Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (42 page)

"Aye." A despondent smile
tugged at his chiseled mouth as he looked to where the portrait had
been. "As much as I would love to watch the lads grow up, I canna
stay wi'ou' ma Beth. There's a fierce ache o' emptiness inside me.
Fierce and infinite, Aggie."

Agnes lowered her head. She
understood what he was feeling. There was also emptiness yawning
within her, an emptiness left since the loss of her son.

"Forgive me, Aggie," Lachlan
said kindly. Her head came up, and he regarded her for a time. "I
never liked yer son, but he didna deserve to die so
young."

Emotions threatened to close
off her throat, but she nonetheless managed, "He wasn’t always
so...difficult."

Lachlan gave a desolate
shake of his head. "None o' us were perfect, were we?"

"Speak for yerself," she
said airily then sobered. "If you see him...would you tell him his
mum is thinkin' o' him? Tell him...I love him?"

"Gladly, I will."

Sighing deeply, Agnes looked
toward the south wall. Unseen waves rippled across the room,
signaling her awareness. "They're growin' restless."

Lachlan turned to face the
direction. "Aye, but I'm waitin' for him."

Her eyebrows drew down in a
frown. "He's a curious one, this Mr. Connery."

"Aye. Aye, he is. And he's a
troubled mon."

"Weel, he came to the right
place."

Lachlan smiled.

A ponderous expression
accentuated the lines in Agnes' face. She tapped the first two
fingers of her right hand to her chin for a time, then said
distractedly, "I keep wonderin' how they're goin' to react to yer
gift."

An enigmatic gleam
manifested in Lachlan's dark eyes. "Maist will take it to
heart."

Agnes arched a white
eyebrow. "Wha' abou' the ithers? We're talkin' abou' some o' the
same who were prepared to level this place to the
ground."

After a second of silence,
he shrugged. "Tis useless to hold a grudge." He winked at her,
grinning. "As weel we now know. They thought me responsible for
Borgie's fall. Canna blame them. I was beginnin' to wonder
maself."

"But wha' if they construe
the 'gift' as the devil's play?"

Again Lachlan fell silent.
Then he frowned and replied, "Anyone wha can find darkness in a
winter's rose, is beyond hope." His inner sense locked onto a new
arrival on the grounds, and he straightened with an air of
exuberance. "He's here. Fegs! The mon's aura is strong!"

"I can feel it, too!" she
gasped, a hand over her phantom heart. "This is weird, Lannie, this
knowin' business."

"You'll get used to
it."

She chuckled. "Mind you, I'm
no' complainin'!"

"Tis good to hear, you old
corbie."

Warmth spread through the
woman's spectral being. A smile youthening her visage, she held out
a crooked arm. "There was a time when I fumed to hear you call me
such! So much has changed. Now...I would be honored, Master Baird,
sir, if you would kindly escort me to the gala."

"Ma pleasure," he said,
kissed her hand then linked his arm through hers.

Gliding across the floor,
they passed into the hall, and headed in the direction of the front
doors.

* * *

"Wha' the
bloody..."

Winston Connery had been
stunned to find a wall of people blocking the streets bordering the
south and west property of the Baird estate. Never had he witnessed
such a gathering, and hoped he never would again. Forced to back up
and park two blocks away, he left his car, locked it, then sank his
gloved hands deep within the pockets of his trench coat, and began
his walk through the large, wet flakes beating down from the
heavens. The bitter night air permeated his clothing, compounding
his chill of trepidation. He'd nearly convinced himself to remain
at the Inn. Nearly. Something powerful had compelled him to return.
Something he couldn't quite define.

His doubt intensified when
he unwittingly began to pick up on the emotions and thoughts of the
people he approached. It usually wasn't so easy, so overwhelmingly
received. He raised his mental shields, blocking out what he could
as he inched his way through the packed bodies. The going was slow,
ridden with apologies and false smiles to the disgruntled he pushed
past.

Murmurs of "The devil" fell
on his ears, inducing a perpetual scowl to darken his
features.

The devil? Lachlan
Baird?

The bloody hypocrites! They
called him the devil, and yet they had sardined themselves in hopes
of witnessing a spectacle.

When at last he'd made his
way through the throng, he was again stunned to discover the
driveway lined with newspaper and television reporters. Bright
lights were trained on the ravaged facade of the house. Cameras
were at ready. Men and women alike were jotting down notes, talking
into microphones.

He ambled across the
ice-crusted snow covering the south property. Ironically, only five
people had ventured more than halfway across the front lawn. The
rest kept back, afraid to venture too close to the dreaded grim
manor.

Several yards away, he
recognized the five as Roan Ingliss, Laura Bennett, and her three
nephews, who were fidgeting beneath the blanket the couple had
secured around them. Winston closed the distance, his expression
guarded when Roan turned to look at him. When he stopped at the
man's side, he gave a brief nod of greeting. Roan's eyes, he noted
with deepening unease, possessed an element of mistrust.

"Are you here on official
business?" Roan asked.

Winston glanced down at the
boys' upturned faces. Immediately he sensed their eagerness to cut
loose, and he grinned despite his attempt to appear aloof. Then he
met the woman's gaze. He liked her eyes. Friendly, yet dissecting.
She was mentally questioning his reasons for coming. Roan, on the
other hand, projected a curious aura of smugness. Winston couldn't
shake the notion that—although impossible—Roan had been expecting
him. Now how could the man know, when Winston hadn't decided until
the last minute?

Roan wasn't
psychic.

Cursed place.

Winston received the
thought, but didn't know from which of the spectators it had
originated.

The crowd grew more restless
with each passing second.

He didn't have to read their
minds. Their nervous tension rippled through him, intensified his
own case of the jitters.

He gratefully focused his
attention on Laura and Roan as they protectively stepped in front
of the boys when several of the reporters came toward
them.

Winston stiffened. Roan was
on the defensive. The man owned of a short temper. He didn't relax
until the vibes emanating from the man lessened in strength. So
Roan had a temper, but also steel-like control when
necessary.

A barrage of questions
pummeled the couple. Roan instinctively placed a protective arm
about Laura's shoulders. For every question, he replied, "No
comment," but the undaunted reporters kept hammering at
them.

Admiration for the man
flooded Winston. He couldn't have projected a calmer front,
himself.

Kevin kicked one television
newsman in the shins. Kahl and Alby were satisfied to throw
snowballs, their aims somewhat off, but appeasing their mischievous
personalities.

Winston further relaxed his
guard. He opened his mind a little more, imbibing a small portion
of Roan's emotions. The man was admirably protective of his new
family. His love for the woman and the boys held such substance,
Winston couldn't help but envy him. His gifts had never permitted
him to openly love anyone. Not his family. Certainly not a woman.
His job was his life.

His job didn't fear his
abilities, it relied on them. He couldn't snuggle up to it, and it
didn't wear a tantalizing scent, but then, it was incapable of
shrinking away from him.

"Get tha' bloody thin’
back!" Roan warned, an arm lifted to shield his eyes from the glare
of a camera spotlight.

"You're frightening the
children," Laura scolded the man whose shoulder bore the weight of
the camcorder.

A cacophony of alarming
sounds rose up from the crowd. The light of the camcorder swung
away from the couple to the front of the house, mingling with the
others trained on the mystical pair who emerged from the
greenhouse.

Roan placed his hands on
Kahl and Kevin's shoulders, anchoring them. Before Laura could grab
Alby, he took off into a run, and didn't stop until Lachlan had
caught him up into his arms. The sight of the ghost holding the
child quieted the onlookers. Winston found the scene oddly
disquieting.

Kevin and Kahl wrenched
free, and ran to join their brother. Roan and Laura stayed rooted,
his arm going about her waist and holding her close.

Winston mentally noted
everything.

He'd never thought highly of
human nature. He considered mankind the cruelest animal of all.
Perhaps viewing countless corpses had hardened him.

Perhaps he'd always been
emotionally removed from his species.

But for the squeals of the
boys, silence prevailed. The snow fell faster, glistening like
jewels within the harsh lights flooding the focus area.

Curiously, the media
refrained from intruding while Agnes and Lachlan hugged and spoke
with the children.

He'd never known a reporter
to respect a private moment.

But this wasn't exactly
private, was it? Lachlan was saying his goodbyes to the children.
Winston could feel the ghost's sadness. And Agnes....

The scowl returned to his
face.

This latest ghost was nearly
on the verge of tears.

Ghosts sobbed piteously
haunting sounds. They rattled chains. But he'd not once heard of
one actually shedding a tear.

He found himself wishing to
see one spill down her cheek.

Much to his disappointment,
she held them back.

Lachlan urged the boys to
join their guardians. When they were back with Laura and Roan, the
laird heaved a breath and took a long hard look at the spectators.
One cameraman started toward him, immediately backing up when the
specter lifted a hand in warning.

A grin tugged at one corner
of Winston's mouth. Lachlan's bearing alone demanded admiration.
Regal. Confident. Lord of his kingdom.

Again, Lachlan swept a
measuring gaze over the mass.

"He's waitin' for
somethin'," Roan whispered to Laura, who nodded in
agreement.

Winston agreed. Then the
laird looked directly at him, and his insides became a thousand
fluttering butterflies and realization burst in his
brain.

Yes, he'd been expected. The
laird had summoned him. He wasn't sure if that pleased or unnerved
him, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling awed by the ghost's
incredible range of influence.

But why had he been
summoned? Had everyone here—

No.

He'd been singled
out.

Was it possible the laird
knew of Winston's desperate need to believe in miracles? At this
point in his life, a miracle was exactly what he needed to direct
him away from the abysmal sense of helplessness that had been
slowly suffocating him since his tracking of the Phantom had
begun.

Even a small miracle would
be welcomed. Anything that would lighten his heart and restore his
acute logic, without which, he was lost.

"Welcome to ma home,"
Lachlan said, his voice carrying to the boundaries of his property.
"I depart this night to join ma Beth, but I couldna leave wi'ou'
offerin' a gift to those both for and against ma
existence."

Winston's heartbeat
quickened. Damn if the laird wasn't reaching out, even to those who
still marked him a devil.

"Too many o' you fear me and
ma home," Lachlan went on. "You fear the unknown. But Roan Ingliss
is now the master o' this grand place—" He cast a comical look over
his shoulder, and amended, "—this once grand place, and I ask you
all to respect him and his plans for this land. And I implore you
to open yer hearts to wha' ye're abou' to experience."

Anxious murmurs passed among
the crowd.

Roan turned his head, a
mysterious smile offered to Winston. A shiver works its way up
Winston's spine.

Lachlan gave pause then,
with a solemn shake of his head, went on, "Baird House belongs to
lovers and dreamers." His dark gaze settled on Roan's face, and a
smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Dusk afore dawn, laddie.
Tis how it should be."

He heaved another breath,
one wavering with emotion. "It was once said tha' a mon shouldna
love wha' canna love him back. Obviously, tha' person never came to
ma home, for I have loved this place, and it has loved me in
return. As it will ma heirs for as long as there is earth upon
which it can stand."

His arms slowly lifted out
from his sides, his palms facing the spectators.