Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  Images bombarded his mind. They were already joined, urging each other toward the pinnacle of physical love. Tormenting sensations targeted his loins, heart, palms, and temples. His skin was coated with perspiration. It hurt to breathe and it hurt not to, but he nonetheless drew in a deep breath to quell the intensity of the need flooding him unmercifully.

  Her fingers sensuously stroked his cheeks and mouth then her hands lowered and unbuttoned his pants. Anticipation lanced him so fiercely he almost feared what was to come. What if he lost control too soon? It had been so long since he was with a woman, and these fledgling feelings warring inside him made him feel more like a teenager than a man.

  As if reading his thoughts, she abandoned unzipping his pants and cupped his face within her hands. He lowered himself to kiss her again, but before their lips met, he heard her whisper, "Now, Roan. God, I love you!"

  He jerked back and his eyes widened in horror at the sight of a naked Laura beneath him. Her eyes were laden with raw, primordial passion, her parted lips inviting and seductive.

  "No!" he roared and scrambled to his feet.

  Winston bolted up. Panic closed in around him and he blinked rapidly to clear the milky haze distorting his vision. He knew he was in his room, in bed, but how he got there was beyond him. It was difficult for him to accept that the garden and what had happened there were but a dream.

  No, not all a dream. He had unwittingly tapped into Roan's mind, obviously while the man was making love to Laura somewhere in the house.

  He shivered and realized the room was icy cold. Frowning, he spied a kneeling figure in front of an opened window. The hair pooled on the floor around her readily identified her.

  Hastening off the mattress, he rushed to her side. She was leaning over the wide sill, her right hand outstretched as she tried to catch some of the large, downy snowflakes spilling from the sky.

  "Deliah!" he said sharply, and pulled her to her feet.

  He shut and locked the window, then went to the hearth and testily built a fire. When the flames had fully engulfed the logs, he turned, standing at the same time. He wasn't surprised to find her still standing by the window, a hurt look shadowing her features. She stood with her hands primly folded in front of her, her hair a cascading mane about her slender form. Winston approached her and stopped within arm's reach. He was still peeved with her childish disregard for her health, but also chagrined with the vivid memory of the two of them in the garden.

  "I'm sorry I bit your head off," he said, still frowning and shifting his weight from one socked foot to the other. He didn't care for the look of vulnerability she now wore, nor the way she kept her gaze demurely lowered to the floor. "Deliah, it's bloody freezing ou' there," he said by way of an apology, "and you've nothing on but a nightgown."

  Her gaze slowly lifted until she was looking him in the eye. She heaved a sigh then again looked down.

  Winston fought back an impulse to pull her into her arms. He didn't need to complicate his life any more than it was. Perhaps after he unlocked the mysteries surrounding her, and if she was unattached....

  Swiping a hand down his face in a gesture of frustration, he glanced at the door. "When did you last have something to eat?"

  She shook her head.

  "Does tha' mean you don't know, or you're no' hungry?"

  His somewhat cheerful tone lifted her gaze. The way she looked at him, reminded him of a skittish butterfly, waiting for the slightest movement to send it into flight.

  "Join me for a sandwich or a cup o' soup?"

  There were times, like now, when her silence sparked his nerve endings. He held out his right hand, waited, and was about to lower it when she reached out and entwined her fingers through his. Taking moderate steps not the normal for his long legs, he led her to the leaf-carved armoire, where he pulled a borrowed blue robe from one of the hangers, and a pair of light gray woolen socks from one of the three lower drawers. He helped her put on the robe and coaxed her to sit on the edge of the bed.

  "There's a lot o' drafts in this house," he said, going down on one knee. "You've got to take better care o' yourself, lass."

  He slipped one of the socks on her left foot, glanced up and offered her a smile, then got her right foot covered. Playfully, he tugged the tops of the footwear upward, one at a time. The borders reached to just below her knees.

  Still smiling, he glanced up and felt a psychological blow to his gut. Time froze in a moment of uncertainty for him. The breathlessness and the slamming of his heart returned with more force. She was looking at him as if trying to get inside his head. He could almost feel the intensity in her alluring eyes penetrating the center of his brow, burrowing into his brain, his mind, and exposing his every foul memory he'd stored over the years during his work. But then he told himself he would know if she were scanning his mind. He would know if she were able to mentally reach into those dark pools of knowledge he harbored.

  Blinking, he settled his buttocks against his heels and continued to search her features. It occurred to him that perhaps that intensity he'd glimpsed was caused by a flashback of what had brought her to the gazebo. She seemed calm enough now. And he realized she should have been taken to a doctor, or one brought to the house. He didn't sense that she had suffered any physical trauma, and Agnes had said she hadn't seen so-much-as a bruise on the woman.

  Still....

  "Has someone hurt you?" he asked softly.

  She dipped her head a bit to one side.

  "Can you write?" he asked, and pantomimed the question.

  A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips and she shook her head.

  Winston cleared his throat. "You're no' going to make this too easy, are you," he stated and chuckled when she again shook her head.

  "Okay, lass, I promised you food, and food it is." He took her hand and led her through the door, into the hall. They were halfway to the staircase, and he was on the verge of asking her if she needed to use the water closet, for there were none on the first floor, when Agnes materialized a few feet in front of them. Winston nearly jumped out of his skin, but was even more unnerved by the fact that Deliah wasn't startled at all.

  Her hands on her hips and a paternal eyebrow arched, Aggie, chided, "And just where do you think ye're takin’ her?"

  A ragged breath spilled past Winston's lips. "Ta the kitchen."

  "Tha' so? This child was in yer room, was she?"

  Winston released a painfully dry laugh. "She's perfectly safe wi' me." To emphasize his words, he crossed his heart and held up his right hand. "On ma word."

  "Your word, eh?" A grin cracked through her stern expression. "Aye, I know you’re a mon o' yer word. I'm always feelin’ ma oats when I leave the grayness. Couldn’t resist givin’ you a wee fright." Her grin broadened and a mischievous glimmer appeared in her eyes. "It’s the ghostly thing to do, Master Winston."

  Winston released an immense sigh of relief. It struck him funny to think of Agnes Ingliss as having a sense of humor. Since first stepping into the house, for some reason he couldn't fathom, she'd made him nervous. No! It was more than nervousness. When in her presence, he felt as if he should bow or fall to one knee. He was intimidated by her, and yet she had never done anything to qualify this reaction in him. Perhaps it was that she reminded him of his grandmother in small ways. Whatever the cause, he wasn't accustomed to reacting this way, be it person or ghost.

  Unconsciously, he gripped Deliah's hand a bit tighter and drew her closer to his side. "Mrs. Ingliss—"

  "Och!" she chortled, flagging a hand through the air. "You make me feel ancient! Aggie, please."

  "Aggie." Again feeling like a boy in the presence of something he couldn't understand, he cleared his throat. "I was wondering if Deliah shouldn't see a doctor."

  The old woman looked stricken with shock, her watery blue eyes riveting on the young woman. "Deliah? She's talkin’ then?"

  "Wha'? Oh. No. The name came to me."

  Obviously confused, Agnes jig
gled her head and searched Winston's face. "You gave it to her?"

  Winston shook his head, glancing from Agnes to the girl and back to Agnes. "I'm sure it's her name. Why are you acting so odd abou' this?"

  "We dead do tha'," she said comically. Her face cleared of its perplexity. "Sorry, Master Winston. Sometimes ma humor is a wee off." She frowned and intensely studied Deliah. "I've heard tha' name before. Deliah. Seems so long ago."

  Winston was anxious to question her further, but he could see Agnes was struggling to bring up the memory. After a few more seconds, her face brightened and she snapped her fingers jubilantly.

  "Ah, I remember! Borgie, ma son, came home one eve efter workin’ here in the gardens, and said he had the scare o' his life. Said he accidentally pruned one o' the rhododendrons too close and someone scolded him to be mair careful. He said the voice came from nowhere. At first he thought it was Lannie tryin’ to scare the bejesus ou' o' him, but he said the voice was tha' o' a lass. He called her Deliah and, when I questioned him how he knew her name, he said he didn’t know. How verra orra."

  It is very odd, Winston thought.

  Again Agnes flagged a hand, but this time it was to dismiss the issue. "Back to you thinkin’ she need see a doctor, I think no’. Maybe a head doctor, but the weather's no' worthy o' a drive to town."

  Winston grinned. "I've been overly concerned wi' her inability to communicate."

  "Aye, it’s a shame, but she seems happy enough. And she clearly understands wha' we say to her."

  Winston didn't agree that the younger woman understood much of anything. He was about to make that statement when Agnes unexpectedly sidestepped and placed a hand on the wall.

  "Have you sensed somethin’ peculiar abou' the house?" she asked in a hushed tone.

  "Depends wha' you mean by 'peculiar'."

  A speculative frown further creased Agnes' brow. "There used to be a slight vibration when I touched the walls—like some kind o' energy flowin’ throughou' the house. It’s normal now." She moved away from the wall, her gaze locked with Winston's. "Right efter you came, I noticed the change."

  Winston nodded. "I don't know what happened, but something did change the ither night. I can't explain it, though."

  "You bein’ psychic can’t explain it," she murmured, her eyes staring off into space. "The magic's gone. How verra sad."

  "I don't think it's really gone, Agnes. More like...it's taking a break."

  Smiling eyes regarded him. "A wee vacation, is it?" she chuckled. "Perhaps it is. Weel, Master Winston, I best be off lookin’ efter the lads. They never take a vacation from mischief."

  She inclined her head to Deliah. "I'm here if you need anythin’, child."

  Deliah neither responded with a word nor gesture of her head. When Agnes headed up the staircase, the young woman leveled a thoughtful look at Winston, then walked to the wall and placed a palm against it. Seconds ticked by and Winston watched her with deepening curiosity.

  Again he tried to probe her mind, and again he failed. He planted his left palm against the wall, an inch from hers. Face to face, she looked up at him and smiled whimsically. Her fingers spidered toward his, touched his, and her smile broadened. Winston chuckled, but sobered when she gripped the front of his sweater with her left hand, raised on tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. What felt like a mild electrical shock flashed across the area of contact. He jerked back, then realized where her fingers touched his, the same sensation existed. The intensity was back in her eyes, but this time he sensed that she was trying to visually tell him something, rather than probe his mind. He experienced the seductive pull again as she placed her lips to his in a feathery kiss. Testing him. Perhaps testing herself.

  A stream of Gaelic boomed from the third floor, then, "You little boogers! Kevin, Kahl, Alby, where are you?"

  Winston stepped away from Deliah when heavy footfalls thundered down the stairs. Roan burst onto the second floor landing, beet-faced and wearing only dark slacks. He stopped short upon seeing the couple warily eyeing him. Although anger still armored him, he made a valiant bid to collect himself.

  "Sorry, but the lads are up to no good again," he muttered. "We've nary a sweater left in the house. I don't even want to try to imagine wha' they're doin’ wi' them!"

  "I haven't seen them—the boys," Winston said.

  "Aye, they're as proficient at hidin’ as a verra wee mouse, and a damn sight mair destructive."

  Winston couldn't suppress a low chuff of laughter. "We're on our way to fix a sandwich. Would you like anything?"

  "No." Still vexed, Roan raked his fingers though his disheveled hair. "There's ham or lamb stew if you've a mind to heat it up."

  "You sure I can't get you anything?"

  A wry grin turned up one corner of Roan's mouth. "A sweater or two would be nice. I'm gettin’ icicles on ma nipples—" Blushing, he looked at his newest guest with a hangdog expression, then asked Roan, "Is she comfortable here?"

  Winston nodded, looking at Deliah. "It appears so. She still hasn't spoken."

  Roan released a terse laugh. "Put her in a room wi' the lads a spell and she'll be wailin’ at them in no time a’tall." He glanced up the staircase and added, "I best get back to Laura."

  "I'll give a yell if I see the boys."

  Roan offered a bewildered shake of his head and arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you both should lock your doors when you're ou' o' your rooms. No tellin’ wha' the terror trio have in store for us now."

  "I don't have a key."

  "Ah." Roan looked helplessly about him. "Maybe Aggie knows where they are. I'll get back to you on it."

  Roan disappeared up the staircase, and Winston and Deliah headed for the kitchen on the first floor.

  * * *

  He closed the bulkhead door and moved silently down the few steps to the basement. Compared to the biting cold of the outside air, the enclosure was warm, but it was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. By rote, he made his way to his secret room, the soles of his snow boots occasional scuffing against the cement floor. He was cold and hungry and tired of waiting, but wait he would, for by nature he was a patient man.

  Most killers were. At least, those with a specific agenda.

  Behind a stack of wooden crates and abandoned furniture, he opened a long-forgotten wooden door just enough to squeeze through. He closed it, and even managed with his bulky gloves on to engage the latch hook he'd installed nearly a week ago.

  Wade Cuttstone liked to feel secure, especially when asleep.

  Removing his gloves and dropping them to the floor, he worked his stiff fingers for a time then groped along the top of the table until he located a book of matches. He lit two of the seven candles. They were all black and secured within wax in various tins and broken cups. He thought about the antique silver candelabra he'd seen in a shop in town, and wished for the hundredth time he'd purchased it from the stocky clerk. But Cuttstone hadn't liked the way the man watched his every move while he browsed through the cramped rooms of the shop. Still, a candelabra would certainly perk up the starkness of his temporary quarters.

  Sitting in the only chair at the trestle-legged table, he reopened the bag of pork rinds he purchased two days ago. He was studiously conscious of not making noise, and soaked each rind in his saliva before chewing.

  A mouse skittered across the floor. Cuttstone eyed it impartially. He wasn't averse to sharing with nature's creatures. They were basically undemanding and minded their own business. They didn't judge, only struggled to survive. So unlike mankind. Especially the bearers, the begetters of destroyers. The ones who were gradually taking over the world with technologies not safe in the hands of mere people. He couldn't track down all those who already existed, but he could and was lessening the numbers of another generation. Thanks to the Guardian. Without the inner voice telling him which women would beget his enemies, he'd be lost and floundering in his assassinations. He believed in accuracy and justice. To kill was not enough. W
ithout purpose, he would be remembered as a murderer of innocent women.

  Laura Bennett was one of the marked, and the most elusive he'd encountered. He couldn't count all the times he nearly had her, both in Edinburgh, where he'd first seen her, and since her arrival at this house. Of course, now he understood why he was having such a hard time getting to her. She had powerful friends. Spirits. Expired begetters were determined the world would change. He was so sure of this he was even convinced a child born of this woman would eventually lead to the destruction of the known human race. Androids would take over. Perhaps even he would be forced to exchange his vital organs and brain for computerized parts.

  And now Winston Ian Connery was in the house. Apparently staying for a spell. Cuttstone enjoyed the challenge the man's presence offered. He enjoyed mind games, especially when he was the controller. But there was also another woman in the house, and she really piqued his curiosity. Two nights ago, while he was hiding in the woods, he saw her running naked toward the north gardens. Cuttstone had no idea from where she'd come, but he'd known when the ex-agent had found her at the gazebo, Connery suspected him of being responsible. As yet, the Guardian hadn't told him the newcomer was one of the begetters, but there was something about her that taunted his psychic abilities. He couldn't surface images from her as he did other women, only bizarre matrix patterns in brilliant colors that often left him mind-blind for a time.

  Mind blindness was deadly to him. Without the knowing, his capture was imminent.

  He mulled over the problem of the boys. They were obstructions to the cause. Too nosey for their own good. But males were not begetters. Males were never a target.

  There had to be an easier way to watch Laura, to move throughout the house and gauge her habits.

  The news had reported Viola Cooke used the spaces between the walls to move about, but he hadn't yet found a way to get inside them without forcibly tearing through the plaster. And from what he could determine by her photograph in the news, she was a small woman. He was large. Even if he found a way to get inside the walls, he couldn't be sure he could freely move through them.