stopped by sinking her teeth into his lower lip. With a howl, he harshly lifted her, swung her around, and tossed her onto the bed.
Before the initial shock wore off, he ripped the telephone from the wall and began to lower himself atop her.
Beth fought back. She slapped his face, hard. Then the slaps became punches when he merely laughed at her efforts and buried his face into the side of her neck.
“Ye're a looker,” he chortled, as his free hand worked to undo the front of his pants.
Beth's punches escalated into a frantic fight with her using the heels of her sneakers to pound the back of his thighs and calves, and her teeth to bite into his shoulder. This elicited a guttural sound from him, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he was rising up to release her. But then a hand sailed through the air and caught her on the side of her face.
Through the haze of pain exploding in her head, she saw his lips curl back from his teeth.
“Beddin' him will see you buried behind the house wi' the rest o' them!” he snarled, his fingers curling about her throat to anchor her. “It's a real mon you need, you crazy bitch!”
“Get off me!” she wailed, more terrified than she'd ever been in her life.
Unholy fever gleamed in his eyes as he drew his rigid, curved penis into his hand.
“Scream,” h
e laughed. “No one will hear you.”
The fingers of his other hand tightened about her neck. “I like a fight. It makes me hard. See how hard? And I'm goin' to drive it into your wet—”
Beth screamed, but not at his threat. As his words became strangled in his throat, a bolt of lightning streaked across the ceiling. Thunder filled the room. With another outcry, she wormed her legs up under Borgie’s ribs and gave a fierce thrust. In her panic, she didn't realize he fell back out of fear, but she used the moment to her advantage and scrambled from the bed to the door.
A sound whirled her about, and she gaped in horror at a phenomenon happening across the room. A ball of bright green mist was hovering above the bed. Multiple appendages of lightning darted from it, licking and jabbing at the man upon the rumpled covers. Mingled with the ever-loudening thunder were Borgie's cries of fear, shrill cries that beckoned Beth's compassion.
She took a step toward the bed.
The lightning intensified. Borgie's wails wrenched a cry from her. As loathsome as the man was, she couldn't let him die at the hands of—
What the hell is that?
Temper and fear her avenging shield, she grabbed up the beer bottle and flung it. By the time it had sailed through the mist and shattered against the far wall, she was throwing a small wooden chest from the dresser with all her might. This, too, passed through the phenomenon and dropped to the floor on the far side of the bed, but she noticed the lightning had lessened in brightness and ferocity.
Panting, a man's hairbrush clenched in her right hand, she watched with gnawing trepidation.
“Go away!” she demanded, the strength in her voice surprising her.
“See him for wha' he is!” Borgie cried, cowering and drawing the bed quilt about him as he lay quaking beneath the manifestation.
To Beth's horror, the lightning became arms of mist and light. They gripped every part of Borgie and began to shake him insensible.
Borgie screamed. “Make him go away! I didn't mean anythin' wrong by you, Miss!”
The shaking continued a few seconds longer, then Beth received an impression that the anomaly was waiting for her to say or do something. A pounding began in the back of her head. Tears spilled down her ashen cheeks. She could feel herself rapidly weakening, as if the blood in her body were being unmercifully drained.
Everlastin' Book 1 Page 14