Winston and Roan were quick to note the deadpan expression that fell across Silas' wrinkled face. Clearing his throat, Roan said, "Don't ask, Silas. I don't think you could handle the answer."
Silas filled two more tankards and placed them in front of Roan and Winston. Winston lifted his immediately and took a long swallow of the tepid brew, then worked his mouth around the tangy aftermath clinging to his tongue.
"So Roan," Silas grinned, leaning his elbows on the counter, "how goes yer love life?"
"Couldn't be happier."
"That's an irksome statement," Silas sighed and straightened up from the counter. "When am I goin’ to get to meet this womon? I'm beginnin’ to think she's one o' tha' cursed place's ghosts." He laughed, but it was cut short when he noticed the intensity in Lachlan's dark eyes.
Over the brim of his tankard, Lachlan said huskily, "Baird House is no' cursed. Tis a far grander place than any in all o' Dumfries and Galloway."
"Lannie," Roan chided in a low growl and a strained smile, "drink yer bitter and be quiet."
The ruddy coloring in Silas' cheeks paled. Winston watched the man, scanning him, and realized Silas' suspicions, which the man too quickly dismissed, were close to the truth of Lachlan's identity. But he also glimpsed that the man was too afraid of saying anything more about Baird House, which was a relief. All they needed was more trouble. If word ever got out that Lachlan Baird and his American lady had not only been returned from the dead, but had parented twins....
Pushing the thought from his mind, he observed Silas walk to the far end of the counter, where a man in his mid-thirties parked himself on the end stool. He had short, dark, curly hair and wore silver-toned wire-rimmed glasses. A dark wool coat was draped over one arm, and what looked like a camera case dangled from a wide strap on his left shoulder. Winston reached out and briefly scanned the man. He seemed amicable enough, but it disturbed Winston that the man was concerned with finishing an article that was due by eight in the morning.
"Lachlan," Winston said, keeping his voice low, "you have to be careful o' wha' you say."
"Aye, aye," Lachlan grumbled then downed the rest of his bitter. "But tis hard to no' speak ma mind."
"Learn. Quickly," Roan quipped. "Keep yer mouth filled wi' yer drink or the pretzels."
"I think I can managed tha'," Lachlan grinned.
A minute or two passed in silence, then Lachlan said to Winston, "You should have stayed wi' yer lass."
Taken aback by the comment, Winston retaliated, "And you shouldn't be denying your womon and your children."
Roan groaned and placed down his tankard. Leaning to, he dealt his companions a harried look. "Did we come here to talk abou' our women, or to unwind?"
"Deliah," Winston muttered, staring straight ahead.
Lachlan grimaced. "Beth."
Roan rolled and eyes and released a breath through pursed lips. "Aye. Laura." He signaled for Silas to refill their tankards. When this was done, he took several sips, frowning thoughtfully. "I've been...feelin’ neglected. And in tha', I'm guilty o' ma fair share o' neglectin’ as well."
"Why neglected?" asked Lachlan.
"Why?" Roan released a low laugh that held no mirth. "She spends every spare minute wi' the lads and yer babes, that's why? Women have this thing abou’—"
Roan choked on the words. His face drained of color then became flushed as he stared into the contents of his tankard. Winston, having unwittingly glimpsed the train of Roan's thoughts, put in, "Your ex was given custody o' your son. Roan, you did wha' you could. You had no way o' knowing the fire would happen."
"I agree," said Lachlan, his head bent to better see Roan's profile. "Roan, no mon could love his son mair'n you."
"I wasn't there for him," Roan said, his voice quivering with emotion. "I was a part-time faither and, damn me, I'm the same wi' Laura's nephews. I don't know why, but I'm afraid to let anyone get too close." He sighed, swigged down another gulp of his dark ale, then set the tankard down a bit unsteadily. "I love those lads. God knows, I'd be lost wi’ou' them." He looked at his companions. "But I can't seem to give ma all to them. Or to Laura. I always have to hold back a part o' maself."
Lachlan's shoulders moved in a feeble shrug. "Roan, if tis only a part o' yerself I've seen you dishin’ ou', then ye're a better mon than me. I have given ma all and, I can tell you, it has been sadly lackin’ in somethin’."
A wry grin formed on Winston's mouth as he held up his tankard, and clinked it to Roan's and Lachlan's. "Well, ma friends, at least your women are human," he said in a tone just loud enough for them to hear.
Lachlan chuckled, while Roan grinned and said, "I don't know, Winston. I think her wings are verra sexy."
"Tell me, gentlemen," Winston continued, "wha' would you do in ma shoes?"
"Probably break ma fool neck," Lachlan said.
Winston frowned at his response. "How so?"
Lachlan leaned back and glanced at Winston's shoes. "They're flimsy footwear."
Roan moaned in mock pain.
Winston grinned. "Seriously, would you have a problem wi' a winged wonder?"
"Weel..." Lachlan scratched the back of his head, grinning dubiously. "...I wouldna turn ma back on her. She's a fine lass, Winston."
"Tha' she is," agreed Roan, lifting his tankard and taking another swallow, then lowering it to the counter. "As a matter o' fact, we are all three fortunate men. The flames o' our hearts are beautiful, intelligent and—okay, wings would give me a wee problem," he added humorously.
"Och, Roan, Deliah is as delicate as a butterfly!" Lachlan exclaimed.
"Aye, and possibly as flighty as one," Roan countered humorously. "Flitter here...flitter there."
"Flitter yer brain," Lachlan gurgled.
"All right," Winston cut in, casting each man an exasperated look. "Sorry I asked."
Leaning to, Roan winked at Lachlan and clapped Winston on the back. "Just razzin’ you, Winston. In truth, I think ye're a bloody fool to even question yer love for her."
"Ta three bloody fools," said Lachlan.
Three tankards clinked in the toast.
"How are you men doin’?" asked Silas from the end of the counter. "Needin’ anither refill?"
Collecting his companions' responses with a glance, Roan said, "We're fine, for now." Then he muttered out the left side of his mouth, "The women will skin us alive if we go home pissed."
"I dinna care for tha' expression," said Lachlan. "Pissed. Sounds like I've wet maself. Now fuddled, there's the proper word for bein’ in yer cups."
Winston chuckled and shook his head. "Drunk works fine for me."
Lachlan repeated the word, emphasizing the roll of the R. "Fuddled," he insisted, raised his right hand and gestured for Silas, who came right away.
"Anither bitter?"
Lachlan shook his head. "Have you a fuddlin’ cup?"
Silas' smile faded. "A wha'?"
"A fuddlin’ cup," Lachlan repeated with a hint of impatience. "You know...from which to get fuddled, mon!"
With a bewildered shrug, Silas returned to the end of the counter. Roan released what sounded like a strangled laugh.
"Wha' is a fuddling cup?" Winston asked, laughter brightening his eyes.
Exasperated with their ignorance, Lachlan polished off his bitter before explaining. "Tis a drinkin’ vessel resemblin’ three wee rounded urns stuck thegither. You fill it wi' Scotch, rum—wha’ever—pass it to someone, and tell them they have to finish one o' the urns as a gesture o’ friendship. The gimmick is, the insides o’ the urns are opened to one anither. The drinker ends up havin’ three times as much as expected, and gets fuddled—drunk or pissed, whatever you want to call it. I canna believe you've never been properly fuddled."
"Weel," Roan sighed, theatrically serious, "but I have ridden in a steel bird. A fair exchange, I think."
Lachlan passed Roan a scowl. "I know wha' a plane is. I've seen them in the skies. But you canna compare one o' those to the pleasure o' f
inishin’ off a fuddlin’ cup."
"Flyin’ fuddled sounds appealin’ to me," said Roan.
"Here, here," Winston agreed.
"Flyin’ fuddled," Lachlan murmured thoughtfully, then bobbed his head appreciatively. "Fuddled would be the only way I'd get in one o' those contraptions."
"Wha' do we have here?" mocked a loud voice from behind the men. Roan was the only one to recognize Arnald Markey's gravelly voice. He was one of the men Roan had brawled with before Christmas Eve. "Well, if it isn't the lord o’ Kist House!"
"Bugger off," Roan grumbled, keeping his back to the man. He passed a warning glance to Winston and Lachlan not to take the man's bait.
"Ah, Lord Ingliss, forgive this intrusion," Markey blustered, his voice raised to attract the attention of everyone in the pub. "I was just wonderin’ wha' possessed you to come amongst we peons? Aren't you afraid our commonness might rub off on you?"
Roan pointedly sipped his ale. Winston clenched his teeth and stared straight ahead. Lachlan, however, turned on the stool and grinned wickedly into the man's pasty face.
"Tell me, sir," Lachlan began, his tone light, his mood seemingly cheery, "is it you wha' smells so ripe, or are you carryin’ somethin’ dead in one o' yer pockets?"
Roan gulped and grimaced. Winston, too, knew what was coming.
Markey pressed his face closer to Lachlan and sneered, exposing crooked lower teeth and a missing tooth in the upper center. "I don't believe I have the displeasure o' knowin’ your name, sir."
"Lachlan Baird."
"Oh...shit," Roan groaned.
Winston ran a hand down his face.
Markey straightened, his expression one of comical bewilderment. Two other men, larger in height and girth, left their chairs and came to flank him.
"Lachlan Baird?" Markey said with uncertainty. "Are you related to tha' devil from Kist House?"
"Lannie," Roan warned, but Lachlan nonetheless slipped to his feet and laid his coat across the stool. He was nearly a head taller than Markey, and a good two inches taller than the man's edgy cohorts.
"You could say tha'," Lachlan said with a strained grin.
"I could, could I?" Markey muttered then inhaled with a snort and squared his unimpressive shoulders as his gaze raked over Lachlan's outdated mode of dress. "Fancy yerself a buccaneer, do you?"
Lachlan continued to grin.
Markey's nostrils flared. "Carry a sword up yer arse, do you?"
Roan whirled on his stool and got to his feet. "Don't start wha' you can't finish," he warned the burly threesome.
"Efter tha' last beatin’ you took, Ingliss, I would think you'd watch yer smart mouth," sneered McKenna, the redheaded man with the beard, who was standing to Markey's right.
"Are you talkin’ abou' tha' love tap you gave me, McKenna?" Roan taunted.
With a loud sigh, Winston rose to stand between his companions. He wasn't a man who usually looked for a fight, but he knew it was coming and decided to face it head-on with Roan and Lachlan.
"Love tap?" McKenna spat, a sardonic grin contorting his face. His dark eyes narrowed on Winston then he pursed his lips and kissed the air as he turned his attention on Lachlan. "You are a pretty boy." His companions laughed, stoking his egotistical penchant to fight. "So we have us a likeness o' the infamous ghost himself. But you're just anither loser, aren't you, pretty boy?"
"No' in ma place!" Silas cried angrily from behind the counter. "The last brawl cost me a pretty penny!"
The third instigator, a man in his early forties named Willy Canabra, cupped his crotch and cooed, "Which one o' you boys would like to come back to ma table and sit on ma lap for a spell?"
Lachlan cast his companions an airy glance, then leveled a mischievous grin on Canabra. "Weel now, laddie, tis a temptin’ offer, but I have somethin’ a wee different in mind."
Canabra snorted. "I don't use tongue on the first date."
"Lachlan," Winston warned, having scanned the man's thoughts. "They're no' worth the trouble it'll bring down on our heads."
Lachlan's broad shoulders moved in a lighthearted shrug. "I'm just bondin’ wi' these gentlemen, Winston. Dinna get yer breeches in a knot."
Canabra lewdly raked Lachlan over from head to toe. Then, exposing what remained of the teeth he'd lost in his last round with Roan, he issued in a mock feminine tone, "I like a mon who doesn't let fashion dictate his wardrobe. But I think a bit o' ruffle around the neck, though, is needed. Don't you agree, Mr. Baird?"
"Aye, a ruffle or two," Markey chortled.
The redhead grimaced, obviously uncomfortable with the direction the taunting had taken.
Markey brazened a step toward Lachlan. Roan was about to cut the man off, but Lachlan whipped up his left arm in a gesture for Roan to stand back and not interfere. This amused Markey and he chuckled deeply, his eyes gleaming with malevolence.
"Have you cleavage hidin’ behind yer stays?" Markey jabbed. "For tha' matter, have you balls, mon?"
Markey released a shrill cry when Lachlan swiftly gripped the man's crotch with his right hand and the front of the man's red plaid shirt with the left. As Silas careened around the end of the counter, and Roan and Winston were in the process of grabbing Lachlan's arms, the former ghost of Baird House hoisted Markey off his feet as if he were but a piece of luggage, and tossed him. Markey flew atop one of the round tables and crashed with it to the floor.
A camera flashed repeatedly as all hell broke loose.
* * *
The Audi skidded sideways across the steep incline of the driveway. It would have nose-dived into the ravine if not for a low wall of ice high-centering the vehicle, leaving the front wheels dangling in the air. Roaring with laughter, Lachlan fell out the open driver's door and into a heap on the ground. Winston gingerly climbed from the back seat, while Roan, shocky and overly conscious of his churning stomach, unfolded himself from the front passenger seat. Once he was standing, he sucked in a breath to steady himself. Cold air hit his lungs and helped to ease his queasiness.
"You're a bloody lunatic!" Winston gasped, glaring at Lachlan. He braced himself against the side of his car and watched Lachlan struggle to his feet. Twice Lachlan stood and twice he fell, still laughing, still lost to its weakening throes.
Roan walked around the back of the car and hauled Lachlan to his feet. "Quiet down, mon! You're loud enough to wake the dead!"
Roan's unconscious choice of words only re-stoked Lachlan's mirth and he howled with laughter. His feet were unsteady beneath him. All that kept him afoot was Roan and Winston positioning themselves to each side of him and gripping his arms.
"Wi' any luck, the women will be asleep," Roan grunted, matching Winston's cautious steps as they guided Lachlan across the slick ground. "Ma head can't take a scoldin’."
Winston remained silent and stewing in his own juices. It had been reckless of him to allow Lachlan to drive. They were fortunate they'd made it back to the estate in one piece. But the roads had been vacant of drivers and the laird persistent, and Winston just drunk enough and roughed up enough not to care until that moment the car had nearly plunged into the ravine.
A zephyrous caress swept through Winston's skull and brought him to an abrupt halt. He ignored Lachlan and Roan falling to the ground when he spun around. His intense gaze swept the snowscape.
His gaze focused on a mysterious tree looming across from the carriage house. Blinking, he took a few steps toward it. No, there had been no tree there before. The thick trunk appeared to be woven of many trees, and the leafless branches fanned out and draped like an open umbrella. He thought he glimpsed a glowing green ring near the base of this strange twisted oak, but it vanished in the blink of an eye, leaving him unsure whether he'd actually seen the glow at all. Then he believed he could hear faint voices. The words were indecipherable, minute tickling bursts against his eardrums.
"Wha' is it?" Roan asked irritably, again on his feet and again holding up Lachlan, who was quiet but for his labored breathing.
"Nothing," replied Winston, attributing the phenomena to too much ale and the punches he'd received at Shortby's.
Roan scratched his head. "I don’t remember a bloody tree bein’ there."
Lachlan struggled to balance himself on his feet. "No...no tree. Must be a fugment o’ our imaginations, aye?"
"Figment, no’ fugment," muttered Roan.
Winston shivered. "We better get inside before we freeze to death ou' here."
"I think ma testicles are already frozen to ma legs," Lachlan groaned.
"Charmin’ image," said Roan.
Silently, cautiously, the threesome made their way across the private road. It was Roan's suggestion they cut through the rhododendron hedge instead of following the driveway to the carriage house, a short cut, he reasoned, that would save them a good five minutes. And right now, five minutes seemed an awfully long time to subject themselves to the bitter cold of the night.
However, cutting through the hedge proved to be a mistake.
Winston was the first to feel something catch him across the shins. Something taut and unyielding. He toppled forward, dragging the others with him, and plunging them all into what at first seemed to be a very large, tenacious spider's web. The more they struggled, the more entangled they each became. Curses in Scottish, Gaelic and English rang through the night. Arms and legs flailed against the restraints. Roan managed to crawl beyond the hedge before the webbing further tightened. He hit the ground and released another stream of expletives.
To add to their consternation, shrill boyish cries rent the air as they were repeatedly assaulted with hard objects.
"Take that!" a familiar voice shouted. "We ain’t scared of you!"
"Kevin!" Roan gasped, in time to spare himself from what could have been a serious blow to the head with a child's wooden baseball bat.
Silence weighted the night for several moments until, "Uncle Roan?" a voice squeaked.
"Kevin," Roan panted, "wha' is goin’ on!"
"We thought you were the boogeyman," said Kahl.
"Sweet Jesus," Lachlan moaned.
"Wha' are we caught up in?" asked Roan angrily.
Love Everlastin' Book 3 Page 26