Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  Other bizarre factors penetrated the haze gauzing his mind. The tower roof was bathed in silver-blue moonlight—only the tower roof. Gazing upward, he saw a portal in the cloud-clad sky, a portal through which he could see velvet darkness bejeweled with stars. And the air surrounding him was warm, caressing his exposed skin with the tenderness of a lover's touch. Fragrances awakened his smelling sense. Spring scents of flowers and trees and rich earth.

  Clenching his teeth so hard pain shot up his jawline, he turned his back to her and stared blindly in the direction of the massive oak near the main road. Feverishly, he wondered, How does she do this? Get inside ma head and create such illusions, I can't tell them from reality?

  Gulping down the psychological solidity wedged in his throat, he heard himself asking, "Wha' do you want?"

  "Companionship."

  Her dulcet tone tingled in his ears, and he resented her for having such power over him.

  "I came up here to be alone," he said, his vexation heightening.

  "Aye, alone be wha' ye do best."

  Although her words were a jab, her tone held no animosity, which was another facet of her that irked him. She had the maddening ability to remain calm when his insides were afire. An occasional glower or a chiding seemed to be the extent of her temper. That wasn't normal. Hell, when he was in the mood for an argument, he wanted a fair return. Word for word. Anger for anger. Blow for blow if it came to it, although he couldn't imagine ever raising a hand to a woman or child. He wasn't in the mood to deal with passivity or sweetness. Shouting might purge the tension viciously knotting his insides.

  "Up to your jaunts again?" he asked sarcastically, determined to bait her into either an argument, or leaving him alone.

  "No. I was up here earlier and thought I saw the glow o' a fairy ring down by the oak. Alas, twas only ma saddened heart havin’ a wee bit o' fun wi' me."

  Turning his head, he cast her a petulant glare. "A fairy ring? I suppose you believe in Santa, too?"

  "I believe in all things good and natural. Unlike ye, Winston Ian Connery."

  Ah, he thought, she is looking for a fight. Whenever she uses ma whole name, wha' little temper she has is near the surface. Fine, lass. I'm game.

  But he realized he had stared at her too long, for the moonlight served to enhance her loveliness, and the sight of her pierced him to his soul. Her eyes were like fiery sapphires in a sea of porcelain skin. Dark, pouty lips slightly parted in what he construed to be an open invitation to be kissed. Button nose and soft dimples in her cheeks. The graceful lines of her throat swept into proudly held shoulders. A full-length dark blue robe was tied at her waist, the Vee in the front revealing a small portion of her nightgown and just enough of the swell of her breasts to make his blood sing with need. As usual, her hair was unbound, the glossy strands reflecting the moonlight in such a way he could almost believe the light shone from within her.

  Turning his head, he lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. This was not going as he'd hoped. She was beating him without a fight. Getting inside him without effort and winning the battle before it had really begun.

  He realized she was standing next to him when she said, "We should be comfortin’ each ither, no' tryin’ to compound our woes."

  Lifting his head, he looked askance at her profile. She was staring off into the distance, her chin lifted as if she were braced for whatever he could verbally toss her way.

  "Tis empty here wi’ou' Aggie," she said on a sigh. "So long be she a part o' this house, I canna imagine never hearin’ her voice again."

  "She's where she should be," he said dismissively.

  After a moment, Deliah turned and rested her right forearm on the tower wall. "Is this how ye manage no' to feel pain, Winston? Pretend naught bothers ye?"

  "I believe I told you I wanted to be alone." He looked into her eyes, his own hard and unyielding. "Shall I leave, or will you?"

  She studied his face for a time, her expression unreadable.

  "Ye enjoy bein’ cruel, dinna ye? It must be comfortin’ to know ye have the power to hurt ithers wi' a word, a glance. Does it make ye feel protected, Winston? Does hidin’ behind yer mental walls help ye to ignore the tragedies and joys o' life? I dinna think so."

  Turning and placing his left forearm atop the wall, he scowled at her. "Little Miss Saint, are we?"

  "No' ye," she chuckled without mirth. "There be naught saintly abou' ye, Winston Ian Connery. And I wouldna be testin’ the waters for a fight if I were ye. Ye be ou' o' yer element wi' me."

  His black eyebrows arched in a challenge. A warm breeze tousled his hair and his outgrown bangs fell across his face. Swiping them aside, he countered, "Is tha' so?"

  She nodded.

  "Deliah, may your delusions comfort you."

  A hint of a smile glimmered in her eyes. "When ye be in a snit, yer Scottish tongue awakens. It pleases ma ears."

  "Oh, I aim to please," he said, his tone heavily laced with sarcasm. He continued, now affecting a thicker Scottish burr and some of her speech mannerisms. "Tell me, Deliah-lass, wha' be the real reason ye didna permit we sorry mortals the privilege o' seeing the Light? Be it ye have mair to hide than even ma futile imagination can conjure up?"

  "Ye are mockin’ me," she said with a sigh.

  "Ye be bloody right, lass. Short o' conkin’ ye on the head, wha' will it take to get ye to leave me alone?"

  "Truth, spoken from yer heart."

  Her softly spoken words hung in the air like a rain cloud about to burst. Winston turned sideways to her, his jawline taut, short gusts of air channeling through his nostrils.

  "Ye be so perplexin’," she said in a tone of resignation. "I dinna grasp hostility. Ma clan knew naught o' war. We dinna raise our voices or our hands to one anither. And tis no' our way to hold a grudge. Aye, we too often disagreed amongst ourselves. And we were no' guiltless o' an unkind word now and then, but we judged no' the differences in ithers."

  Sighing deeply, she dreamily stared off into space. "Ma brither was ma joy back then. No' a mair handsome lad have I seen. Och, and so charmin’, he was. Ma sisters and I thought we blessed to have been given a brither so fair o' face. He could melt mornin’ dew wi' a glance."

  She swallowed convulsively and went on, "His charm was his downfall, though. And ma clan’s. Ma kingdom's.

  "I keep wonderin’, Winston, how it all came to end as it did. How could ma brither have forgotten our ways? I had eften heard ma parents talk o' the changes in him since his first meeting wi' Lady Lindsay, and how her husband's wrath would one day touch us all. I was no' concerned wi' anythin’ but ma brither's happiness. He was different than maist o' us. Different in how he viewed life, and wha' he wanted for his future.

  "Once, he returned from Lady Lindsay's bed in such a snit, he hardly seemed like ma brither a’tall. His hands were clenched and when I asked him wha' was wrong, he shook one o' them at me. I'd never seen fury as I saw in his eyes tha' night. I've never understood wha' could have induced him to feel such anger tha' he would want to vent it on someone else." She sighed wistfully. "At least I didna understand till meetin’ ye."

  Winston jerked in surprise and released a terse laugh. Her gaze crept around to pensively regard him.

  "So...it amuses ye to rile me, does it? Would I be mair o' a womon if I slapped ye in the face? Would such an act make me mair human in yer eyes?"

  Scowling, he admitted, "No."

  "Then why provoke me?"

  "I don't know."

  Nodding, she gazed off in the direction of the oak again. "Ye will never accept no' knowin’, will ye?"

  "Wha' exactly are you referring to?"

  "Ye know exactly wha'," she said peevishly, casting him a harried look.

  "You spoke o' parents," he said, his gaze dropping to the vicinity of her midriff. "Were you hatched?"

  Flabbergasted by the question, she drew back with her eyes wide in disbelief. "Hatched? Hatched?" She shimmied and released a groan of frustrat
ion. "Ye are beyond provokin’ me!"

  "Am I?" he asked with a wry grin.

  "Ye have no concept o' nature or magic, do ye?" she sputtered, her beautiful eyes snapping, her shoulders held tautly back. "Ye only accept wha' ye deem normal, but I be mair normal than the likes o' ye!"

  "I have a belly button," he said airily. "An inny."

  "Inny, sminny! Ye have an inny brain, too, but I wouldna be braggin’ if I were ye!"

  "Explain an inny brain." Although he said this with humor, his eyes were narrowed on her.

  "Inny bein’ wee and closed off!"

  He nodded obligingly.

  "When we clans are blessed wi' wee ones, tis from the purest love," she huffed, her chin angled up in defiance. "No, we dinna come from the womb o' one anither, but from the womb o' MoNae's magic. Spouses must be pure o' heart to be blessed wi' children, and ma parents' love produced seventeen!"

  "There are seventeen o' you?" He glanced heavenward. "That's so comforting to know."

  When he looked at her, he was chagrined to see tears welling up in her eyes. He'd gone too far, this time, and he didn't know how to rectify the hurt emanating from her trembling form.

  "Were seventeen. I be all that's left, so yer dark soul can rest."

  "Deliah—"

  "No. Speak no' a lie and I'll respect ye in yer prejudice." She swallowed and its sound echoed in his ears. "I mistakenly believed I was where I should be. Here. Wi' ye. Offerin’ to ye wha' I could never offer to no ither. But I canna bring light into a soul as dark as yers. I canna fill the emptiness in ye, because ye desire tha' emptiness mair'n ye desire aught in life. Ye embrace it too fiercely, ma dour Scotsmon. I love ye no less, but I canna bear mair scars on ma heart."

  She held up her right hand, palm raised level to his chin. Winston stared at the slender, graceful fingers and fought back an urge to encompass them within his own. He knew she didn't expect him to touch her. Why the hand was extended, though, he couldn't fathom.

  "Ye believe I have cast a spell on ye."

  He looked into the palm and for a split second saw a starburst of blue light flare up and vanish. Dizziness washed through him momentarily.

  "I've no spells over ye. I have naught but love, but love is no' enough to win ye. I canna leave Baird land. to do so would deny me wha' little connection I have left wi' ma past. And wi’ou' ma past, ma memories o' ma family and ma clan, I am naught but a dead twig waitin’ for the earth to reclaim me."

  She slowly lowered the hand, her bleak expression making her eyes seem too large for her face.

  "I told ye I was fond o' poetry. There were times I compelled Lachlan to sit in his library and read aloud. O' all I have heard, one in particular comes to mind. Tis called A Promise. I know no' its author, but tis why I was gladdened when I thought I saw a fairy ring by the old oak this eve.

  "He who tills the fairies' green

  Nae luck again shall have.

  An' he who spills the fairies' ring

  Betide him want and wae.

  But who goes by the fairy ring

  Nae dule nor pine shall see;

  An' he who cleans the fairy ring

  An easy daith shall dee.

  "I sought answers in the believin’ o' a fairy ring, but found none. Ye are like tha', too, Winston. But I canna believe in wha' canna be. I can only live and hope tha' ma remainin’ years be no' too long, and tha' ma daith be easy and ma return to the earth, fruitful.

  "So in sayin’ this, I promise ye I will no' approach ye. I will no' seek ye to ease ma loneliness. And I will no' seek ye to pleasure. Ye want freedom from the world? Ye have it, Winston. Wi' ma blessin’, go on till yer end, denyin’ wha' could have been—should have been—atween us. Find ye yer peace in solitude if ye can. Find ye love in wee, fleeting draughts. I be done wi' ye, Winston. As done as be the hope I once held in ma heart for ye."

  Here she was giving him the out he'd wanted from their relationship, but for some inexplicable reason, it frightened him. He suddenly felt as if he'd lost the most precious thing in his life. And had lost a vital part of himself. A little voice in his mind told him to reverse what had just transpired. There was still time to undo the wrongs. Still time to open himself up to the promise of a future filled with love and joy. But that voice wasn't strong enough or persistent enough to win over his instinctual fears, which mostly germinated from his belief that he didn't deserve love. That he didn't deserve her.

  No matter that she wasn't human. No matter how great the mysteries or how great the speculations of her origin. He loved her. The rightness of being with her should overpower everything else. But it didn't. After such a long, convoluted journey through life, he had but one small bridge left to cross, and he couldn't bring himself to take even one step in its direction.

  Unable to say anything, he lifted the hatch and descended into darkness, closing the doorway behind him.

  His intention had been to return to his room and meditate until he was able to sleep. Instead, he found himself descending to the first floor landing with a hankering for a cup of coffee. He was about to turn right when an impression triggered his awareness. Mouth grimly set and his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl, he hastened to the library, where he found Lachlan sprawled out on the sofa. An empty bottle of Scotch was on its side on the floor, a short distance from Lachlan's limp hand. Winston picked up the bottle, shook his head while eyeing it then placed it on one of the end tables. The fire in the hearth was burning low. After re-stoking it, he covered Lachlan with the knitted afghan draped on the back of the sofa, then headed out of the room.

  Again an impression changed his direction. A vivid psychic print of Alby slipping out the front doors and into the night.

  * * *

  Alby tried to close his mouth to stop the cold air from burning his lungs, but he was desperate to scream, and couldn't. His little chubby legs worked against the snow to bring him around the side of the house, this journey taking far longer than when he had gone to the rear of the property.

  He'd been afraid to go outside alone after spying the boogeyman from his bedroom window, but more afraid of his brothers' teasing if he hadn't checked to see if their traps had worked yet. Being the youngest wasn't easy. He didn't like being afraid all the time. Didn't like Kevin calling him a chicken, or Kahl always telling him he was such a baby. But if the boogeyman had been trapped, and Alby had found him, then his brothers would have to be proud of him. They would have to quit picking on him!

  Alby stumbled and fell face first into a soft pile of snow. The coldness stung his skin, and he was so desperate to cry, he nearly couldn't get back onto his feet. Only a growl of a voice from behind him gave him the stamina to flee.

  "You little bastard!"

  His arms stiffly swinging at his sides, Alby ran. Ran in hobbled steps, his fear-filled eyes enormous and focused on nothingness. Terror gripped him, its hold squeezing his heart and cutting off his breath. He resembled a lost penguin scrambling for freedom.

  Beyond his snow-crusted blinking eyelashes, he saw someone emerge from the front of the house. The distance seemed very great to him, and for a moment, he faltered in his run, believing the boogeyman had somehow beaten him to the front doors.

  "Al—by!"

  The shout took a moment to register in his brain. Winston. Winston was calling him. Calling him from the stoop.

  The boogeyman was in big trouble now.

  Although it felt to Alby that he was running like the wind, in reality, he was sluggishly making his way through the deep snow.

  "Alby?" Then Winston was running toward him and sobs were hiccupping from Alby's raw throat. "Alby!"

  A cry wrenched from him when he was unexpectedly jerked into the air, the front of his zipped jacket painfully tight against his throat. He was shaken in midair and his ears filled with the liquid-sounding rage of what he knew now was the boogeyman. The boogeyman had him by the back of the coat. Shaking him furiously. Cursing him in sounds that were more animal than people.
r />   "You're dead, you bloody little brat!"

  Alby didn't doubt the boogeyman's words. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. He couldn't breathe.

  As the night grew ever darker, he wondered if Lachlan and Beth had been this scared when they had died.

  Chapter 12

  Winston couldn't believe his eyes when he first spied Alby some fifty yards away. He'd nearly missed the snow-clad boy against the white backdrop. For a moment, Winston thought to let Alby make his way back to the house, then realized he was struggling to walk. Winston cast off in a semblance of a run, but stopped when he saw a large, dark shape emerge from seemingly out of nowhere and lift Alby off his feet.

  Outrage finally doused Winston's shock and he lit into another run. The packed snow was like ice beneath his hard-soled shoes, and maintaining his balance was precarious at best. He didn't consider who the adult might be who was roughly handling the boy, only knew that whoever it was, was going to learn a harsh lesson at the end of Winston's fist when he caught up with him. Granted, he was ticked off with the boy for venturing outside alone in the night, but he would never think about laying a hand on him, let alone shaking him like a rabid dog with a kitten locked in its jaws.

  Thirty feet of reaching the man, a glint of steel flashed through the air. Winston came to a skidding stop, his hands held out at his sides, his face frozen in a mask of stark terror. At first he could only focus on the long serrated blade jutting past a black handle gripped in a black gloved hand. The deadly point was leveled at Winston, while the man's other hand held Alby out to one side as if the boy were feather light. Then Winston's gaze zoomed in on pale eyes, the malevolence in them accentuated by the black knit mask hiding the rest of his face. Reality slammed home in Winston's faltering mind.

  The Phantom. Alive. Alive and threatening Alby's life.