Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  "O' course," Roan went on, "I recognized yer name right enough, but I've got to tell you, you’re a sorry sight compared to the mon I remember here Christmas Eve. Now, if ma memory serves me correctly, didn't Lannie tell you to bring a womon here?"

  A vile burning sensation rose from the pit of Winston's stomach, into his throat. For a horrifying moment he thought he was going to vomit, but the burning proved to be psychological, not physical. He stiltedly nodded. Tears misted his grey-green eyes. Anger thrummed through his veins.

  Roan lowered his gaze to his upturned palm and absently poked at the petals spread across it. "I couldn't help but notice tha' yer gold shield was missin’." He spared his guest an unsettling, measuring look. "You returned here for a reason, Mr. Connery. I'd like to hear why."

  Although his voice was but a hoarse whisper, Winston spoke his first name.

  "All right," Roan said. "Winston, what's this abou'?"

  "She died."

  "I'm sorry, I truly am. But is tha' any reason to try to freeze yerself to death so bloody close to ma property?" Roan's voice grew deeper with frustration. "If you’re so bent on killin’ yerself, mon, at least have the decency to do it far away from Laura and the laddies. Or are you...Winston...fancyin’ addin’ yerself to the Baird House list o' the walkin’ dead?"

  "Your sarcasm is no' appreciated," Winston wheezed.

  Roan slapped a palm to his chest. "Beg yer pardon, Mr. Detective, sir, but I'm resistin’ a powerful urge to shake some sense into you! If you came for help, mon, this house welcomes you. But I'll no' tolerate anither suicide on or near this property. Do you understand me?"

  "Roan."

  Laura's gentle chiding straightened the laird in his chair. He rose to his feet and immediately stepped aside, allowing her to seat herself next to their guest. She laid the silver tray she carried, on her lap. "Roan made a batch of lamb stew this morning. It's pretty good."

  "Pretty good?" Roan challenged indignantly.

  With a roll of her eyes, she amended, "Absolutely the best lamb stew ever cooked on a gas stove."

  Roan grinned. "Give the cook his due, I say."

  A smile straining to appear on her lips, she went on, "Anyway, can you manage on your own? I don't mind spoon-feed—"

  "I can manage," Winston rasped.

  With a nod, she placed the tray on his lap, then rose and stepped back out of Winston's sight, allowing him to eat in a semblance of privacy.

  Despite his aching trembling hands, he did manage to eat most of the stew and half the corn biscuit. He finished the cup of tea and, feeling full and almost human again, dabbed at his mouth with the white linen napkin. Shortly, Laura took the tray away and disappeared into the dining room to Winston's left. It was then he looked up and regarded the reticent laird, who stood ten feet back, his arms crossed against his broad chest.

  "Thank you."

  "Ma pleasure," Roan murmured. He came forward and lifted the chair. Once he had replaced it next to one of the pink and gold sofas arranged on a Persian carpet in the center of the room, he returned and positioned himself alongside Winston. "A good night's sleep is wha' you need. Can you negotiate the stairs?"

  A tremor of fear speared Winston, but he forced it back. He drew in a ragged breath and eased himself up onto his feet. At first he swayed. Teetered like a drunk. Seconds later, he felt steady enough to take a step. Then another. And another.

  Laura returned. She went to Roan's side and linked an arm through one of his, her sympathetic gaze on Winston. "I think he should sleep in the library tonight. He doesn't look too steady to me."

  "I don't want to be a burden."

  Roan's previous burliness visibly evaporated. Going to Winston's side, he cupped a supporting hand beneath the man's elbow.

  "Ma Aunt Aggie fixed you a room on the second floor." He looked at Laura and explained, "The library sofa is too hard." To Winston, he went on, "It has a private bathroom. Ma aunt was lookin’ forward to seein’ to yer needs but the lads wore her ou'. I'm afraid she's in the grayness for a time."

  "Grayness?"

  "Don't ask," Roan said humorously.

  "Thank you. Mr.—"

  "Roan."

  Winston nodded. "Roan, may I ask anither favor?"

  "Sure."

  "Ma rose. I'd like it back, please."

  "Laura, it's on the coffee table."

  "Okay, I'll get it," she said.

  Winston momentarily closed his eyes. When he opened them, he found the laird shrewdly studying him. "It means a lot to me," he murmured.

  "We'll talk in the morn when you’re rested. Have you a suitcase wi' you?"

  Winston shook his head.

  A mischievous gleam lit Roan's eyes, and he grinned. "Weel, now, you’re o' a slighter build than me. Lannie's clothes should fit you nicely, though."

  "Oh, God," Laura groaned.

  Winston arched a questioning brow. When Roan laughed, he decided he didn't want to know what had struck the man so funny. But by the time he'd gotten to the foot of the staircase, he remembered Lachlan Baird's mid-nineteenth century attire on Christmas Eve. An image of himself dressed in black, snug-fitting trousers, black knee boots, and a full-sleeved shirt like those worn by pirates in the movies, prompted a guttural laugh to escape him.

  His spirits lifted and, for the first time in a very long time, his shoulders didn't feel quite so burdened with the problems of the world.

  "I've clothes to spare," Roan said good-naturedly to Winston, and offered Laura a playful wink.

  The only thing Winston could think of to say was another, "Thank you."

  With Roan to his right and Laura behind, Winston began to climb. One step. Slowly, two steps. Feeling exhausted, the third step. He reached out to further balance himself with the highly-polished, mahogany rail. The instant his skin made contact, a blast of icy psychic waves coursed through him. He released an inordinately loud gasp, as if a great bellows were in his chest in lieu of lungs. He was oblivious to Laura shrinking back, and of Roan's face going pale. He could only focus on the freezing ignitions going off inside him, one after another, in such rapid succession, he couldn't catch his breath. His body violently shook, not unlike someone in the throes of electrocution. His palm was stuck fast to the wood. Wisps of vibrant blue psychic energy whip-lashed from the hand.

  "Roan!" Laura cried.

  Winston tried to force an image to his mind. Never had he experienced a connection so powerful. But no image came. Again a first. He was beginning to think his heart would burst in his chest when, unexpectedly, the current came to an abrupt halt. He began to collapse, but Roan's quick reaction spared him from hitting the stairs. The larger man helped him to sit on one of the steps, and sat himself. His head spinning, Winston cleared his vision enough to scan Laura's taut, wan features. His heart was still thundering.

  "Wha' the bloody hell?" Roan gasped.

  Wetting his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, Winston allowed residual impressions to settle in his mind. What was formulating stunned him.

  "Sorry," he murmured. Weakly, he brushed the back of a hand across his perspiring brow. "It has never happened like this."

  Warily eyeing Winston, Laura asked, "What happened?"

  "I'm no' sure how to explain it."

  "I'll make it easy for you," said Roan. "Did the house zap you, or you the bloody house?"

  "It's alive," Winston breathed then released a brief burst of hysterical laughter.

  Laura and Roan exchanged harried glances.

  "As crazy as it sounds, it is alive!"

  Roan grimaced. "I'm almaist afraid to ask wha' this 'it' is."

  Feeling strangely euphoric, Winston announced, "The house. It's alive."

  "Damn me," Roan grumbled, rising to his feet. He raked his large hands through his mane of thick, light brown curly hair and released a breath through pursed lips. "Just when things were quietin’ down."

  "It was incredible," Winston said. "I've never experienced such pure energy."


  Winston's mind raced to analyze the tingling sensations coursing through his body. It was as if his every cell were being rejuvenated. Unconsciously, he uncurled the fingers of his right hand. Upon his upturned palm were the petals of the purple rose he'd plucked Christmas Eve. No longer were they shriveled and dried out. Their renewed velvety texture sparkled, as if winking up at him.

  Feeling like a child bestowed with his most wished-for gift, he looked up to find two sets of inquisitive eyes watching him. Their gazes lowered to the petals. Then again in unison, they looked at him. Winston knew they couldn't understand the importance, the relevance, of the restored rose petals. How could they when even he couldn't neatly put into words what his mind and heart were trying to tell him?

  He'd been so desperate to find answers, to find himself and he'd placed so much hope on this house. And now the structure welcomed him. At least, that's what he deduced from the restoration of the petals. The house was telling him that he'd come to the right place. If fate meant for him to confront his mental demons, then it was surely at this place it needed to be done. Because, and he wasn't sure why he was so certain of this, the house would protect him from himself. It would allow the emotional backwash of wounds he'd obtained throughout his career, to finally heal.

  "Are you...all right?" Roan hesitantly asked Winston.

  Winston nodded in response. He felt an urge to vent his exhilaration, to shout his joy, but he held back. When the new laird of Baird House gripped his arm and drew him to his feet, Winston didn't protest. He reverently closed his fingers over the petals then headed up the staircase alongside Roan. He was dimly conscious of Laura following. Vaguely conscious that he was taking each step without the slightest discomfort. When he realized the three of them were going down a long hall, he reined in his attention.

  He, too, had taken the Christmas Eve tour through the mansion, but there had been so many rooms, he couldn't recall this part of the house. His system still tingling, he watched Roan pick up his pace and open the last door on the right. Winston paused at the threshold and gestured for Laura to enter ahead of him. He followed closely at her heels. Roan had lit the wall gas light by the door and was now crouched in front of the fireplace, preparing the hearth. Despite the freezing temperature outside, the spacious room was cozy. Or perhaps, Winston reflected, his experience on the staircase still had his blood afire.

  Laura joined Roan at the hearth. While they conversed in hushed tones, Winston curiously surveyed his new surroundings. He told himself that he could wander repeatedly through the house and never tire of its furnishings. Not only was the decor of another century, but the air itself held an ambiance of a more innocent age.

  Directly across from the fireplace was a massive seventeenth century, oak, four-poster bed with a paneled canopy. From where he stood, he could make out intricately carved foliage and grapes on the headboard, posts and footboard. The quilt and matching covered pillows were done in vibrant blue, grays, and varying shades of purple, the pattern depicting Grecian urns and peacocks. To each side of the bed were matching tall, chest of drawers. To his right was an oak show-wood frame triple-back settee, undercut with foliate ornaments. The upholstery was deep purple velvet. Above this was a George II oak and gilt framed landscaped mirror, under an oil panel of a garden scene with browsing peacocks. A Persian rug of royal blue and golds was centered on the otherwise highly polished wood floor. Across the room were two elongated windows that bore tied-back velvet drapes of royal blue. And between these was a late Stuart chair, the back of which contained panels of carved foliage.

  Winston stepped further into the room, then again stopped a short distance from the couple who was watching him. His gaze swept over the red brick fireplace and the brass knickknacks meticulously arranged on the foliage-carved oak mantel. The walls were textured plaster, soft-gold in color. Every four feet, vertical, decorative pale gray molding had been installed.

  "I take it you approve?" Roan asked with a crooked grin.

  Winston nodded. He told himself that if anyone asked him to describe the room in a single word, he would fail miserably. He couldn't express his awe in a sentence—a paragraph! He only knew that if he could lock himself away in this small corner of the mansion, he would never want for anything else.

  He was home.

  But he could no more fathom why he felt this so strongly than he could even begin to understand the too-often cruel twists of fate.

  He'd never felt at home at his family's estate. Yet here, in Baird House, it was as if he'd been born within its walls.

  "Winston, can I get you anything else from the kitchen?" Laura asked.

  "No. Thank you."

  "Ma aunt put a toothbrush, soap, shampoo, and shavin’ necessities in yer bathroom," said Roan.

  "Thank you."

  Roan gave a single nod then draped an arm across Laura's shoulders and urged her toward the door. As he passed Winston, he added, "Make yerself at home. The lads are asleep on the third floor. They shouldn't bother you."

  Winston dazedly nodded.

  At the threshold, Roan stopped and looked at his guest. "I'll bring you clean clothes in the morn. Get some sleep, mon."

  Winston's head bobbed until the door had closed behind the couple then he straightened his shoulders and drew in a deep, cleansing breath.

  Although night's curtain was visible beyond the window panes, Winston was wide awake. Energy sang through his veins. He'd never felt so alive, so wired without an outside influence feeding his psychic channels.

  Turning the gaslight key and dousing the flame, he went to the fireplace mantel and placed the rose petals on the polished surface. The fire in the hearth not only spilled waves of warmth against his legs, but softened the room's dimensions. Shadowed recesses surrounded him on three sides. He felt snug and secure, as though in a nurturing womb. The misery and despondency which had relentlessly stalked him since Rose's death, was but a dim memory.

  Swathed in sheer contentment, he lowered himself onto the red brick hearth and sat Indian-style. He stared into the dancing flames for a time, his mind unburdened with thought and his spirit so at ease, he could have endlessly drifted off to a faraway place and lost himself.

  He didn't care what the morning brought.

  There was only now.

  Only the moment.

  Although he wasn't the least bit sleepy, the peacefulness of the room beckoned him to surrender to its influence. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until gradually lowering. When he was deep within himself, he unwittingly lowered his mind shields. Not since the age of eleven had he fully lowered his protective barriers, not even when investigating a case. It had always been too painful. Too traumatizing. Nature had not given him a ready-made defense through which to filter psychic static. He'd had to teach himself to shut out the unwanted and unnecessary energy particles in order to save his sanity.

  An image formed in front of his mind's eye. The scene was of a fantasy garden. Bright white and deep purple roses in full bloom. Fan-tailed peacocks strutting among the bushes. Birds with vibrantly-colored butterfly wings, and butterflies with various bird wings. The sky was neither day nor night. Like the air surrounding him, it was imbued with millions of glittering specks. In the heart of the garden was a tall white marble fountain. When his mind's eye zoomed in for a closer look at the statue cresting it, he was stunned to see that it was a nude rendition of himself. Water cascaded from a large golden unicorn horn held out in the statue's right hand.

  Then it struck him that he was not just visualizing the surrealistic realm but he was actually there.

  For a long time he studied his stone face. The features were at peace. Hopeful...although hopeful of what, he didn't know. Gentle bird sounds caressed his hearing. Floral scents filled his nostrils. It was springtime, or something akin to spring. Again he wasn't sure.

  From somewhere behind his position, something distracted him. He turned his head and glimpsed the outline of a figure. Horizontal contrails glimm
ered in its wake, giving testimony to the movement. Although the translucent form was comprised of the same sparkling particles, he managed to get a clear impression before it melted into the landscape.

  Female.

  He found himself straining to see her again. Bewitching air stirred around him, the cocooning contrails suggesting that she was circling him again and again. He heard a soft, musical laugh, then, "Winston, catch me if ye can."

  He reached out this way and that, hoping to locate her, hoping to prompt her to solidify. To no avail. The air continued to frolic around him, whimsically eddying, teasing him.

  "I would if I could!" he shouted merrily. "Come, lass. Give me a fair see!"

  "Too soon, ma dour Scotsmon," she said in a singsong manner.

  A smile youthening his face, he whirled about, his eyes feverishly scanning his surroundings. "Wha' is this place?"

  "Ma home. I've never let anyone come afore. Why ye, ye ask?" Her trilling laugh lifted his spirits even higher. "Because, tha' be why. Reason enough?"

  He nodded. "Can I return here when I choose?"

  "Tis lonely here. Do come again, Winston. I've been waitin’ for ye a verra long time."

  "Have you?" he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

  "Aye. I knew when ye first came a while ago ye would find yer way to this place."

  "You mean when I was here Christmas Eve?"

  "If tha' be wha' is called the night o' Lachlan's passin’, aye."

  "Who are you?" he asked in an aching whisper.

  "I thought ye knew."

  He shook his head.

  "I be the house."

  Stunned, Winston stiffened out of reflex. "No. I saw an outline o' your physical shape. But for a second, aye, but I know wha' I saw."

  "Wha' ye wanted to see," she whispered by his left ear.

  He spun toward her voice and desperately looked for another glimpse of her. But there was nothing but the particles, glittering and pulsing with life, and the contrails which now crisscrossed in a maddening mesh around him.

  "Your name!" he cried.

  "Listen and ye will hear it on the wind."