Love Everlastin' Book 3

by Mickee Madden

  "Have to breathe," Roan quipped.

  Lachlan's eyes took on a mischievous gleam. "There was a time...."

  "Don't get me laughin’ again," warned Roan with a chuckle. He sobered and used his right thumbnail to unwedge a piece of ham from between two of his lower teeth. "We could shovel ou’ the driveway. I noticed some broken limbs on the rhododendron hedge, and the handcarts could use reloadin’ wi' wood and kindle. I'm sure there's plenty to do to keep us ou' o' trouble."

  "Aye," said Lachlan, "and we should shovel the snowdrifts away from the house. Dinna need water gettin’ into the cellar."

  Lachlan noticed Winston's frown and asked, "Wha' are you thinkin’ abou'?"

  "The dirk," he replied.

  Lachlan's eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Roan. "Are we talkin’ abou' the infamous MacLachlan dirk? The one wha' done me in and nearly killed Laura?"

  Winston nodded, his gaze intently searching Lachlan's bemused features. "I was dreaming abou' it last night. Why did you call it the 'MacLachlan dirk'?"

  "Ma maternal grandfaither gave it to me. Ma mither hailed from the MacLachlan clan. Both sides o' her family were MacLachlan bred and true for as far back as the clan's beginnin’s. Her faither wasna happy when she married a Baird, although, he was good to ma brithers and me. Grandfaither was a gruff old bugger, he was, and wi' the whitest hair I have ever seen on a mon.

  "For some reason, he really took to me when I was verra young. When I was abou' nine, he told me I had the knowin’. To this day, I still dinna know wha' he meant by tha'. He took me fishin’ and huntin’ maist weekends, up till abou' the time I was twenty, and many a time we camped beneath the stars and he would tell me stories o' our family history."

  Lachlan chuckled and went on, "Maist frightened the hell ou' o' me. Apparently, our wee part o' the clan was fraught wi' mair'n its share o' strange characters. One o' his brithers believed himself to be a werewolf, and he wasna the maist peculiar o' the lot, either."

  Roan grinned through a grimace, while Winston smiled and shook his head.

  "Anyway," Lachlan went on, "the MacLachlan dirk was originally found by ma grandfaither's great-great-great uncle, Broc. Rightfully, it should have been passed down to ma oldest brither, Patrick, but ma grandfaither said I had the knowin’ and I was to protect it."

  "Protect it from wha'?" asked Roan.

  Lachlan shrugged. "Grandfaither wasna always good abou' explainin’ details."

  "Considering how it was used to kill you and nearly killed Laura, I would think the dirk needs protecting against," said Winston.

  Lachlan shivered. "Perhaps."

  "Are the gems real?" asked Winston.

  "Aye. In all, three emeralds and three sapphires on one side, and five rubies on the ither. There were originally six rubies. I dinna know when the one came lost. Long afore I received the dirk."

  Winston gave a low whistle, then, "Do you know wha' the runescript reads?"

  "No. Do you?"

  Winston grinned ruefully. "No. I was just curious. Do you know where it is now?"

  "Last I saw it was when I removed it from Laura and placed it on the ground next to me."

  Roan frowned. "Come to think o' it, I haven't seen it since. I never even gave it anither thought efter tha' night."

  "Winston," Lachlan began hesitantly, "do you know somethin’ you're no' sayin’?"

  Winston released a laugh and held up his hands. "No. Like I said, I dreamt abou' it and was merely curious. Actually, it was only a fragment o' the dream I had."

  "So, naught to worry abou' the bloody thing then?"

  "Lachlan, I swear I'm no' hiding anything from you."

  A gust of breath ejected from Lachlan. "Thank God. To be truthful—wi' no disrespect for Grandfaither's trust in me—I wouldna care if I never saw it again."

  "I'll second tha'," said Roan and rose to his feet. He stretched his arms, then the small of his back as he walked to the door. Opening it and stepping just beyond the threshold, he filled his lungs with fresh air.

  Winston finished re-packing the basket, while Lachlan positioned the crates against the wall perpendicular to the stove wall. Carrying the basket, Winston followed Lachlan outside to where Roan now stood by the new oak, inspecting the trunk.

  "Have a look," said Roan, running his right hand over the rough bark. "It's grown since last night."

  That wasn't all Winston noticed. "Is it ma imagination, or is the temperature over fifty and the snow and ice melting?"

  "Spring has arrived," Roan grinned.

  Lachlan surveyed the landscape. "Aye, so it has. Overnight, no less. It'll take a while to melt all this, though."

  "Look," Roan said pointing to one of the branches. "Buds. This tree wasn't even here two days ago. And have you ever seen a trunk like this? It's incredible."

  Winston tipped back his head and regarded the highest branches. With the exception that the leaves hadn't come out yet, the oak looked as it had in his dream.

  "Magical, Deliah would say," Winston murmured, then glanced down at the basket. "I'm going to try to get into the kitchen. I want to empty this and clean up the dishes and utensils."

  Lachlan passed Roan a hopeful look, then swung his gaze to Winston. "It wouldna hurt if you happened across one o' the women and mentioned how sorry we are."

  "Laura and Beth are mair likely to watch their tempers around you," said Roan. "You bein’ our guest and all. And Deliah was mair concerned for our well-bein’ than she was angry."

  Winston arched an eyebrow. "Have Beth or Laura ever threatened to turn either o' you into a nubby toad?"

  "She couldn't." Roan shrugged. "She wouldn't." Comical doubt masked his face as he asked, "Would she?"

  "Until you see me return in the flesh, watch where you step," Winston said dryly. With an airy salute, he headed toward the house.

  Lachlan murmured, "Brave mon."

  "Or foolish."

  The two men locked gazes a moment, then Lachlan laughed.

  Winston's stomach was in knots by the time he reached the far side of the house. He peered through the small panes of the door's window and saw no one in the kitchen. The knob turned in his hand and the door opened.

  "Hel—lo," he called as he stepped through the doorway.

  The room's stillness made him uneasy, but he closed the door behind him and placed the basket on the island centered in the room. Breakfast odors scented the air and the thirty-five by twenty foot room was warm, suggesting the oven had been used.

  "Fresh scones or muffins," he said to himself. "Maybe even a loaf o' bread."

  He whistled softly as he unloaded the basket onto the oak counter. The throwaway items he gathered and tossed in a tall rubber trash can next to the double sinks. The tub of butter he carried to the far end of the room, where he opened a door to what appeared to be a large closet. Inside was the refrigerator, an ornate wooden piece standing five feet tall and four feet wide. He placed the tub on the second perforated shelf then glanced down to see the ice block had dwindled to the size of a block of cheese.

  Closing the door, he removed a deep pan from beneath the refrigerator, something he'd seen Roan do during their baking session. He emptied the water into one of the sinks, returned the tray to its slot, then went to a wall hook next to the door and grabbed the ice tongs. Again as he'd seen Roan do, he went outside to a low wooden chest situated to the right of the stoop. Lifting the top and securing it open with an attached metal rod, he saw three blocks of ice remained, each wrapped in heavy brown paper. Roan had explained how, in the cold weather, the iceman delivered seven blocks of ice every Friday to last a week, while delivering one every morning during the hot weather. With no electricity, it was the only way to keep perishable objects cold.

  Winston lowered the block to the ground, closed the top of the lid, then hoisted the ice and carried it into the kitchen. He placed it inside the bottom of the refrigerator, alongside the remains of the last block. With this done, he returned to the basket and transferr
ed the used plates, pans, and utensils to the left sink.

  Although the piping system was designed to allow lit fireplaces to heat portions of water for baths and washing at the sinks, the kitchen water had to be heated on the stove to do dishes. Winston was reaching for one of the larger kettles hanging from cast-iron hooks over the island, when he noticed Deliah standing at the doorway to the dining room. He froze in place, his heartbeat throbbing in his throat.

  Winston lowered his arms and swallowed hard. She looked more like a teenager at the moment than a woman of her centuries. A baggy red knit jersey hung to her thighs, the long sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Cream colored stirrup pants, also loose-fitting, covered her to her bare feet.

  Seeming a great deal more at ease than what Winston felt, she took the basket and placed it inside one of the bottom compartments of the massive oak sideboard across the island from him. Her hair was arranged in a single thick braid, which swung against her back with her movements.

  Winston frowned when his mind dumped all thought, and he glanced about the room trying to collect himself. From the corner of his eye he saw Deliah walk toward him. She stopped at the end of the island, seven feet away, watching him through an unreadable expression. Still a greeting refused to formulate, so it was his intention to walk out the door until he unwittingly lowered his gaze. Again he found himself paralyzed, staring fixedly at the swell of her breasts and the erect nipples clearly defined through the jersey. Seconds ticked by before she spoke, and her tone was so casual and matter-of-fact, he found himself all the more baffled.

  "I canna bring maself to wear the bindin’ undergarments. Last night, Laura asked why female fays have breasts if we dinna give birth and nurse our wee ones. I explained how we reproduce, and how we are born mair as wha' ye call a toddler, and tha' we are indeed nursed on breast milk for the first two years. Efter tha' stage, we transform to our middlin’ phase, which is a far longer equivalency to wha' ye call yer teen years."

  Winston finally forced himself to look into her eyes and heard himself gulp. The heat of a blush stole across his cheeks and perspiration broke out on his brow.

  "I'm sure the question o' ma breasts would have crossed yer mind sooner or later."

  "Umm...."

  "Are ye comfortable, Winston?" she asked softly. "In the carriage house?"

  He nodded and swallowed hard again. His palms itched and he flexed his fingers in a bid to relieve the irritation.

  "May I approach ye?"

  The question took him aback. "I wish you would."

  Without hesitation, she closed the distance and stood within half an arm's reach. Her gaze solemnly inspected his split and swollen lower lip, the small cut on his right cheek, and the dark red blotch on his left jaw that was transforming into a bruise.

  "Are ye in pain?"

  "No' really. It's just a bit uncomfortable."

  She wrinkled her nose expressively. "Male fays dinna sprout hair on their faces."

  "I need to shave."

  She searched his eyes with unnerving calm. "I can heal ye if ye allow me."

  "Another root job?"

  She grinned mischievously. "No, but I will need to touch ye."

  The idea of that so appealed to Winston, his head reeled. "If it's no' too much trouble."

  She studied him for a moment longer, then lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders as she positioned herself against him. Winston was sure she could hear his heart pounding. Sure she knew just how much he wanted her. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the cut on his cheek. He felt moisture against the area, then a tingling sensation that burrowed deeply into the wound. When next she targeted his marred jaw, she was hesitant and he sensed she didn't like the prickly feel of his stubble.

  Again he felt moisture and the same sensation seep into the layers of his skin. She settled on her heels for a time, inspecting his lower lip. To his surprise, she pursed her lips and he saw a foamy dab of spit emerge from the tiny opening. He nearly flinched when she deposited it on the laceration, but then she lingered this time, and he felt her lips tenderly move against the wound. The tingling was more intense, bordering uncomfortable, when suddenly it vanished.

  When she settled back this time, he sucked in the injured section and ran his tongue along the surface. It was smooth. Neither cut nor swollen.

  With a low, shaky laugh he said, "First time I've been grateful to be spat on. Thank you."

  She nodded.

  "Have you been outside this morning? It actually feels like spring has finally arrived."

  To his chagrin, Deliah's eyes filled with tears and she turned her back to him.

  "Did I say something wrong?"

  She shook her head, but he could tell by the taut posture of her shoulders she was upset.

  Heaving a sigh, he glanced about then asked, "Have you seen the new oak?"

  "I be aware o' it."

  Her voice held such despair Winston instinctively turned her around and pulled her into his arms. She didn't struggle, but buried her face into his right shoulder and gripped the front of his shirt. Her body shook with sobs for a brief time then he heard her draw in ragged breaths as if attempting to rein in her emotions.

  "Talk to me, Deliah," he whispered, stroking the back of her head. "Why are you so unhappy?"

  A disparaging sound escaped her before she lifted her head. She didn't look up and her fingers loosened their hold, instead, lightly plucking at the material as if keeping her hands busy offered her fortification.

  "I canna think o' spring wi’ou' achin’ for ma family. Tis our maist cherished season. When we celebrate renewal wi' song and dance and await the arrival o' the young ones."

  Winston kissed her on the brow then propped up her chin with the side of an index finger. Tears still glistened in her eyes as she timidly met his probing gaze.

  "It be all lost, Winston."

  "No' all. You're here."

  A hitching breath spilled past her lips. "Alone, I canna nurture the land."

  Winston smiled. "There are gardeners tha' help in tha' department."

  "Aye," she said dully. "They can weed. They can plant. They can grow wha' they sow in the earth. But no one but a fay can nurture the magic o' the earth. It be the magic wha' prevents blight. Magic wha' keeps leaves from turnin’ brown afore their time, and flowers in full bloom throughou' their true phase.

  "MoNae relies on us, Winston, to protect her realm. I canna do it alone."

  "Deliah—"

  Winston sucked in a breath when the dining room door opened and Laura stopped short at the threshold. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face gaunt and pale. Feeling that he had to say something, he managed a strained, "Thank you for breakfast. I came in to return the basket."

  Several moments passed in tense silence, during which Deliah's gaze pinged between him and Laura.

  "I'll have your lunch ready around noon," she said dispassionately, her solemn gaze watching Deliah.

  "I better go," Winston said.

  "Laura, canna he stay?" Deliah pleaded.

  Winston's lips parted to speak, but Laura cut him off. "Winston, stay if you want. I'm not angry at you. I had no right to take out my frustration on you, last night."

  "You were definitely wi’in your rights," he said by way of apology. He looked down into Deliah's glowing face and felt a sharp pang of remorse. "Deliah, I can't. No' as long as Roan and Lachlan are on the ou’s."

  Sorrow crept across her features. "They must make their own peace. Winston, ye and I need to talk. Please, stay wi' me."

  A breath shuddered from Winston and he rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment before looking deeply into hers. "It wouldn't be right if I stayed here."

  Unable to stop himself, he crushed her to him and kissed her hard, passionately, then as abruptly released her and walked to the door. Opening it, he glanced back at her, knowing he looked as bleak and as miserable as did she, but unable to justify to himself why he should be forgiven and not Roa
n and Lachlan.

  "I'm sorry," was all he could say. He hurried out the door, closing it behind him.

  What began as a beautiful spring day, now struck him as gray and dismal, as dismal as the ache in his heart.

  Chapter 16

  A bitter taste filled Winston's mouth as he lethargically ambled in the direction of the carriage house, his hands in his pants pockets and his head held low. Deliah's face, lined and shadowed with disappointment and sorrow, occupied the scope of his mindscreen. He repeatedly told himself he should turn around and finish what he'd begun in the kitchen. He had come so close to opening up his heart to her, to confessing how miserable he was away from her, to vowing a commitment to love her for the duration of his life, and beyond.

  In retrospect, he'd become a pro at evasiveness. An excuse always presented itself whenever he found himself in a situation that threatened to make him feel anything above and beyond what was required to complete each job. In leaving her this time, he came to the sickening realization that he had been responsible for his family's attitude toward him. Even as a young boy, he had emotionally cut them off, choosing the companionship of his psychic world to them. Little wonder they couldn't relate to him.

  How did any normal parent hope to breach the depths of the mental walls he'd constructed?

  His parents weren't perfect, but whose were?

  The fact they couldn't find it within themselves to give up their chosen way of life for a child like him, didn't make them selfish or cold or even bad parents. They'd done for him as well as they felt they could. Their emotional abandonment had stemmed from years of frustration and disappointment. His mother couldn't have another child. He was it. He'd never scanned his parents and now knew why. It wasn't their failings he had been afraid to view, but his own.

  He had never cried as a child. Never had a favorite toy. A favorite program or song. He'd always been a passionate reader, but the reason didn't lie in the stories themselves, but in the fact that he could take the mindways and see the authors actually creating their works. Psychometry not only made it easy for him to know their every thought and mood during the productions, but granted him vivid images as if the process of completing the book was a movie playing across his mindscreen. He knew everything about the author, including the creative mindset that formulated each storyline and every character.