Coming to terms with the realization of his true limitations had served to strengthen the laird's character. And it was a calmer man who materialized on the second floor where his sixth sense told him the woman and children were sleeping.
The hall was dimly lit by two of the gas lamps. Gently opening the door, he walked into the bedroom and spent several long minutes staring at the other occupants. The woman, seeming hardly more than a child herself in the feather bed, was sleeping peacefully on her side with an arm about the shoulders of one of the boys. Behind her, the other two were curled up beneath the double quilts. The drapes on the two windows across the room were open to allow the moonlight to filter in. A low fire burned in the grate, keeping the chill out of the room.
A notion that he was being watched prompted Lachlan to look over his shoulder. Roan was braced in the doorway, a look of surprise adding animation to his haggard appearance. With a last glance over his guests, Lachlan turned and followed Roan into the hall. He closed the door behind him then gave his full attention to the man who was irritably looking him over.
“Nice o' you to make an appearance,” Roan grumbled, running a hand through his thick, disheveled hair. His bloodshot, soft brown eyes narrowed. “It would have been nice to have had a wee help wi' those little monsters in there,” he added in a hushed tone.
“I returned as soon as I could,” Lachlan said calmly. It was obvious that the Ingliss was exhausted. “Suppose you fill me in over some scotch.”
Roan's expression went deadpan. “Scotch?”
“Aye.”
Roan silently followed Lachlan to the first floor, down the secondary hall, to the first door on the right. Lachlan went on into the dark room beyond. Within seconds, a lamp was lit. Roan was delighted to see a fully equipped bar and two tables and chairs.
From behind the bar, the laird gestured for Roan to sit. Roan chose the nearest chair and wearily lowered himself onto it. The fingertips of one hand moved across the bare expanse of his chest, which was exposed by his unbuttoned shirt. His socked feet shifted beneath the table and, placing his elbow on the top, he rested his chin in an upturned palm. His eyelids were half-closed. Two days' growth of beard shadowed his face.
“Ma grandfaither was considered one o' the great distillers o' whiskey in his time,” Lachlan offered as he filled two short glasses with the pale amber liquid. He carried the opened bottle and one glass to the table where Roan was sitting, placed them down then reached for his own glass. Seating himself across from Roan, he took a healthy swig. “At sixteen, he started makin' the brew for family and friends. By the time he was in his early twenties, he owned a distillery. On a good day, he could produce better than three thousand gallons o' whiskey.”
Roan tipped the glass to his lips and emptied the contents. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way to his stomach then released a breath through pursed lips. “Good stuff, Baird.”
With a crooked grin, Lachlan downed the remains of his scotch. He refilled both glasses, after which, he held the glass up to reverently study the contents.
“But as goes mair things in life,” Lachlan went on, “his dreams were cut short. The English distilleries didna like the saturation o' our stuff. In 1778, they lobbied the Crown to raise duty and tighten up the regulations. Ma grandfaither — along wi' many o' his competitors—went bankrupt.”
Roan, now on his third scotch, bobbed his head enthusiastically as he aimed the rim of his glass to his lips. “Finest whiskey—” He downed half the contents. “—I've ever had the pleasure to sample.”
Amusement danced in Lachlan's eyes. “I've a few bottles left. Tell me, are you always so soon in yer cups?”
Placing the drained glass down, Roan woozily regarded his host. “No. Tis been a long two days.” He blinked hard several times in an attempt to clear his head then scratched the nape of his neck. “You purposely left me wi' them, didn’t you?” He groaned and ran his large hands down his face. “The womon shames a Scotsmon's stubbornness. And the boys are spawns o' hell, I tell you!”
“I came as soon as I was able.” Lachlan refilled their glasses and watched as Roan handled his as if unsure whether he should have another drink. “I take it the womon's injuries were superficial.”
“Aye. A nasty crack on the head. Scared more than anythin' else.”
Roan's bloodshot eyes tried to focus more clearly on Lachlan. “I've no' eaten all day. Itherwise, Baird, I'd drink you under the table.”
“Wha's the womon's story? Why was she ou' on such a terrible night wi' three children?”
Roan pushed the glass away and massaged the taut muscles in his thick neck. “She's a Yank. They produce some stubborn females, aye, Baird? Course, I'd probably be defensive, too, if I found maself in her predicament.”
“Wha' is her predicament?”
“She's the boys' aunt. Her brither died over a year ago. The stepmither called the States and told Laura—”
“Laura?”
“Laura Bennett. She's a little thing, but stubborn. Stubborn.”
“Right stubborn, I take it?”
Roan nodded. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, and the fiery whiskey was dulling his concentration. “The boys' stepmither...she told Laura she desperately needed her. Laura flew—in a plane, you understand.”
Several seconds passed in silence before Roan groggily murmured, “Where was I? Ah. The emergency proved to be a farce. The stepmither—a young thin' — couldna handle the boys. Two days efter Laura arrived, the lass took off.”
“Laura ends up wi' the nephews?”
“Aye. I said tha', didn't I? Weel, no' only does she get stuck wi' the little monsters, but the stepmither went off wi' the boys' passports and stuff.”
Lachlan drained the contents of his glass. “And Laura went ou' in this weather lookin' for an accident to happen?”
“No, you fool,” Roan slurred. “Her purse was stolen, and she couldn’t pay for a room. Wi' wha' little money she had left, she was tryin' to make it to Edinburgh...ta the American Consulate. She wants to bring the boys back to the States.”
“I take it her stay here has no' been a good one.”
“Here?”
“Scotland, you booby.”
Roan was too numb to react to the insult. “She's all fired up to walk to Edinburgh, if necessary. I told her the roads are no' fit to travel right now, and wi' a storm front comin'—”
“She'll have to stay here wi' the boys for a while.”
“Aye. But shit, mon, try to convince her! She's a stub—”
“Stubborn womon.”
“So you have met her!”
Lachlan grinned. “I'm takin' yer word for it.”
“The word of an Ingliss?” Roan's laugh was interrupted by a hiccup. He started to rise to his feet, but the swimming in his head made him sit again. “Scotch on an empty stomach is no good,” he muttered in a slur.
He looked up to say something to Lachlan and was startled to find the ghost was not in the room.
“Fine,” he sneered. Folding his arms on the table, he lowered his brow atop them. “Leave me to the little horrors again, you swine.”
He closed his eyes and drifted off into sleep. The past two days had been harrowing. Not only were the boys impossible to handle, but they unknowingly triggered back Roan's memories of his own son—painful memories, as they only served to reawaken his poignant loss.
He awakened with a grunt. Something was annoyingly shaking his shoulder. Not the lads again, he mutely groaned, but as he was straightening up in the chair, marvelous odors filled his nostrils.
“You'll need yer wits abou' you, Ingliss.”
Roan thought he was dreaming and hesitantly inhaled the steam rising off the plate in front of him. No, it wasn't his imagination. Poached eggs on toast. Three thick slices of fried ham. Scones dripping with honey.
And a pot of coffee.
He looked up as Lachlan seated himself in the same chair he'd occupied earlier.
“Eat,
Ingliss. Lest yer growlin' stomach is a figment o' ma imagination?”
Lifting the fork on the plate, Roan hungrily dug into the food. He didn't look up or stop shoveling food into his mouth long enough to utter a word. Lachlan kept the coffee cup filled until the last of the brew was emptied from the pot. When Roan had cleaned his plate, he set down the fork and released a sigh of satisfaction.
“Wha' do I owe for this kindness?” Roan asked warily.
“No strings,” Lachlan said quietly, but his gaze was unnervingly studying Roan's face.
Roan frowned as he lifted the coffee cup to his lips, his gaze unwaveringly locked with Lachlan's. He took a long sip of the now tepid brew then cradled the cup in his hands.
“Three weeks ago, you told me to get off yer property and never come back.”
“But you did return,” Lachlan said evenly.
“Ah. Listen, Baird, I would have had to have been a blind mon no' to have seen the fear in yer eyes the ither night. You were genuinely concerned for the womon and lads. Beth tried to tell me you had human feelin's, but I was too stubborn to want to believe it.”
Roan paused. He was painfully aware of the torment the mention of Beth caused Lachlan. “Look old mon, I'm no' goin' on like this because I'm pissed on yer scotch. Ma head is clear. I think you told me to leave three weeks ago because you knew I could see yer pain.”
“Tis Laura we should be discussin',” Lachlan said curtly, his features tight, his eyes dulled with sorrow.
Roan nodded and set down his cup. “Her car is totaled. If the roads weren't a sheet o' ice, I'd take her to Edinburgh. But I'm no' willin' to risk her and the lads in ma car. It's fine for goin' short distances.”
He shrugged. “She's no' ma concern, though, is she, Baird? I've got a life o' ma own. And quite frankly, if I spend much more time around her, I'm likely to pull her across ma knee and give her her licks.”
“I'll make it worth yer while to see her through this.”
A mask of incredulity slid down over Roan's face. “Wha' do you care wha' happens to her?”
“Tis a loose end.”
Leaning back in his chair, Lachlan crossed an ankle over a knee. “I've decided to go on.”
“Efter Beth?”
The laird gave a single nod.
Here was Roan's dream unfolding before him. His heart began to race wildly within his chest. “When?”
“As soon as I have yer word you'll see the womon and boys to Edinburgh.”
“How does this concern you?”
“I want to go on, feelin' like I've somewha' made ma peace here.”
Roan dipped back his head and raked his fingers through his hair before looking at Lachlan again. Since Beth's departure, Roan'd known something vital had died in the ghost. Even when he was commanding Roan to leave and not return, there had been no anger in the tone or bearing. A ringing began in Roan's ears. He knew he had only to keep silent about his suspicions regarding Beth, and his family would be free of Lannie Baird forever. Agree to whatever the ghost wanted, and go on with his life.
But it was not in Roan's nature to deceive.
“Take the jewels and cash them in,” Lachlan said dully. “See to it the womon and the lads get back to the States as soon as possible. Do wha' you want wi' the money. I'll have no use for aught where I'm goin'.”
Lachlan rose to his feet and slid his chair in place beneath the table. “The wee chest is in the attic. You know where.”
Looking up into Lachlan's dismal face, Roan swallowed past the tightness in his throat to say, “Aye. You were hopin' I'd thieve from you.”
“Tis unimportan' now.”
Roan, his face reddening, slowly stood. “Wha's gotten into you, mon? For a century and a half, you've been unmovable from this damned house!”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, leaning over the table and bracing a hand atop it. “Ye're a bitter mon, Roan. Take a good look at me and see wha' tha' brin's you! The house, the treasures, mean naught withou' someone to share them wi'!”
Straightening, Lachlan made a feeble gesture with a hand. “Sittin' talkin' to you here...weel it made me realize wha' Beth was tryin' to tell me. Ma bitterness toward yer bloodline sent her away. There is no' a treasure in the world, Roan, tha' equals the love between a mon and a womon. But then, laddie, you've never known true love, have you?”
Roan's face drained of color. “Ma private life is none o' yer damn business!”
“I agree,” Lachlan said softly. His features took on a surreptitious expression. “But sometimes, Roan, I unintentionally link wi' a livin' soul. Tis how I knew Beth was dyin'. Yer wife and son were on yer mind when you were pullin' Laura from the motor carriage.”
“Enough! I'll take yer damned insults, but I won't stand here and listen ta—”
“I understand sorrow and grief,” Lachlan cut in heatedly, a hand raised to ward off Roan from advancing toward the door. “Only anger was always mingled wi' them. Anger toward Tessa and Robert; anger for all the dreams their betrayal cheated me o'. Wha' did it gain me? You think you understand the meanin' o' lonely? Let me tell you, laddie, you have no' a clue.”
“You want ma word I'll see the womon and her nephews to Edinburgh, you got it! But spare me the lecture!”
Lachlan stared dolefully at the man across from him. “I guess we each must learn in our own way.”
He was beginning to fade when Roan shouted, “Wait!”
Lachlan hesitated then fully solidified himself. He watched Roan inwardly struggle with something, and frowned. “Take whate'er you want from this house. I'll no' be back to bother you or yer family again.”
“Beth didn't pass on,” Roan blurted, but as soon as the words passed his lips, he sighed with relief.
A scowl darkened Lachlan's face. “Wha' are you tryin' to pull, Ingliss?”
“I left the pub and was headin' to Aggie's when I heard a voice in ma head say there was trouble here. Actually, the voice said you were in trouble, and needed me. I thought it ludicrous you would need me, or tha' I would give a hoot, but I found maself drivin' here as fast as I could.”
Lachlan remained as still as stone.
“It was Beth's voice I heard,” Roan averred. “She was the reason I showed up when I did.”
Still Lachlan remained motionless, but the furies of hell were dancing in his dark eyes.
“Damn you, mon,” Roan gasped, and slapped his palms to the man’s chest. “We shared yer grandfaither's scotch, didn't we? Why won't you believe me?”
“I would know if she was here, you swine.”
“Swine, am I?” Roan drew back his shoulders and scowled at Lachlan. “I would dearly love to send you on yer way, but I'm no' willin' to hide a truth to do it. She's here, I tell you. Some...where. And she's probably smilin' down on us because we managed to sit across from one anither withou' goin' for the jugular.”
Lachlan looked about the room like a man lost. When he began to walk around the table to the far side of the bar, his movements were leaden, stilted. Roan watched him, unsure how he actually felt about losing his one chance to see the ghost gone.
Ghost. Spirit.
Beth had told him at the gravesite, in so many words, that Lachlan was more man than spirit. From that first moment when he had actually met the laird, Roan had thought of Lannie as a man. And perhaps that was what had confused Roan all along.
He watched the perplexing laird sit on an antique spooning chair against the wall across from the bar. “Wha's goin' through yer mind, old mon?”
Lachlan didn't look up at the softly spoken words. “A poem ma grandfaither used to tell me now and then. He never got over losin' his distillery.”
Turning his chair around so that the back faced his host, Roan straddled it. He folded his arms across the back and rested his chin atop them. “Wha' poem was tha'?”
“One by Robert Burns.”
“Ah, I believe I know it.”
Lachlan looked up. “Do you now?”
“Aye. It goes:<
br />
Thee Ferintosh! I sadly lost!
Scotland lament frae coast to coast
Now colic-grips and harkin' hoast
May kill us a'
For loyal Forbes charter'd boast
Is taen way!”
Roan reached for the bottle of scotch and filled both glasses nearly to the brim. He passed one to Lachlan then lifted his in a salute. “And on tha' note, to Robert Burns, and yer grandfaither.”
Lachlan chuckled despite the gloom still shrouding him. The rims of the glasses clinked then the contents were swigged down. Roan gave a shudder and smacked his lips.
“Roan, ye're sure it was Beth's voice you heard?”
“I'm sure. Lannie?” Roan squeezed an eye shut. “You suppose Beth caused Laura's accident a bring us together?”
Lachlan scowled thoughtfully. “No. She wouldna do somethin' like tha'.” Sighing, he gave a shake of his head. “But she did use it to her advantage.”
“Aye, seems so. She's a fine woman. A gentle soul.”
“With a fiery temper to beat all.”
A smile twitched at the corner of Roan's mouth. “Aye, she's a temper. Women are funny craitures. Just when ye're sure you know one as weel as you know yerself, they up and change their stripes.”
“Ooh, I think they give us the signs, right enough, Roan,” Lachlan said, a slight slur to his words. “I think we men fail to read them in time.”
Roan thickly shook his head. “I don't agree.”
Refilling his glass, he returned the bottle to the table. “This is queer, you know.”
“Queer, how?”
“I'm sittin' here talkin' to a ghost,” he gurgled. “No' any ghost, but you! Am I in ma cups or wha'?”
Lachlan flashed a silly grin. “We're both in our cups. Tell me, Roan, were you ever a wee in fear o' me?”
“The truth?”
Lachlan nodded.
“No' really. Now, yer womon rattled me, she did. Her words cut deep and true. Maybe she affected me because I knew she spoke from her heart. I couldna understand wha' a fine woman like her saw in the likes o' you.”
Everlastin' Book 1 Page 25