"Then you have a name." His temper surfaced and his black eyebrows rose in a suspicious, accusatory manner. "The house has a name. Are you telling me you're called Baird?"
"Why are ye angry wi' me, Winston? I allowed ye here because I knew it would bring a moment o' peace to yer soul."
Breathing heavily, Winston replied, "I demand to know who's in ma head!"
"Yer head?" Again she laughed and it swirled around him, caressing and taunting, further testing his darkening mood. "How predictably human o' ye to assume someone else be the trespasser."
She sighed and he could almost swear he felt her perfumed breath fan his face. "Ye wanted in, Winston. I could have stopped ye. Should have, I'm beginnin’ to think. But tis been a long time since I've had the chance to talk. I'm now regrettin’ ma rash decision to trust ye."
"Trust me?" A mirthless laugh boomed from him. "That's bloody rich coming from a house." Irritably shuffling his shoulders, he added, "I've little tolerance for a liar."
Moments of silence passed. Winston sensed a crackling, electrical disturbance in the air. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologize for his ill mood, but he wasn't a man who liked to be unnerved by anything or anyone. And she did unnerve him.
"Tell me, Winston, do ye wish me to be a womon for you?"
Before he could reply, he noticed the peacocks had surrounded him. Their beady dark eyes were riveted on him and their heads were cocked as if they were anxiously awaiting his answer.
"Winston."
Her voice startled him. Casting a group of the birds a dirty look, he lifted his gaze and searched the nonexistent sky. "Why did you bring me here?"
Another long moment of silence followed, during which his heart began to hammer within his chest. Somewhere in the far distance, he could hear ominous rolls of thunder.
"I didna bring ye here," she said at last. "Ye sought me. Aye, and found me, ye did."
"You're no' the house," he challenged.
Again a long stretch of silence, then, "Tis all I can be," she said softly, forlornly, her voice omnipresent. "But I be grateful to have this much. Ye must go now, Winston. There are people who need me. I canna waste ma time on someone as mistrustin’ as ye. All I have ever wanted was to be needed."
While she spoke, Winston picked up on a wash of emotional particles. "How have I hurt you?" he asked, scowling as his gaze searched his surroundings.
She gasped then fell silent for what seemed an eternity. When he could no longer bear the tension building up inside him, he demanded, "Tell me!"
When still she remained silent, his temper fully surfaced. "You expect me to believe you're the house, and you're capable o' feeling human emotion? You're just another spirit, aren't you? Trapped here in this house. Perhaps picking up where Lachlan Baird left off?"
"I gave him his power," she said softly.
"I don't believe you. I saw a womon!"
"It is cruel o' ye to remind me o' a time long past. O' who I was afore the darkness came."
"You were once human!" he challenged.
"No. Wha' I was is o' no importance, now." She sighed, its sound burdened with despair. "We are too different, I know now, and it saddens me. I can be content, for I must to survive. Ye, Winston, like Lachlan once was, are too bitter and too hardened by wha' life has brought ye. But he was no’ one to hide from his emotions, so I helped him to remain. And Beth. She brought me much joy. But ye are no' ready to embrace the magic. May never be, I think. Ye have lived so long wi’in yerself, ye have no' learned to accept wha' is truly needed o' ye."
"Needed of me? You don't know anything abou' me!"
"Alas, I know it all."
"Quite an accomplishment for a...house."
"Sarcasm. Ye brandish it weel, Winston. But can ye love?"
The question took him aback. "O' course I can."
"No. Who be the liar now? Love terrifies ye. We are wha' we are. In ma maist secret dreams, I yearn to be human. Like ye, Winston, I can only experience psychical love through ithers. Tis sadder for ye, though, I think, for ye are in their world. Tis sadder because ye choose to stay apart. Choose to deny yerself.
"Lachlan and Beth taught me so much. Roan and Laura are still strugglin’ to find themselves, but they will because they love life and each ither so deeply."
"I'm ready to puke."
"Sarcasm again." A moment's silence, then, "Tell me yer fondest wish, and I will grant it."
"Why?"
"Because I can," she said with an enigmatic lilt to her tone.
One corner of Winston's mouth twisted in a skeptical grin. "Genies give three wishes."
"I be no' a genie. Weel, Winston., yer wish?"
"To see you."
Silence, and he cockily folded his arms against his middle. "Too tough for you, Baird?"
"Too simple," she said finally, forlornly. "Since ye have used Rose to remove yerself from the human race, I'll grant yer wish, but wi' this wee challenge."
"Wha' abou' Rose?" he asked harshly.
"Ye will see me when you find a way to touch me."
"What abou' Rose!"
"Ye canna hide from me, Winston. Ye didna love her. Twas her time to leave her world and ye took it personally."
"Damn you!"
"Too late, ma hot-tempered Scotsmon. I was damned long ago, and by somethin’ far mightier, far sorrier than ye."
His chest rising and falling with each furious breath, Winston accused, "You're a coward, Baird!"
"Just wiser than ye," she laughed softly. Then somberly, "Goodbye, Winston. Just remember tha' ye canna hide yer thoughts or feelin’s from me. If naught else, it may teach ye humility."
"Wait! Wait!"
Realizing that he was fading from the garden, he sucked in a great breath. He experienced a whoosh of sensation, then opened his eyes and found himself staring into the dwindling flames on the iron grate in front of him. Profound sadness yawned inside him, opening a void so stark and desolate, he nearly succumbed to tears. But then the old Winston resurfaced. He clamped down on the fragmented emotions he believed had been transferred from the mysterious woman to him, and stiffly rose to his feet.
The room was chilled, the shadows looming like grim sentinels. He suddenly felt lonelier than he ever had, but he refused to waste even a moment trying to analyze the cause.
She couldn't have been anything more than a figment of his imagination, a necessary diversion for his stressed psyche!
He was about to turn in the direction of the bed when something caught his eye. With a trembling hand, he reached for the object on the mantel.
Instead of the loose petals he had placed there earlier, there lay an intact rose. Despite the lessening light, he knew it was purple, and he knew it was the same rose, only fully restored now. As he drew it to his chest, a tiny invisible thorn pricked his finger. Liquid warmth entered the wound and rapidly passed into his veins.
"Ye are no' ready to embrace the magic," she had accused him.
Lifting the rose to his lips, he murmured, "You're wrong, Baird."
Chapter 2
A dark and sinister eel-like mass slithered along the boundaries of Winston's psychically protected subconscious, awakening him minutes before dawn peeked over the horizon. He bolted upright, his eyelids rapidly blinking, his heart seeming to throb wildly in his throat. He was first alarmed by the grayness in the room, then the silence, the latter so thick he thought it an intruder hovering over him. When he tried to recall what had frightened him during his dream state, he met with a mental blank wall. The void was something he'd never before encountered. There had always been unsolicited images and impressions crowding the multiple realms of his psychic fields. Now there was nothing but emptiness.
By the time his heartbeat returned to normal, he had to softly chuckle at himself. Why was he afraid of the peacefulness inside his skull? Hadn't that been something he'd longed for since childhood? He ran his fingers through his disheveled black hair and worked his dry mouth. His stomach grumbled.
Blinking hard to erase the remnants of sleep weighing his eyelids, he peered out the window.
It was a new day.
Yawning, he flexed the muscles in his back and shoulders then threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He relieved himself in the bathroom, then went to the fireplace and prepared the hearth. The chill in the room attached itself to every part of his exposed skin. He'd worn only his boxer shorts to bed. Once he had the fire on the andiron going, he hastily donned his dark gray slacks. In lieu of his shirt, which he couldn't see anywhere, he pulled the top quilt off the bed, draped it over his shoulders, and held the material closed with one hand. He returned to the hearth and crouched, shivering against the cold still nipping at him.
The absence of dreaming continued to perplex him. For as long as he could remember, his dream world had always been so vivid and consistent, there had been times he wasn't sure which world had been the reality. He had never experienced a personal nightmare, a manifestation of his own subconscious. Even his dreams belonged to outsiders. Their fears. Their insecurities. Their hopelessness.
Baird.
The woman's facetious name murmured in his skull.
If only he could grasp the foundation of his certainty that the purveyor of his...magical...journey into that other world, had not been the house. Perhaps it was because the absurdity of a house arguing with him was more than he could accept. A spirit, yes. He'd had his share of conversing with the departed.
And what had she meant when she'd accused him of using Rose to withdraw from the world?
He was in the process of releasing a long sigh when an extraneous ripple of sorrow passed through his awareness. His spine stiffened as his psychic radar instinctively activated. Before he could withdraw its probe and abandon further knowledge of the unwitting sender, he knew the source and location.
"Damn," he grumbled.
Standing, he irritably flexed his broad shoulders. He considered ignoring the psychic pull, then, begrudgingly, he stalked from his room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped at a door to his right, and lightly rapped on the dark wood. When no answer came, he opened the door just enough to peer inside. Across the room, a young boy was sitting crosslegged atop the bedcovers, and sobbing.
"May I come in?"
The boy glanced up, swiped his arm beneath his nose then adamantly shook his head.
Winston lightly frowned. "I'm afraid I'm lost in this big house. Can you tell me where to find the kitchen?"
For several seconds the boy watched him through an unreadable expression. Then he lifted his right arm and pointed, a gesture that brought a genuine smile to Winston's mouth. Stepping beyond the threshold, Winston secured the quilt about his shoulders and approached the foot of the bed.
"A point isn't much help, lad."
"Alby," the boy sniffed.
"Alby, is it? That's a fine name. I'm Winston."
The boy cocked his head and it struck Winston that Alby's eyes held wisdom far beyond his age. To pass the awkward moment, Winston glanced at the fireplace. A low fire burned in the hearth, sufficiently warming the room. He cleared his throat and swung his gaze back to Alby, who was still watching him, only now there was blatant curiosity behind his blue eyes.
"Mind if I sit?" Winston asked, pointing to the foot of the bed.
"Go ahead."
Winston seated himself to the left of the boy, but he found himself at a loss for words until he noticed a carved wooden horse, about two inches tall, on its side on the quilt between them. Picking it up, he studied the intricate workmanship then arched a brow in the boy's direction. "A fine piece," he casually remarked.
"Lachlan made it for me."
Alby's despondent tone brought a frown to Winston's brow. "He did a fine job."
Reaching beneath his pillow, Alby removed three other carvings. A rearing bear, a lion and a monkey. He passed them to Winston, who carefully studied each one before setting them on the bed. "Is it Lachlan you're crying for?"
Alby's lower lip jutted out. "'Cause I cry, don't mean I'm a baby!"
"O' course no', Alby. But it is a wee early to be so sad, don't you think?"
"Not sad."
"No?" Winston chuckled. "Ma mistake, then."
"You're forgiven," the three-year-old quipped, and Winston laughed outright. "What's so funny?"
Winston had to think through his words before replying, "I wasn't laughing at you."
"Nobody here but us," Alby said sagely, his eyes narrowed on Winston.
"When you're right, you're right. So tell me, did you have a nightmare?"
"Don't be silly."
The reply further unnerved Winston and he thoughtfully stroked his stubbled chin. "So you were just having yourself a wee cry, then?"
"My toys stopped playing," Alby informed, poking them with the tip of an isolated finger. "I don't like it when they stop being fun."
Baffled, Winston eyed the carvings.
"Maybe 'cause I told Lion he couldn't roar so loud." His lower lip again jutted out and his chin quivered. "Now they're all mad at me."
"The lion...roared?" Picking up the piece, Winston carefully looked it over. "Mmmm. Lions can be loud, all right. He probably would have awakened the whole household if you hadn't quieted him down."
"You don't believe he can roar," Alby accused, and snatched the carving from Winston's hand. "Grownups never believe. But you will when he bites you."
Winston unsuccessfully tried not to smile. "Oh...indeed. So tell me, Alby, would you be up to joining me for breakfast? I make a mean batch of bannocks."
"Breakfast is ma responsibility, Mr. Connery," said a feminine voice from behind him.
Turning his head, he blinked at the sight of Agnes Ingliss crossing the room. She was dressed in a wool-blend simple blue dress, three-quarter-length black sweater, black stockings and shoes. Her snow white hair was neatly secured in a bun atop her head, and a pair of small pearl earrings adorned her earlobes. Stopping at the side of the bed, she opened her arms. Alby zealously sprang up and threw himself into her embrace, wrapping his arms about her neck and planting a wet kiss on her cheek at the same time. A smile glowed on her face as she hugged him.
At that moment, Winston wanted more than ever to experience that kind of bond. A hollow ache replaced his heart. When he attempted to tap into what Agnes was feeling, her pale blue eyes flashed him a warning that she knew what he was trying to do. A flush stained Winston's cheeks. He'd forgotten that her ghostly powers were intact.
"Alby, love, wha' do you say Mr. Connery helps you wi' brushin’ yer teeth, while I tend to breakfast?"
The boy scowled at Winston then buried his face to the side of Agnes' wrinkled neck. She cast Winston a guarded look then grinned.
"Now, now, Alby. You don’t want your sausage too weel done now, do you? Old Agnes is movin’ slower these days, and I'm sure Mr. Connery would love to see how a big lad like you can brush his teeth sparklin’ white."
"As white as a fairy's tooth," Alby beamed.
"Aye, tha' white and mair. Weel, do we have a plan, now?"
Alby spared Winston a shy glance, frowned again, then halfheartedly held out his arms to him. Winston rose to his feet. His system tingled with anticipation as he hesitantly opened his arms. In the next instant, Alby was clinging to him, the small arms wrapped tightly around his neck, his legs secured about Winston's middle.
"Thank you...Mrs. Ingliss."
"Agnes," she corrected with a smile and a twinkle in her knowing eyes.
Alby grimaced and looked beseechingly at the woman. "He has baaad breath!"
With a low, raspy chuckle, Agnes headed for the door. Over her shoulder, she suggested, "Perhaps, Alby, you could show Mr. Connery how to brush his teeth."
When she disappeared into the hall, Winston ruefully eyed the boy's comical expression. "Tha' bad, huh?"
Alby nodded.
"Come along then," said Winston, heading for the hall. "We'll see who's the brushing champ."
"I am."
<
br /> Winston laughed and he realized he couldn't remember when he'd felt this good about himself, or being alive.
* * *
Laura stretched luxuriously beneath the warm covers. With her eyes still closed and a grin of contentment on her lips, she reached out for Roan. His side of the bed was empty. Her eyelids lifted and she squinted into the morning light. When her vision adjusted a moment later, she spied Roan standing by the window in a beam of sunlight. His expression struck her as being both wistful and desolate. He was watching something beyond the panes, but she was relatively sure he wasn't actually seeing anything at all.
A shiver passed through her, its cause unknown. Now that their lives were settling into normal routine, the stress of what they all had endured should have been waning. Her nephews alone seemed to adapt to their new lives. Laura harbored a sense of loss, but a loss of what she couldn't be sure. Perhaps, knowing that Roan wasn't as happy as he pretended had something to do with it. At times she thought herself the cause of his moodiness, but instinct told her his bouts of depression were somehow still tied to Lachlan and Beth's departure. The few times she had tried to get him to open up to her, he'd chosen to withdraw into himself, and seek solitude from his new family. She never once doubted he loved her. He had a way of looking at her, his eyes a stage for pure mischief, and conveying to her how deeply connected they were. But there were times when she feared she was losing a part of him that was growing more impossible to reach. A portion of his soul. She had even wondered if perhaps the original laird and mistress hadn't mistakenly taken part of Roan with them.
Whatever the reason, seeing him like this caused a hollow ache in her heart.
As if sensing her watching him, he unexpectedly turned his head and looked her way. An instant smile curved up the corners of his mouth. The sunlight bathing him turned his irises a mesmerizing shade of amber, and highlighted his light brown hair with pale golden streaks.
"Good morn, darlin’," he said huskily, his gaze lazily, appreciatively, sweeping over her concealed body.
"Good morning, yourself," she grinned and suggestively patted the mattress alongside her.
Love Everlastin' Book 3 Page 3