Roan cleared his throat and deliberately stared at the portrait to keep Winston from seeing the tears in his eyes. But Winston did see them, and he ached to firsthand understand the kind of bond, friendship, the ghost and man had shared.
"It's no' like they passed on o' their free will," Roan went on. "Beth left to spare us Viola Cooke's further wrath, and Lannie...weel, he couldn't stay wi’ou' his love, could he? There was so much mair I wanted to learn from him. All lost. If only I knew they were happy."
"They are."
Roan's watery gaze cut to Winston's face. "Are you just sayin’ tha' to please me?"
"A lie has never passed ma lips," Winston confessed. "I'm no' saying I'm incapable o' lying, but I guess I've never encountered anything I felt was worthy o' one. They are indeed happy, although...."
Roan arched an inquiring eyebrow.
"Restless," Winston murmured, staring off into space. "They are restless, but I don't know why." He focused on Roan's strained features. "Perhaps they sense your distress."
"Is tha' possible?"
Winston nodded.
Releasing a soft whistle, Roan started to get up. "Then I guess I should work on changin’ ma mood."
When both men were on their feet, Roan took the lantern in hand. "Winston, how abou' joinin’ me for a Scotch before supper?"
"Best offer I've had today," Winston grinned, and followed the laird out of the attic.
The house struck Winston as being overly quiet and still as he descended the last staircase alongside Roan. It was as if the place were sealed in a vacuum. Motionless. Soundless. Far removed from the world and its problems.
"Laura's nappin’ wi' the lads," Roan explained, as if having read Winston's thoughts. "It's the only way the little boogers will go down durin’ the day."
A hint of a smile was on Winston's mouth as he followed the laird onto the first landing, down a hall, and into a room on the right. He was delighted to see a bar, two tables, and an antique spooning chair. He strayed in the direction of the latter while Roan went behind the counter and placed the still-lit lantern atop the polished surface of the wood.
After a moment, Roan muttered, "Damn me, I forgot to bring up a case. I'll—"
He stopped short when Agnes came into the room. "Roan, dear, I'm afraid one o' the gas burners is blocked up. Could you give me a hand wi' it?"
"Sure."
Winston offered the woman a pleasant smile, then said to Roan, "I'll get the Scotch, if you want."
Stopping in front of his aunt, Roan absently raked a hand through his thick hair. "If you don't mind. The cellar door's at the side o' the staircase. Take the lantern. The steps are steep and the rooms down there are pitch dark. And watch yer footfalls, mon. There's a few roots tha’ came up through the concrete. I keep meanin’ to tend to them. Anyway, at the bottom o' the stairs, you'll see a large door on the left. That's the Scotch room. Bring up one o' the cases."
Winston took the lantern and held it out in front of him. Agnes and Roan turned right in the direction of the kitchen. After a moment's pause in the hall, Winston went to the door at the side of the staircase and opened it. Cold air brushed against him.
He chided himself for wishing he hadn't volunteered to enter the lower realm of the house, but he had, and forced himself to take the first step down. Holding out the lantern, he tried to penetrate the inky blackness lurking beyond the scope of the light. He'd always hated the darkness. Especially darkness encased in a confining area. Like in a coffin or a cellar. But down he went. One labored step at a time. When he finally reached the bottom, he released a hollow chuff in praise of his winning out over his phobia.
Confined spaces.
He'd spent a good portion of life suffering confinement along with the victims he'd psychically interfaced with. Closets. Coffins. Dark cellars. Attic rooms. Graves.
Heat rushed beneath his skin and into his head. It was a too familiar sensation, one that told him his phobia was making a strong bid to overpower him. To further combat his rising panic, he began to hum the theme music of the Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard Of Oz movie. The tune came out faster and faster with each step he took. His darting gaze sliced into the darkness. Internal heat singed his face. Humming louder, he forced his pace to quicken. Finally, at the edge of the light across from him, he saw the door Roan had mentioned.
"All this for a Scotch," he said in an off-key, singsong tone. "Ah, but wha' right-minded Scotsmon wouldn't brave the monsters o' the dark for a wee libation? But it had better be damn good Sco—
A scurrying sound caused his taut nerves to go spastic. The accompanying squeak was his undoing. He whirled then staggered backward, the hand holding the lantern swinging out. The lamplight danced off the stone walls around him. Shadows and golden-orange light leapt into one another, totally disorienting him. To stop the dizzying effect, he unsteadily placed the lantern on the floor and backed away. He lifted a hand to block out the light's glow from his eyes. Deep, regulated breaths eventually eased his racing heartbeat back to normal. By the time he'd gotten his fears under control, the dark recesses no longer threatened him. The calm, cool Winston emerged, and he reflected on his childish reaction with disdain.
"Get a grip on yourself. It's a bloody cellar, you fool!"
He squared his shoulders determinedly. Flexing his fingers, he reached for the door and pulled on the metal handle. It opened smoothly without a sound.
His body blocking a good portion of the lamplight, he peered into the seemingly infinite darkness of the room beyond.
"The scotch room. Quaint. Scotch...room. There's probably a wine room. Sherry room. Rrrum room. And all as dark as this here one."
He gulped and the sound seemed to echo around him.
Trepidation shriveled the borders of his courage, enough so that he rocked from side to side for a few moments.
"A case o’ Scotch, Winston-you-coward, and you'll be on your merry way upstairs. Where there's light and people. Food cooking on the stove...."
Deciding the best thing to do was to just get it over with he retrieved the lantern and entered the room. He was shocked at the vastness that greeted him. Holding out the lantern, he ambled down the fifteen-foot wide walkway, his gaze scanning the tall racks of Scotch that lined both sides. Dates stared back at him, neatly carved into fastened panels on the racks. When he reached bottles dating back to the early seventeen hundreds, he felt as giddy as a schoolboy.
Of course the actual cases the laird had referred to had to be near the door, but he couldn't stop himself from exploring the room to the end. His fingers touched the grooved numbers with deepening reverence. To the left and right of him, the racks went on and on, until he was beginning to wonder if there was no end to the room. His elation didn't stem from the fact that he was an avid Scotch drinker. Actually, he seldom imbibed. But the value of the collection staggered his mind. And the care and meticulous order in which the bottles had been displayed....
"Lachlan, you have ma undying respect," he murmured.
He was about to cross to the right side again when his left foot snagged on something. He pitched forward. A wail rang out, so shrill he thought his eardrums had ruptured. But even more disconcerting was knowing that the wail had not come from him. Somehow he struck the cement floor on his side, the lantern held up and out of harm's way. The impact jarred his bones and made his teeth clack together. Searing pain razored through him, robbing him of breath. After several moments, he managed to place the lantern down and gingerly sit up.
Suddenly the excruciating pain in his head and the fact that every bone in his body felt broken and fractured, didn't matter. He stared at what had tripped him. The back of his left foot sat atop a section of a thick oak root which wove in and out of the cement floor. It wasn't the root itself leaving him numb and confounded, but the eerie green glow emanating from it. The luminance pulsed with the rhythm of a heartbeat. Faster and faster. Brighter and brighter. As if compelled, he reached out to touch it.
In the distance somewhere above, he heard rolls of thunder and the repeated crack of lightning. Then cries.
The boys! his mind lamented.
Concern for the others in the household doused his stupor. He gripped the root to aid himself to his feet, but the instant his hand made contact, a chorus of shrill voices lanced his brain. The ground shook. The root rapidly grew warmer, then so hot he was forced to let it go.
He made it to his feet amid a deluge of sounds: Thunder; human cries; lightning; inhuman sobs; concrete grating against concrete.
The green glow of the root became so bright he couldn't look into it. He lifted his arms to cover his face, but before that act had been completed, the luminance disappeared with a hissing snizzzzip.
Again the ground beneath him quaked, so forcefully he was barely able to retain his footing.
"Winston!"
The desperation in Laura's voice chilled him. Snatching up the lantern, he dashed from the room and continued to run until he was on the main landing. Laura was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase. He first noticed that she was wringing her hands, then that her face was the color of paste.
"I fell asleep! The boys took off! We can't find—"
A horrendous moan boomed within the walls, drowning out Laura's scream. Again the house shook. Laura pitched into Winston, who barely swung aside the lantern in time to prevent her from colliding with it. He kept one arm tightly about her waist and braced his back against the newel post to steady himself. Laura clung to him, her eyes seeming too large for her face.
The moan droned on. Instinct warned Winston not to lower his mindshields, but he couldn't bear not knowing what was happening.
His mind fully opened. At first he received Laura's terror and it took him aback, for she didn't fear for herself, but for her nephews. Then a presence invaded his awareness.
Terror.
Agonizing pain.
Cold beyond description.
Bewilderment and disorientation.
They all were somehow related to the house.
Winston extended his probe. He felt his awareness about to lock onto something tangible when suddenly the house stilled and all sound stopped. During the ensuing moments, he could only hold his breath in anticipation of another paranormal assault. His every sense was on full alert, waiting to glimpse a hint of what was next to come.
Heavy footfalls on the stairs drew his and Laura's attention. Roan, Alby beneath one arm, Kahl the other, jogged to the first floor landing and faced the immobile couple.
"I can't find Kevin anywhere," he said tremulously.
"Put me down!" Kahl squealed.
Alby appeared satisfied just to dangle within the band of Roan's arm.
Roan placed each of the boys on their feet then pulled Laura into his arms. Winston was only dimly conscious of the laird consoling Laura, telling her that Kevin had to be somewhere in the house. Winston was more intent on listening with his inner senses. Something was teasing the periphery of his awareness. Beckoning him, but to where he couldn't yet determine. Outside, thunder boomed and lightning cracked and snapped deafeningly. Winds pummeled the exterior walls.
"There are any number o' places the booger could be hidin’," Roan assured Laura, who turned to the boys and dropped to her knees.
Gripping the front of their shirts, she asked, "Where did you last see him?"
Alby gave a negligent shrug, while Kahl scowled down at the placement of her hand.
"Dammit, Kahl, look at me!"
The redhead lifted wide eyes to meet her imploring gaze.
"Where did he go?" she asked.
"To his room! Chee, why are you mad at me!"
With a heart-wrenching sob, Laura drew the boys into her arms and offered them a terse apology.
The front doors burst wide open. Wind and freezing droplets of water sluiced down the hall. Roan instantly dropped to his butt between the onslaught and Laura and the boys, using the breadth of his body to award them a semblance of safety. Winston placed the lantern to the side of the staircase then stepped further into the hall. His right arm was braced to protect his face from the sting of the wind and rain. He sensed someone coming into the house. Gesturing for Roan to get Laura and the boys into the parlor, he braced himself to face whatever was to come. But before Roan had maneuvered his family halfway to the other room, the double doors slammed shut with echoing finality.
The wind and rain immediately ceased.
Unnerving calm blanketed the hallway.
Winston lit into a half-run at the sight of Agnes urging Kevin forward. Both were soaked. Winston hauled the shivering boy into his arms and walked alongside Agnes to where the others were waiting. Roan was quick to take the oldest boy into his own arms, and hugged him almost fiercely before giving him a single shake.
"Damn me, laddie!" Roan cried. "Wha' were you doin’ ou'side?"
"But I—"
"Honey, we were so worried," Laura wept, cutting him off. Her hand smoothed the back of the boy's dripping-wet hair. "You know better than to go out after dark!"
"But the—"
Again Kevin was interrupted. "He was ou' by the north garden," Agnes said peevishly and swiped an arm across her face. "Dead or alive, doesn’t matter, I hate bein’ all wet—and me in ma best dress to boot!"
Winston didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Absorbed emotions rapidly churned inside him, swelling and crashing like storm-swept waves. He felt out of place among the family. A stranger.
An intruder.
Suddenly he sensed something was very wrong. Although he couldn't define it, he likened it to the daunting calm within the eye of a hurricane. He stepped back until he came to the tiled fireplace on the wall across from the staircase. Absently scanning the animal bone, wood, and copper artifacts adorning the mantel and wall, he hesitantly reached out. Crawly sensations broke out on his skin, staying the fingertips of his right hand a hairsbreadth from an unadorned part of the wall above the mantel. Seconds ticked by. Although a glance over his shoulder revealed that the others were talking, he could hear only silence.
His fingertips touched the wall.
The soundlessness shifted. Shifted again and he sensed it closing in on him. Shifted again, permeating the psychic fibers of his mind and threateningly rooting itself at the base of his brain. He was unaware of trembling, of having paled so drastically that the others were regarding him with deepening anxiety.
He tried to pull away from the wall, but found his fingertips were stuck fast.
No mental images came to him, only impressions. Fear. Abandonment. Loneliness as he'd never before experienced.
From somewhere deep inside him, he found the strength to break his physical contact with the wall. The psychic link severed, he whirled to face the others and gasped, "It's gone!"
"It?" Roan asked through a grimace.
"The...the—" Winston gestured in unbridled frustration. "The bloody magic! It's gone! The house is...empty!"
Roan placed Kevin on his feet and took a step in Winston's direction. "Wha' are you talkin’ abou'?"
"The energy tha' was in the house is gone!" Winston bit out, his face flushed with anger. "I don't know o' a better way to explain it to you!"
"Could it have something to do with—"
Laura's question was cut off by Kevin, who lunged between Winston and Roan, and raised his dripping arms in the air. "Let me talk!" he demanded, stamping a foot to punctuate his words. "What about the naked lady?"
"The wha' lady?" Winston barked.
"At the gazebo," Kevin replied, scowling up at Winston.
"I didn’t see anyone ou' there," stated a bewildered Agnes.
"She was there," Kevin fumed, searching each adult's face. "Like I wouldn't know a naked woman when I saw one! Chee! You guys are really bugging me now! Case you don't know, it's cold outside! She's probably all frozen up like a snowman by now!"
Winst
on locked eyes with Agnes.
"I'll go," she said, but before she could make a move, Winston was running for the doors.
"Fetch some blankets!" he called back as he dashed into the greenhouse.
Cold didn't adequately describe the weather. A mixture of rain and hail bombarded him as he blindly ran into the night, going by rote in the direction of the north gazebo. By the time he reached the structure, his lungs felt seared and his legs barely able to support him. He shuffled his frozen bare feet to the center of the planked floor, offering a mute prayer of thanks for the shelter of the domed roof. He anxiously swept the wetness from his face with his hands and narrowed his eyes in search of a body. His psychic radar swept the immediate area, and finally locked onto something by the rear of the gazebo. His pulse rate quickening, he started in that direction when another presence tripped into his awareness.
For a breath-robbing second, Winston experienced a rush of shocked-incredulity. Disbelief formed a burning knot inside his throat. His brain swelled and hammered at the confines of his skull.
Panting, his hands balled into trembling fists at his sides, he faced the house. His features turned to stonelike rage as his gaze sought to locate the target.
But he didn't need to see to know that the impressions were true, as true and as real and as solid as the floor beneath his bare feet. There was no mistaking this 'mark'.
Forcing his reasoning to surface above his rage, he ran to the rear steps of the gazebo. There, curled in a fetal position on the bottom step, was a dark figure.
Kevin's lady, although not naked—
As soon as he'd gotten a closer look, he realized that what he'd first thought was a cape, was in fact incredibly long hair, soaked and clinging to her like a second skin.
"Sweet Jesus," he grumbled. He swept her up into his arms. Keeping his thoughts free of the second intruder, he laboriously ran toward the house. His burden never moved or made a sound. He sensed that, although she had no wounds, her heartbeat was dangerously weak. Little wonder. She was little more than a block of ice.
Roan and Laura were waiting for him inside the double doors. Although Winston was staggering with fatigue and cold combined, he stood fast while the couple unitedly worked to get two blankets about the stranger. Then Roan took the woman into his arms, and Laura opened a third wool blanket and draped it over Winston's shivering form.
Love Everlastin' Book 3 Page 6