Time Everlastin' Book 5

by Mickee Madden

  The tension in Taryn's shoulders vanished and she smiled. "Karok would approve!" she exclaimed.

  "Aye, I believe he does," Broc said, and passed a grateful grin Lachlan's way. "The treasure is offerin’s to the gargoyles over centuries from men seekin' his wisdom and blessin's. And mayhaps from men fearin' them."

  "How much more is there?" Blue asked from her sitting position on a rock.

  "Quite a bit," said Roan, scratching his head thoughtfully. We need some sacks or somethin' to haul it all."

  "Trash bags?" Taryn asked. "I can go to the house and gather whatever I can find."

  "Me, too," said Roan.

  "Take Braussaw," Broc said. "He'll speed yer journey."

  "Ride a horse?" Roan said with a grimace.

  Braussaw snorted and licked Roan's face, prompting the others to laugh.

  "It's a cinch," Taryn piped up. Broc swung her onto the animal's back, then cupped his hands and cocked an inquiring eyebrow at Roan, who grimaced again, but allowed Broc to give him a hoist up. Settled behind Taryn, Roan met Lachlan's merry gaze and frowned.

  "Enjoyin' this are you?"

  "Och, aye," Lachlan chuckled.

  "Old mon," Roan grumbled, and said to Taryn, "Make the bloody thing go before I change ma mind."

  Laughing, Taryn took the reins and directed the horse in the direction of the path leading to the inn. When they disappeared down the hill, Reith asked, "Should we wait or bring up anither load?"

  "Wait, I think," Broc said. "Braussaw can haul the rest wi' greater ease than we can."

  Reith and Lachlan nodded, both staring in the direction the horse and riders had gone. After a time, Broc cleared his throat and, without meeting the men's probing gazes, said, "I intend to leave some for ma clan at the inn."

  Broc glanced up to see Lachlan's face darken with outrage. "They tried to kill Blue an' Reith!"

  "Aye. I dinna condone wha' they did, but the clan has long given me presents over the years."

  "In hopes o' gainin' access to the treasure!" Lachlan fumed.

  "Aye, tis true, but I feel indebted to them."

  Lachlan shook his head peevishly. "Tis yers to mete ou' as ye see fit."

  "Ye dinna approve," Broc said flatly.

  Lachlan stared into the dark eyes, trying to fathom Broc's reasoning. "Doesna matter if I approve or no'. I dinna understand yer sense o' loyalty—first to the gargoyle, now this clan who would so easily destroy beings as precious as our fairy friends."

  Fairy friends?

  The thought made Broc ill, despite his earnest fondness for Blue and Reith. His gaze shifted to them and he bowed his head respectfully. "I must follow the dictates o' ma heart."

  "As well you should," said Blue.

  "Aye," said Reith, and passed Blue a smile.

  Lachlan's chest heaved with a sigh. "Aye, you should. I could have no respect for a mon who didna embrace wha' he believed was right. But!" He wagged a finger in Broc's face. "It nevertheless sticks in ma craw those worthless, black-hearted corbies will be gladdened by yer generosity!"

  "Duly noted," Broc said, and grinned.

  It was dawn by the time the treasure was extracted from Karok's world, twenty-nine heavy bundles in all. Except for the one left in the inn parlor for the MacLachlan's locked in the basement, and the bags designated to be held by the passengers, the others were loaded into the trunk of Winston's dark blue Audi that Roan had parked a half mile away from the inn.

  Reith engaged his wings and returned inside the inn, where he slipped the key beneath the door for the MacLachlan's to free themselves. The others waited until his return to pile into the car, Blue protesting when Reith insisted she sit on his lap in the front passenger seat, the only space available. The once Briar Prince laughingly told Roan to speed away, and Roan complied.

  During the journey to Stornaway, where a ferry would carry them to Ullapool, Lachlan turned a deaf ear to Taryn's prattling about her and Broc's future. Lachlan had paid handsomely for the out-of-season service and expected to arrive on the mainland without incident. He did notice that Broc's hand gripped the back of Roan's seat so fiercely, his knuckles were white. Broc's eyes shifted and caught Lachlan watching him with an understanding smile.

  "Tis a car," Lachlan said. "Once you get used to them, you'll want to sit behind the wheel."

  His pallor sickly, Broc jiggled his head in denial. "Tis no' right to move this fast!"

  Roan chuckled and glanced in the rearview mirror. "We're only doin' thirty-five, mon. Now seventy or mair is fast!"

  "Thirty-five and seventy wha'?" Broc asked, his face scrinched up.

  "Miles per hour," Taryn replied.

  Broc released a gush of breath and hastily blessed himself. "Ma stomach juices are crashin' against the linin' like waves in a gale."

  "Sweet Jesus, mon" muttered Lachlan. "Roan, pull over afore—"

  Too late.

  Chapter 18

  The walls were closing in on him. His vision was bleary, his head in a spin he couldn't stop. Icy chills frolicked over his feverish, perspiration-coated skin. And his stomach. Lancing, painful surges.

  Too much happenin’. Too little relief.

  He hadn't known he had a problem with confines until his journey in the car. Even with the glass down, breathing was impossible. The closeness of the other passengers, their body heat, their voices, pressed down on him as thoroughly as a mountain of boulders.

  Arriving at Baird House had not eased his mental and physical turmoil. He had never been close to, yet alone set foot inside, a house so grand. And more people, their widened eyes watching him as if he had crawled from beneath a rock some like spiny lizard. Granted, he was sweaty and pale, his hair in wild disarray, his kilt frayed, his linen shirt rumpled. He had changed clothing twice during the journey at what Taryn explained were "rest stops."

  Rest, no.

  When Roan asked if he wanted to clean up before they reached the manor, he had declined. It was not in him to explain to his companions that if the journey didn't end soon, that if the motion and sounds and smells and sights didn't cease soon, he would throw himself upon the first sharp implement he encountered and end his misery.

  Now, he stood cowering inside a small room, trembling like a child and unable to pull himself from the insidious clutches of his experiences.

  "Broc?"

  Taryn's voice came from far away, barely penetrating the unmerciful drumming of his pulse in his ears.

  He swayed.

  "Broc! Don't pass out!"

  "Taryn, go downstairs wi' the ithers. I'll take care o' him."

  "Lachlan, he's—"

  "Dinna argue, lass. Go"

  Gawd, spare me further humiliation, Broc mentally groaned, pressing his folded arms against his stomach. He leaned against solidity, shivering, panting hard.

  A firm hand gripped his shoulder and squeezed. "Tis only a bath, mon!"

  Lachlan's voice rang in his ears, pushing back encroaching darkness. He vaguely recalled, during the ride, Taryn telling of their first encounter and of her hog-tying him and the bathing that followed. The others had laughed. Perhaps he would have, too, under better circumstances.

  "You must get past this wee problem you have wi' water," Lachlan chided, but humor laced his tone.

  Laugh at me again, and I'll thrash ye!

  "Tis a tub o' water, mon, no' a torture chamber."

  "Too enclosed," Broc managed.

  Silence, then, "Ah. The water closet—or bathroom, Beth calls it. Guess twould seem so to you." Silence again, during which Broc's vision cleared a little and his chills lessened. "Look, mon, you survived the journey here. Ma first long ride in a car was no less scary. I didna chuck ma innards, though."

  "No' amusin'," Broc growled.

  "Weel...ye're right. Twasna a pretty sight, no' to mention the smell." Lachlan's hand applied more pressure. "The water is coolin', Broc."

  Sucking in a shuddering breath, Broc tightly closed his eyes. He opened them and forced him
self to focus. The tub before him shimmered, stilled, shimmered, then beckoned.

  "Steady, mon," Lachlan said, supporting Broc's arm as he inched toward the tub. "Once ye're in, the wee devils in yer mind will play elsewhere."

  Broc lowered one foot into the water. It's warmth embraced him, and he swung the other leg over the porcelain rim.

  "Steady," Lachlan repeated. His hand fell away as Broc sank into the bath, his eyes closed once again, his breathing more regular.

  "Here's soap and a face cloth. I dinna think Taryn will mind you usin' her shampoo. Tis for the hair. Yer beard, too, if you've a mind."

  Broc lifted his eyelids and nodded.

  "I've brought you a razor. Tis on the sink."

  "Razor?"

  "Aye." Lachlan backed away and perched on the closed toilet seat. "Taryn...ah...mentioned you might want to remove yer beard."

  Broc narrowed his eyes on Lachlan, the man's mouth twitching with a poorly suppressed grin.

  "You are a sorry sight," Lachlan said.

  Broc nodded. "Havena made a good impression wi' the ithers," he grumbled. "Ye either, aye?"

  "I canna imagine yer life afore," Lachlan said, serious, his eyes boring into Broc. "An' I canna explain the feelin's o' mistrust tha' at times sparks atween us."

  Och, I can, Broc thought.

  "We're kin, Broc MacLachlan. Tis all tha' matters now."

  "I love Taryn."

  Lachlan's eyebrows hiked up and he smiled crookedly. "I've no doubt you do. And she, you."

  Broc cupped his hands, filled them with water, and splashed his face. "May I ask ye somethin', Lachlan?"

  "Aye."

  Broc thought over his words before voicing them. "Am I right for her? Can I make her happy?"

  "Some months ago," Lachlan said without hesitation, "I would have said no one could make her happy." He grinned wistfully. "Tis a different womon I see now. You see, Broc, no one knows better than I tha' findin' a true love, a destined love, is wha' life is really abou'. Wi'ou' ma Beth...well, I wasna whole afore she came into ma life. Tis so wi' Roan and Laura, and Deliah and Winston."

  "Deliah's the fairy princess?"

  "Aye, wi' the new bairn."

  "Wha' o' Blue and Reith?"

  Humor danced in Lachlan's eyes, and he shrugged. "They're still strugglin' to find their way back to one anither. It'll happen...in time."

  "Will the ithers accept me, ye think?"

  "They already do."

  "Why?"

  Lachlan heaved a sigh. "Wha' really is troublin' you?"

  "Tis a different world now," Broc murmured.

  "Och, aye!" Lachlan laughed. "But people are people, wha'ever the calendar. You have some catchin' up to do, but think o' it as part o' the adventure. As I do. I tend to cling to the old ways." He scrinched up his face ruefully. "Beth sets me straight, right enough."

  This last broke a grin through Broc's taut muscles.

  Lachlan abruptly stood and headed for the door, saying, "You've clean clothes on the bed. I couldna find trews in yer things, so you've a loan o' some o' mine."

  "Trews?" Broc said sickly.

  "Aye."

  "I've never worn them, and will be bloody damn if I do now!"

  Lachlan planted his hands on his hips and regarded Broc through a paternal frown. "The first sight o' yer bare bahookie and the women will pounce on you."

  "I'll be careful."

  "Suit yerself. But the Baird House women rule here, make no mistake abou' tha', and they have funny notions abou' some o' the old ways o' thinkin' and actin'."

  "I consider maself forewarned," Broc grumbled.

  With a nod, Lachlan disappeared into the bedroom. He returned minutes later carrying a half-empty bottle, in time to witness Broc cradling the white bar of soap in his hands and inhaling its fragrant scent. Self-conscious, Broc lowered the bar into the water and eyed the bottle.

  "Thought a swig or two would help you brace yer spine," Lachlan grinned, and held the label out for Broc to read.

  Broc lowered his gaze to the now murky water. "I canna read but Gaelic," he said.

  "Tis scotch."

  Broc's head shot up and his eyes brightened. "Scotch, ye say?"

  "The finest in all the world, if I do say so maself."

  Lachlan uncorked the bottle, took a long swallow, then passed it to Broc, whose unsteady hand immediately guided it to his mouth. Several gulps and a rolling shudder later, he smacked his lips and released a boom of laughter.

  "Tis fine and a spine bracer!" he exclaimed, and held the bottle for Lachlan to take.

  "Anither?" Lachlan asked.

  Broc shook his head and chuckled, "No' on an empty stomach."

  "Wise mon."

  Broc sighed contentedly and sank into the water until it reached his chin. "Now be off, Lachlan, and let me finish ma bath." Lachlan was nearly over the threshold when Broc added, "Thank ye. For everythin'."

  Lachlan nodded. "Can you find yer way to the parlor when ye're through?"

  "Aye, I think so."

  "Macleod called. Yer Braussaw will be delivered in three days."

  "Thank ye."

  "Beth's cookin' lamb stew."

  Broc grimaced.

  "The lamb stew?"

  "No. Love it. Been over two hundred years since I've had it. Dinna ken, though, if ma stomach will handle food yet."

  "See you downstairs," Lachlan said, and left.

  Broc remained thoughtfully quiet for a time. The scotch had warmed his belly and blood, and chased off the anxiety that had clung to him so tenaciously. He was mellow now.

  Not so afraid of what was to come.

  Not so afraid of himself.

  Not so afraid of the truths he needed to reveal.

  When he had scrubbed every inch of himself, he pulled the stopper. He washed his hair with the sweet smelling shampoo and rinsed it beneath the cold water of the tub faucet. He was out of the tub and towel-drying himself when he glimpsed his image in the mirror on the wall above the sink. Momentary shock melted away to curiosity. He stepped closer, closer, until the cool surface of the sink stopped him. He knew what a mirror was, but had never seen himself in one, only in surfaces of water, and he had never taken the time to really look at himself.

  Little wonder he had given Taryn such a fright.

  With the longer version of his beard, he understood now why she had called him a barbarian. He didn't resemble a man of twenty-eight, but someone far older, whose hardships had chipped away the essence of the man. Broc hadn't physically aged, but his mind certainly had. A look that reminded him of his father's eyes, stared back at him. Eyes that told of years of labor and disappointments. Eyes that more often than not revealed hopelessness for his family and village's future.

  Ian William MacLachlan had been a stern man, heavy of hand and incapable of showing his only son open love or respect, but nonetheless a man who had managed to provide for his family.

  Broc had hated him for many years. Had ventured to the standing stones, desperate to bring back something that would meet his father's approval.

  Something that would exonerate him in the eyes of his people.

  "Yer da be a good mon," his mother had often said, but each time her voice would break before saying "da."

  Only now did Broc understand the life that had shaped his father. Gone was the mischief, the sparkle in his eyes that his mother and others claimed he'd had since a small boy. Gone was his conviction that his family—when he married and had his own children—would fare better, that he would be a better provider, a better man than his father.

  How did he know?

  The troubled depths of his eyes was all revealing.

  Dropping the towel to the floor, he lifted wet strands of hair and sourly regarded them. "Time to reveal yerself, Broc Ian MacLachlan."

  Resolutely, he lifted the straight edge razor and smiled at his reflection.

  * * *

  "May I hold him?"

  Taryn's query surprised Deliah
, although Taryn had been playing on the floor with the twins moments ago. She passed the swathed bundle into Taryn's waiting arms and smiled at Winston when Taryn cooed at the squirming infant as she settled into a wing back chair across from them.

  "He's beautiful," Taryn grinned. "What's his name?"

  "Willem Chance Connery," Winston said, his tone laced with pride as he draped an arm about Deliah's shoulders.

  "Willem efter ma cousin, who rules a kingdom in County Cork, Ireland," Deliah said.

  "Willem is one of our most respected kings," said Blue.

  "Why Chance?" asked Taryn, stroking the infant beneath his chin.

  "Because he's the offspring o' a fairy and human," replied Winston.

  Taryn crooned, "I like the cadence of the collective name."

  "Aye," agreed Lachlan, who stood with an arm braced on the mantel. "Taryn, plannin' on mitherhood in the near future, are you?"

  Taryn blushed. "Depends on Broc, don't you think?"

  Roan, sitting on the floor in front of the hearth and stacking blocks with the twins, cast his sister a broad grin. "This can’t be ma sister."

  "Ha ha," she huffed then chuckled when Willem gurgled. "I wouldn't mind having children."

  "You don't like us," Kevin quipped. He, Kahl and Alby sat against the coffee table, watching the twins knock down Roan's efforts to build a block tower.

  Taryn rolled her eyes then wrinkled her nose at the brothers. "Guess I was pretty mean to you before. How about if we start anew?"

  "Criminy, she's in love," Kahl grumbled.

  "Broc has hair like a girl," Kevin said, watching Taryn intently for her temper to flare. He frowned when she laughed and passed his brothers a baffled look. Alby, ever the diplomat, shrugged off commenting.

  "He's a little scary looking, isn't he," Taryn said, "but he's a good man, boys. He's brave and kind and—"

  "Yep, she's in love," Kevin sighed.

  Laura, sitting on a settee and watching Roan, smiled and smoothed a hand over her protruding stomach. "Love is a good thing, boys."

  "Yeah, right," Kahl said sourly. "It turns people's brains into mush."

  "Tis good mush," Lachlan said and winked at the brothers.

  Reith entered the parlor. He offered smiles to everyone, sobering when his gaze locked on Blue, and stopped alongside Lachlan. "The car's unpacked."