Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  She repeated the chant, her zephyrous voice mesmerizing, seeping into the darkest reaches of his mind and creating a dawn of tranquility to fill him. He felt himself relaxing. The mattress beneath him seemed like a cradling cloud.

  Hot tingling seized his wound. He gasped and would have yanked away her hand and the mass, but his limbs were both weighted and buoyant, unwilling to move no matter how great his frantic need. Burning liquid seemed to pass through his opened flesh.

  He heard Beth cry, "It's hurting him! Deliah, stop!" But Deliah only stared at him in her trancelike state. He was want to ask her to stop as well, but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

  Moments later, the searing sensations waned to pleasant tingling. His wound itched and he squirmed and wished he could scratch the area to relieve the annoyance. He noticed the blue glow was barely visible. As it waned, the tingling waned, until no glow was seen, or sensation remained. With a deep breath he believed was her way of purging herself of the spell's grip, Deliah lifted her right hand.

  Gasps rang out from the others in the room. The air stirred with an unseen force. Winston gawked down at the smooth, unmarred flesh covering his chest. The root mash was gone, nothing at all remaining to verify it had existed. He was conscious of the mattress' solidity beneath him. Of the wholeness of his body. Of feeling physically energized and mentally nurtured.

  "My God," Laura whispered, a hand lifting to her throat.

  The fingertips of Deliah's right hand moved down Winston's chest. Delightful chills passed beneath her sensuous trail and he found himself breathless and sexually aroused. To hide the latter, he rolled onto his side and eased into a sitting position. Surprisingly, he wasn't lightheaded. He had no after-effects of the stabbing ordeal or the spell she'd woven over him.

  "Are ye well again, Winston?" Deliah asked softly.

  To his chagrin, even her voice triggered his libido. If not for the others, he knew without a doubt he would have Deliah, burying himself so deeply in her, they would be one inseparable entity.

  A fierce shudder passed through him. Clenching his teeth, he rose to his feet and sucked in a breath. By the time he faced the others, he managed a semblance of a smile and, to camouflage his discomfort with his straining erection, quipped, "All I need now is a nip o' Scotch, and I'll be as good as new."

  "Scotch," Deliah said dispassionately, then rolled her eyes. To the others, she said over her shoulder, "He be a Scotsmon, true enough."

  * * *

  Lachlan moaned low and opened his eyelids to mere slits. Not only was his mouth painfully dry, but he was positive something had crawled onto his tongue and died. A persistent ache hammered at his temples and between his eyes. To say he was fraught with aches would be an understatement. Dying hadn't made him feel this miserable.

  Despite his body's scream to the contrary, he cranked himself into a sitting position and swung his booted feet to the floor. The room was softly lit in a reddish glow, and was so cold, the air nipped at his covered skin.

  Getting up from the sofa like a man racked with arthritis, he crossed his arms and rubbed them in a futile attempt to elicit warmth through friction. Countless insects buzzed through the layers of gauze inside his skull, and his bloodshot eyes stung as he tried to focus on the doorway across from him. He was quite sure the portal was tilting this way then that, unwilling to admit he had drunk more than a safe measure of his beloved Scotch.

  He released a long belch and grimaced when his taste buds were again assaulted by foulness.

  He grumbled in Gaelic, then wheezed, "Beth'll mair'n whack me if she sees me like this. Och! Lannie, you fool, wha' have you done?"

  Intermittently experiencing spasms of shivers, he ambled into the hall and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Strong black coffee and something solid in his stomach was his only hope of redeeming his misuse of his corporeal existence. He was cross that it had taken Scotch to get him to face the internal wars he'd been battling since his return. How bloody ridiculous it was not to praise the miracle, rather than wallow in shallow fears of his own making. He was a father! And proud as Braussaw he should be, but, alas, rebirth—he'd reasoned while steeping his insides with Scotch—had forsaken his brain.

  He passed the staircase and was intending to go down the secondary hall to the kitchen when a slight clinking gave him pause. The door to the parlor was slightly ajar. A thin strip of orange light was visible through the opening. Ordinarily, Lachlan would have ignored the moving about, thinking it was someone else in the household looking to satisfy a hunger pang or thirst. But goose bumps broke out on his skin, and a vivid red warning light was flashing in front of his mind's eye. Intruder echoed in his head.

  Inexplicably acute of mind and sight, he eased open the door and peered into the room. He saw nothing unusual then noticed the dining room door was also ajar. Soundlessly crossing the room, he pushed opened this door and poked his head into the dining room. Another sound drew his attention to the sideboard against the wall to his left. Some twenty feet away, he saw a dark-clothed figure searching through the silverware drawers, a flashlight in the left hand.

  Fierce outrage awakened in Lachlan's gut and swiftly spread throughout him. The gaslights in the room had been turned down, but he saw enough to verify someone was robbing him of his precious belongings.

  Unhampered by the hangover which moments ago had been nearly debilitating, he charged into the room. For an instant he was blinded by the glare of the flashlight which had swung around and was trained on his face. He surged forward, anger supplanting logic. The intruder released a grunt when Lachlan rammed him and they both toppled to the floor. The edge of the flashlight rim came home against the side of Lachlan's skull, prompting bursts of light to explode behind his eyelids. Undaunted, Lachlan's fists pummeled the struggling stranger. Grunts and cries rang out from both men.

  The stranger managed to buck Lachlan off him and scrambled to his feet. He lit into a run for the door. Before he reached half the distance, Lachlan lifted and tossed something from the sideboard, striking the intruder so forcefully in the back, he pitched forward and struck the floor with the length of him. A shattering sound followed, then Lachlan's growled Gaelic curses.

  Dimly, Lachlan was conscious of pounding somewhere in the house. Its echoes harshly reverberated through the walls, like a great deafening bell ringing out to forewarn him of impending danger. But his rage had but one focus.

  As the intruder groggily attempted to get to his knees, Lachlan again tackled him. They rolled across the floor, fists sailing and curses abounding.

  The mysterious pounding grew more frantic.

  "Lachlan!"

  The infamous ghost reborn ignored the feminine cry and took advantage of the stranger's momentary distraction when the lights in the room turned up. He drove his fist into the knit-covered face, connecting with the man's jawline. The covered head snapped back, the back of the man's skull cracking against the polished wood floor. Panting, Lachlan lowered his head and squeezed his eyes against the light smarting them. He ached worse than before, and his heart was pounding so hard, pain radiated through his chest.

  Faraway voices fell on his ears. From his position astride the unconscious man, he stared at the masked features.

  "Lachlan, be ye harmed?"

  Releasing a pented breath, he turned and rolled to one side and sat on the floor, facing the general direction of the voice.

  "Lachlan?"

  "Haud yer wheesht!" he barked, clamping his hands over his ears. "A mon canna think around here!"

  He'd squinted up to deal the woman a scolding look when the sight of her shocked him insensible. For a moment he could only stare at her, his dark eyes wide, his face ashen and taut. Then, "Fegs!" he squealed.

  He saw her flinch back, her wings fluttering in a manner indicating distress.

  "Deliah!" Winston shouted, running into the room. He paused but a moment to assess the others in the room then dealt the woman a harried look that chilled Lachlan.
<
br />   "We've company," he informed tightly. "Police at the front door. I suggest you—"

  A scream rent the air.

  Chapter 13

  "Retract your wings!" Winston ordered Deliah and hopped forward before Lachlan could react and hauled the stranger to his feet. The man was gearing up to release another shrill scream, his horrified pale gaze riveted on Deliah as if she sported horns and glowing red eyes.

  Raised voices approached with the sounds of multiple footfalls. Enraged himself, Winston clutched the stranger's collar, his fingers aching to curl around the man's throat and crush his windpipe. He didn't look behind him to see if Deliah had obeyed him. He couldn't look at Lachlan as the man shakily rose to his feet. He could do nothing more than stare into the pale gray eyes of the stranger he believed to be the Phantom.

  "Sonofabitch," Winston growled, giving the man a sound shake.

  His fevered brain noted drool escaping the man's thick, parted lips. He grimaced contemptuously and gave him another harsh jerk.

  "Release him!" ordered a deep voice.

  Winston clench his teeth painfully as he fought against the vileness of his own need to end the man's life. Memories of the forty-seven victims stampeded his mind, calling up every gorey detail of their suffering, and the victims' tortured last thoughts before dying. His hands encircled the man's thick neck and he pressed his thumbs against his windpipe. Still, the Phantom remained limp, his insane gaze locked on Deliah. Winston didn't realize he was quaking with rage, or that his arms were being seized by two uniformed men. Breathing laboriously through his flared nostrils, he applied more pressure.

  Then a voice penetrated his murderous haze. "Winston, release him! He be done wi' his thieving!"

  Thieving...thieving...thieving?

  The word echoed discordantly inside his head, disorienting him. He found himself jerked back and his left arm twisted behind him.

  Then Lachlan demanded in Winston's defense, "Release him!"

  "As soon as I know wha' the bloody hell is going on here!" another stranger barked.

  "She has wings!" the man in black cried, then laughed hysterically. "She has 'em hidden 'neath her nightdress! Check! Check and you'll see!"

  "Weel," the second officer laughed without mirth, "if it isn't Robbie Donnely in the flesh." He reached out and pulled off the ski mask. A thick mass of steel gray hair tumbled free about the man's head and a gold ring in the left ear became visible. "Aye, Donnely, you slime. Had a busy night, tonight, did you?"

  Winston shucked free of the hold on his arm and walked to where he saw a black sack lying on the floor by one of the chairs. Crouching, he spilled the contents onto the floor.

  "Wha' have we here?" asked the officer who'd held Winston, his tone dryly humorous.

  Silver and gold artifacts ranging from jewelry to figurines lay upon the floor. One piece didn't fit with the accumulation. It was a large serrated knife with smears of blood on the steel blade.

  "Don't touch anythin’," ordered the officer, passing Winston a warning look. "We've been efter this bastard for months."

  "This is a ruse," said Winston, standing and glaring at the intruder. "Earlier, he attempted to kill me."

  "Tha' so?" the restraining officer murmured, also standing and eyeing Donnely.

  "I found the friggin’ thing!" Donnely wailed. "Ou' in the snow!"

  The second officer who had manacled Donnely, frowned at his partner. "Should I call for backup? The car's a fair walk and the ground is so slick."

  "We dinna have a phone," said Lachlan, pale now that his adrenaline had slowed.

  "What's going on?" Beth burst into the room and looked horrified when her assessing gaze found Lachlan. Rushing to him, she tenderly touched his bruised face and bleeding lower lip.

  "What happened to you?" she asked, desperation lending her tone a raspy edge. Her gaze followed Lachlan's to the stranger and returned to search Lachlan's face.

  "I heard someone in here and found him goin’ through the sideboard," Lachlan said, glaring at the stranger. His gaze drifted to something on the floor near the wall by the door. A pinched sound escaped him and, leaving Beth to stare at him in bewilderment, he stopped and retrieved some of the shattered crystal segments scattered on the floor. When he stood and faced the others, he held out some of them on a leveled palm. He looked like a man who had lost someone dear to his heart. A man devastated beyond endurance.

  "Twas ma great-grandmither's cherished paperweight," he choked, an accusing, tear-brimmed glare targeting the man in black. "I didna realize wha' I was throwin’ at you to stop yer escape." Clenching the hand, the segments biting into his flesh, he shook it at the man. "Tis worth mair'n yer sorry hide!"

  "Calm down," demanded the first officer, a man older than his partner by a good decade. His cold-chapped cheeks were round, his blue eyes as crisp as the night air. "Sir, wha's yer name?" he asked while removing a pad and pen from an inside pocket of his coat.

  "Lachlan Baird."

  Winston felt a stab of panic and locked eyes with the laird, who also realized his mistake. Roan, standing by the fireplace, stepped forward and cast Winston and Lachlan a conspiratorial look, letting them know he, too, was aware of Lachlan's lack of foresight. However, it wasn't until the officer completed jotting down Lachlan's name, suspicion crept into his features. He leveled a dour look of impatience on Lachlan and released a snort.

  "Lachlan Baird, is it? Weel, tha' wouldn't be the name o' the infamous ghost who supposedly haunts this house now, is it?"

  "Aye," said Lachlan, his shoulders squared defiantly.

  "Are you a descendent?"

  "Och, mon, I was murdered afore I had a family o' ma own!"

  Lachlan's outburst brought upon the room an unnerving silence and stillness. Even Robbie Donnely was as frozen as a statue, his skin the color of sun-bleached bone.

  Lachlan glanced at the deadpan expressions staring his way.

  "Dammit, Lannie, wha' have you done?" Roan grumbled, raking his fingers through his hair.

  "So," the older officer said, "ye're the ghost, are you? Is tha' wha' ye're saying?"

  "I'm no' a ghost," Lachlan murmured. His opened his hand to reveal blood-coated segments of crystal. "Anymair. I'm back to stay."

  The older officer bobbed his head humorously. "You're a fine-lookin’ mon for someone—wha'?—a hundred and fifty years old or so. Have you been imbibin’, sir?"

  Lachlan gulped and guiltily met Beth's worried gaze. "Aye, sir, I have, but I'm sober enough."

  Beth went to Lachlan's side, linking one arm through his in a protective manner. She tried to smile at the older officer, but her effort fell short. "He's been bruised and battered. Surely this questioning can wait."

  The officer poised his pen above the pad and asked with mock civility, "You must be Beth Stables."

  Deciding it prudent not to correct his use of her last name, she nodded then widened her eyes in horrified regret.

  Grumbling beneath his breath, the older officer lowered his hands and released a breath of annoyance. "You know, before I left ma darlin’ wife this eve, I told her I had a queer feelin’ in ma bones it was goin’ to be a crazy night. Imagine ma surprise when I just begin ma shift and get a call tha' yer neighbors, the Lauders, have been robbed, and the robber was seen headin’ for Kist—beg your pardon—Baird house."

  "Officer," Winston prompted, coming to stand in front of the man.

  "Clare," he said dully, eyeing Winston impatiently. "Bruce Clare. And yer name, sir?"

  "Winston Connery. I was formerly wi' the Shields Agency. I believe you and I met while I was in town last Christmas."

  Recognition gleamed in the man's eyes. "I remember now. You were efter the Phantom, if I'm no' mistaken."

  Winston nodded and glanced at Robert Donnely. "Him."

  "Him?" After a moment's shock, the officer laughed. "Much as I would love to collar the Phantom, Mr. Connery, this here bloody fool is no mair than a thief. And a bad thief at tha'. He's spent mair ti
me in our jail than in his own home. Easy enough to check the dates, but I can tell you he's no serial killer."

  Winston's chest became tight. He didn't know if it stemmed from relief or disappointment. "He came at me wi' tha' knife," he said, pointing to where it lay amidst the stolen treasures.

  "We'll fill ou' a report, Mr. Connery, tha' you can be sure. Is it true there's no phone here?"

  Winston nodded in confirmation.

  The older officer heaved a breath of resignation. "We couldn't get up the drive." He glanced at the thief and scowled. "Guess we'll just have to haul his royal highness here down to the road."

  "You didn't search tha’ one for her wings!" Donnely cried, jerking his head in Deliah's direction.

  The older officer stepped around Winston and comically glanced over the young woman's graceful form. "You're lovely enough to be an angel, miss," he smiled and dealt Donnely a look of exasperation. "You must have really conked yer head. Aiken, haul him ou' o' here and wait at the end o' the hall. I'll be wi' you, shortly. Donnely—" He gripped the man's left ear as he started past him, and gave it a painful tug. "—behave. I'm no' in the mood for histrionics. Understand?"

  "She does have wings," Donnely said with a glower. "Huge wings like a butterfly!"

  "The only butterflies in this room are in yer mind," Bruce Clare said, then fell silent while his partner led Donnely into the hall. He waited until Donnely was out of earshot before speaking to the anxious group remaining in the room. "We have enough to hold him for trial, but I'll be expectin’ a detailed report from each o’ you." He gathered the evidence into the sack and lifted it. "It'll be a while before yer items are returned. You must be patient. We work as fast as we can."

  "We appreciate your timeliness," said Winston.