Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (27 page)

"Tessa and Robert owe
me—"

"Roan and Laura owe you
nothing! Now promise me that you'll let everything run its natural
course. Lachlan...?"

"Aye."

"Aye, what?"

"I...winna
interfere."

Leaning back, Beth frowned.
"Why don't I believe you?"

Lachlan's eyebrows shot
upward. "Fegs, lass! Should I write it in blood?"

"No, but you better not be
planning anything."

Getting to his feet, he
threw his hands up in a futile gesture. "You've never trusted ma
judgment!"

"Not when it comes to the
past." Beth stood and planted her hands on her hips. "You're a
stubborn man, Lachlan, and you have a tendency to react before
thinking."

Ruddy color appeared in his
face, and his near-black eyes snapped with vexation. "Beth ma-lass,
ye're no' bein' fair."

"Fairness has nothing to do
with it."

A burst of Gaelic ejected
from him. "There are some things we'll never see eye to eye
on!"

"What's goin' on here?"
asked Roan, cautiously walking toward the couple. A scowl mapped
his face. "Why are the two o' you arguin'? Abou' the
house?"

Lachlan visibly shook off
his temper and forced a lopsided grin. "No. Beth's lecturin'
me."

Roan was quick to note the
dirty look Beth dealt her mate. He looked at the laird, suspicion
shadowing his eyes. "Lecturin' you abou' wha'?"

The taller man squirmed. "Ma
conduct around yer family."

Although Roan nodded, the
suspicion remained in his measuring gaze on the laird. "Tell me,
Lannie, do you have a problem wi' me restorin' yer
house?"

A look of genuine surprise
masked Lachlan's face. "No, mon. Tis fittin'—"

"Fittin'?" Roan asked
harshly. "I see. So you do hold me responsible for the
fire."

"No' for the
fire."

Roan missed the enigmatic
undertone in the laird's voice. "Tell me, Lannie, where were you
and Beth when you were supposed to be watchin' the boys?" Angrily,
he went on, "You don't leave lads their age, alone!"

"I'm to blame," Beth said in
a barely audible voice.

"Be damned if we explain
ourselves to an Ingliss!" Lachlan hissed.

A breath lodged in Roan's
throat. "Ye're good, old mon. Bloody good."

"Wha' are you talkin'
abou'?"

"You, you swine! I seriously
thought we'd become mates." Roan sucked in a breath through his
nostrils. "You've been bloody usin' me, haven't you?"

"It's not like
that—"

"This is between us!" Roan
snapped at Beth, gesturing to Lachlan and himself. "Hear me weel,
you old fool," he went on, glaring at Lachlan. "I'll restore yer
bloody house, and break ma back workin' till I replace every
possession o' yers. Then to hell wi' you! Straight to bloody hell
wi' you!"

Roan stormed off. Beth
waited until he was out of sight before drawing back her shoulders
and leveling a heated look on Lachlan.

"Nice going."

"He
misunderstood."

"Misunderstood? Dammit,
Lachlan, sometimes I just want to give you a good, swift kick in
the—"

The laird began to fade.
"Later, Beth."

He vanished, leaving her
alone in the company of her temper. For a long minute, she heatedly
tapped a bare foot on the ground. Then she sighed. Sighed again and
threw her arms up in exasperation.

"Later, huh? Right. There's
nothing worse than a man with too much time on his
hands."

Muttering beneath her
breath, she faded into the daylight.

* * *

He'll never let go. You
failed in the attic, but then, you dinna know he was already
dead.

Go back. Tis yer destiny.
Unfinished business.

Laura bolted into a sitting
position, gasping for breath. Trembling violently, she stared into
the semi-darkness, lost and bewildered, terrified of what, she
didn't know.

Scrambling off the edge of
the bed, she reflexively reached out and turned on a lamp. Light
flooded the room. After a moment, her fears began to wane. Her wits
returned, and she wearily sank onto the edge of the bed.

She glanced about the room
then stared for a long time at the opened door to the adjoining
room where the boys slept. It was her own indecision that had
suffered her through sleepless nights since her arrival in
Edinburgh six days ago. Six of the longest days of her
life.

Although her luck had
changed, she was hard-pressed to appreciate it. When she'd arrived
at the embassy, it was to discover that her purse had been turned
over to the police, and they, in turn, had messengered it to the
American Consulate. Her credit cards and money were all
there.

Anthony Walker, of the
embassy, had been enormously helpful in getting her the two rooms
at the Prescott Inn, two blocks away from his office. He'd also put
a rush on furnishing copies of her nephews' birth certificates, and
processing their passports, although the latter wouldn't be ready
for several days yet.

One more day cooped up in
this room, and Laura was sure she would crack.

She was grateful for all the
help she'd received while in this country, but the longer she
remained the less she wanted to leave.

Unfinished
business.

She could never remember
what the nightmares entailed, but for the fourth night, she'd
awakened in a cold sweat and unable to breathe. Hour after hour,
day after day since leaving Roan, she found herself trembling
uncontrollably and always on the verge of tears. A hollow ache
seemed a permanent fixture in the core of her heart.

She'd never felt so
miserable!

The boys, too, had been
uncharacteristically sullen. And although she was grateful for
their docile behavior, it also worried her.

Lifting a half-emptied glass
from the nightstand, she sipped tepid water.

Is Roan missing me half as
much as I miss him?

Choking on a little swallow
of water, her shaky hand replaced the glass alongside the lamp. She
hugged herself, tears filling her eyes, and gently rocked to and
fro.

She would return.

Unfinished
business.

She winced when pain lanced
her temples.

A cold purposeful breeze
passed through the room, sweeping through her. She gasped, freezing
in place, her eyes widening fearfully.

Unfinished
business.

Forcing herself to shake off
the fearful gloom mantling her, she rose to her feet and walked to
the adjoining room door. Leaning against the framework, she
re-crossed her arms and sadly regarded her nephews. The nightlight
of the lamp awarded her a soft view of them. They were huddled
together in the center of the queen-size bed, their small forms
lost beneath multiple blankets.

For the first time, she
wondered what their life had been like with their father. Had her
brother ignored them, as Kevin had implied? Or had Jack been so
caught up in grief over the loss of his first wife, that he'd
simply withdrawn into himself?

Whatever the reason, he had
to have known he'd fathered three wonderful sons.

"I promise to do my best by
you," she whispered, a catch in her voice.

An unbidden memory of
Lachlan Baird flared up in front of her mind's eye. The scene fell
back, revealing the attic in the mansion.

Laura found she could not
release the breath building inside her lungs. Rooted by terror, she
watched her own hand, clutching the handle of a dagger, thrust the
gleaming blade again and again into his chest. She experienced his
pain, the agony of each slice, the warmth of his blood seeping onto
the front of her flannel nightgown. His horror-filled eyes glowed
in his incredulous countenance. She could feel his breath on her
face. She could feel his energy waning...feel him slowly
fading...feel his rage.

Wrenching herself from the
spell, she staggered to the bed and weakly climbed onto the
mattress. Breaths roared from her lungs. Trembling seized her
hands.

Then she spied something
atop the unused pillow.

A jewel-handled dagger, dark
red blood pulsing from its razor-sharp edge and staining the
glaring whiteness of the pillowcase.

A scream manifested in the
pit of her stomach and swiftly rose into her throat. But at the
instant it would have escaped, a cry detonated in her
skull.

Unfinished
business!

Suddenly the room was
stiflingly still. She felt as though hundreds of invisible eyes
were watching her.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she
out waited the violent quaking in her body, out waited the fear
which had nearly claimed her sanity.

Then, just when she'd
finally convinced herself that it had all been nothing but her
imagination, and her pulse rate was slowing to normal, Roan's voice
invaded her mind.

"Gang yer own gait, you
dochter o' the deil."

Go your own way, you
daughter of the devil.

She opened her eyes, once
again trembling, and once again in the company of sickening
fear.

"How did I know what you
were saying?" she asked herself in a whimper, her face deathly
pale. "I don't know Scottish."

A soft feminine laugh
caressed the inside of her skull.

Clamping her hands over her
ears, she tightly closed her eyes.

Leave me alone!

An icy breath passed through
her.

Gasping, she lowered her
hands and opened her eyes.

She looked down at the
dagger on the pillow.

There was no
blood.

No stain on the
case.

Only the dagger.

After a moment to work up
her nerve, she lifted the implement into her hand. At first it felt
like ice then grew uncomfortably warm against her palm.

The blade grew brightly
crimson, pulsing with the rhythm of a strong heartbeat.

All expression left her
eyes.

Clutching the dagger to her
breast, she stared off into space and murmured, "Unfinished
business."

C
hapter 10

The pristine north field
stretched out before Roan gave him a sense of smallness. It was
incredibly beautiful, moonlight reflecting on blankets of snow,
beneath a black velvet, star-speckled sky. Serene. A world unto
itself.

Wistfully sighing, he turned
to regard the scaffolds constructed around the house. He would
never underestimate the force behind human nature again. The
volunteers had worked from dawn to dusk for the past four days,
clearing out rubble, building scaffolding inside and out, and
preparing the house for the renovations.

During that time, he had
refused to dwell on Lachlan's betrayal. He'd been a fool to even
think there could be any kind of earnest friendship between them,
but he'd come to terms with that. Restoring the house offered him
purpose, and he'd also come to realize that, without purpose, he
might as well dig himself a deep hole and bury himself
alive.

Christmas was only two weeks
away. He'd scoffed at Harry Douglas when the man had vowed the
construction part of the renovations would be done in time to
celebrate Christmas Eve in the manor. But now, reflecting on how
much had been accomplished in so short a time, he was beginning to
believe in the possibility himself.

Beth had made several
appearances, talked with the workers, and chatted with the wives
who kept up a camp on the south lawns. She'd helped them cook and
pass out blankets. She'd worked alongside Agnes to haul some of the
charred things from the house. And watching her, he'd been reminded
of how alive she was, and of the love and concern and compassion
her ghostly being harbored.

Roan admired her. Always
would.

Lachlan was another
matter.

The old laird had blessed
all with his absence, although there had been times when Roan was
sure he could feel those dark eyes watching him, boring into the
back of his head.

Making his way through the
rest of the wooded area at the back of the house, he climbed the
white fence and headed across the field, in the direction of the
massive oak.

He took a long moment to
read the inscriptions on the four headstones beneath the snow-laden
branches, then heaved a sigh and said, "Beth, could I have a talk
wi' you?"

A second later, a green
luminous mist rose up from the ground in front of her headstone.
Beth materialized, a hand smoothing back her hair. "You rang?" she
smiled.

Roan grinned and prodded the
frozen snow-packed ground with the toe of one boot. "You do make a
grand entrance," he said, winking at her. The moonlight enhanced
her lovely features. A gentle breeze played through her curly
locks.