Love Everlastin' Book 3 (15 page)

Smiling eyes regarded him.
"A wee vacation, is it?" she chuckled. "Perhaps it is. Weel, Master
Winston, I best be off lookin’ efter the lads. They never take a
vacation from mischief."

She inclined her head to
Deliah. "I'm here if you need anythin’, child."

Deliah neither responded
with a word nor gesture of her head. When Agnes headed up the
staircase, the young woman leveled a thoughtful look at Winston,
then walked to the wall and placed a palm against it. Seconds
ticked by and Winston watched her with deepening
curiosity.

Again he tried to probe her
mind, and again he failed. He planted his left palm against the
wall, an inch from hers. Face to face, she looked up at him and
smiled whimsically. Her fingers spidered toward his, touched his,
and her smile broadened. Winston chuckled, but sobered when she
gripped the front of his sweater with her left hand, raised on
tiptoes and brushed her lips against his. What felt like a mild
electrical shock flashed across the area of contact. He jerked
back, then realized where her fingers touched his, the same
sensation existed. The intensity was back in her eyes, but this
time he sensed that she was trying to visually tell him something,
rather than probe his mind. He experienced the seductive pull again
as she placed her lips to his in a feathery kiss. Testing him.
Perhaps testing herself.

A stream of Gaelic boomed
from the third floor, then, "You little boogers! Kevin, Kahl, Alby,
where are you?"

Winston stepped away from
Deliah when heavy footfalls thundered down the stairs. Roan burst
onto the second floor landing, beet-faced and wearing only dark
slacks. He stopped short upon seeing the couple warily eyeing him.
Although anger still armored him, he made a valiant bid to collect
himself.

"Sorry, but the lads are up
to no good again," he muttered. "We've nary a sweater left in the
house. I don't even want to try to imagine wha' they're doin’ wi'
them!"

"I haven't seen them—the
boys," Winston said.

"Aye, they're as proficient
at hidin’ as a verra wee mouse, and a damn sight mair
destructive."

Winston couldn't suppress a
low chuff of laughter. "We're on our way to fix a sandwich. Would
you like anything?"

"No." Still vexed, Roan
raked his fingers though his disheveled hair. "There's ham or lamb
stew if you've a mind to heat it up."

"You sure I can't get you
anything?"

A wry grin turned up one
corner of Roan's mouth. "A sweater or two would be nice. I'm
gettin’ icicles on ma nipples—" Blushing, he looked at his newest
guest with a hangdog expression, then asked Roan, "Is she
comfortable here?"

Winston nodded, looking at
Deliah. "It appears so. She still hasn't spoken."

Roan released a terse laugh.
"Put her in a room wi' the lads a spell and she'll be wailin’ at
them in no time a’tall." He glanced up the staircase and added, "I
best get back to Laura."

"I'll give a yell if I see
the boys."

Roan offered a bewildered
shake of his head and arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you both should
lock your doors when you're ou' o' your rooms. No tellin’ wha' the
terror trio have in store for us now."

"I don't have a
key."

"Ah." Roan looked helplessly
about him. "Maybe Aggie knows where they are. I'll get back to you
on it."

Roan disappeared up the
staircase, and Winston and Deliah headed for the kitchen on the
first floor.

* * *

He closed the bulkhead door
and moved silently down the few steps to the basement. Compared to
the biting cold of the outside air, the enclosure was warm, but it
was so dark he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. By rote,
he made his way to his secret room, the soles of his snow boots
occasional scuffing against the cement floor. He was cold and
hungry and tired of waiting, but wait he would, for by nature he
was a patient man.

Most killers were. At least,
those with a specific agenda.

Behind a stack of wooden
crates and abandoned furniture, he opened a long-forgotten wooden
door just enough to squeeze through. He closed it, and even managed
with his bulky gloves on to engage the latch hook he'd installed
nearly a week ago.

Wade Cuttstone liked to feel
secure, especially when asleep.

Removing his gloves and
dropping them to the floor, he worked his stiff fingers for a time
then groped along the top of the table until he located a book of
matches. He lit two of the seven candles. They were all black and
secured within wax in various tins and broken cups. He thought
about the antique silver candelabra he'd seen in a shop in town,
and wished for the hundredth time he'd purchased it from the stocky
clerk. But Cuttstone hadn't liked the way the man watched his every
move while he browsed through the cramped rooms of the shop. Still,
a candelabra would certainly perk up the starkness of his temporary
quarters.

Sitting in the only chair at
the trestle-legged table, he reopened the bag of pork rinds he
purchased two days ago. He was studiously conscious of not making
noise, and soaked each rind in his saliva before
chewing.

A mouse skittered across the
floor. Cuttstone eyed it impartially. He wasn't averse to sharing
with nature's creatures. They were basically undemanding and minded
their own business. They didn't judge, only struggled to survive.
So unlike mankind. Especially the bearers, the begetters of
destroyers. The ones who were gradually taking over the world with
technologies not safe in the hands of mere people. He couldn't
track down all those who already existed, but he could and was
lessening the numbers of another generation. Thanks to the
Guardian. Without the inner voice telling him which women would
beget his enemies, he'd be lost and floundering in his
assassinations. He believed in accuracy and justice. To kill was
not enough. Without purpose, he would be remembered as a murderer
of innocent women.

Laura Bennett was one of the
marked, and the most elusive he'd encountered. He couldn't count
all the times he nearly had her, both in Edinburgh, where he'd
first seen her, and since her arrival at this house. Of course, now
he understood why he was having such a hard time getting to her.
She had powerful friends. Spirits. Expired begetters were
determined the world would change. He was so sure of this he was
even convinced a child born of this woman would eventually lead to
the destruction of the known human race. Androids would take over.
Perhaps even he would be forced to exchange his vital organs and
brain for computerized parts.

And now Winston Ian Connery
was in the house. Apparently staying for a spell. Cuttstone enjoyed
the challenge the man's presence offered. He enjoyed mind games,
especially when he was the controller. But there was also another
woman in the house, and she really piqued his curiosity. Two nights
ago, while he was hiding in the woods, he saw her running naked
toward the north gardens. Cuttstone had no idea from where she'd
come, but he'd known when the ex-agent had found her at the gazebo,
Connery suspected him of being responsible. As yet, the Guardian
hadn't told him the newcomer was one of the begetters, but there
was something about her that taunted his psychic abilities. He
couldn't surface images from her as he did other women, only
bizarre matrix patterns in brilliant colors that often left him
mind-blind for a time.

Mind blindness was deadly to
him. Without the knowing, his capture was imminent.

He mulled over the problem
of the boys. They were obstructions to the cause. Too nosey for
their own good. But males were not begetters. Males were never a
target.

There had to be an easier
way to watch Laura, to move throughout the house and gauge her
habits.

The news had reported Viola
Cooke used the spaces between the walls to move about, but he
hadn't yet found a way to get inside them without forcibly tearing
through the plaster. And from what he could determine by her
photograph in the news, she was a small woman. He was large. Even
if he found a way to get inside the walls, he couldn't be sure he
could freely move through them.

"Patience," he whispered,
and popped another pork rind into his mouth.

Greatness required both
patience and careful planning.

C
hapter 6

The rest of the day passed
in relative quiet. Winston was present when Roan questioned the
boys about the sweaters. They swore they didn't know anything about
them. Winston knew they were lying, but didn't press the issue. At
the time, he was amused by their mischief, and his mind was
occupied with other matters. Deliah, for one.

Between Laura and Agnes,
Winston saw little of Deliah. The women fitted her with warmer
clothing, braided her hair then took her into the kitchen, which
Winston later was told was a mistake. The young woman couldn't boil
water. In fact Deliah's fascination with the effervescing liquid in
the pan had Laura paranoid she would try to reach into the
water.

Since Winston and Deliah
polished off Roan's lamb stew for lunch, Laura and Agnes reheated
the remainder of the ham in the gas oven. It was served with spicy
apple stuffing, baked potatoes garnished with butter and sour
cream, and homemade sourdough bread. With the exceptions of the
boys exchanging dirty jokes and attempting to start another food
fight across the table, and Laura telling Deliah how she and Roan
had met, it was a quiet meal. Even Agnes sat at the
table.

Deliah, as expected, was the
center of attention. The silverware, glasses and plates delighted
her as if she'd never actually touched anything like them. The boys
laughed hysterically when she discovered things sprinkled out of
the salt and pepper shakers. And the food....

She had a curious way of
eating. Winston was so fascinated with watching her facial
expressions whenever she tasted something different, his meal had
cooled before he'd hardly begun to eat. He questioned the
possibility she was suffering some form of amnesia. How else could
everything seem so new to her? She watched and attempted to imitate
using the utensils. At lunchtime, she refused to taste the stew
until Winston had started to eat, and he'd noticed how awkwardly
she'd handled the soupspoon.

After dinner, Roan took the
boys into the library to read them stories before their bedtime,
and Winston helped the women clear the table and do the dishes. The
latter resulted in a playful bubble fight amongst Winston, Deliah
and Laura, while Agnes retired to the grayness.

With the kitchen cleaned,
Winston hoped to get some private time with Deliah, but again Laura
had other ideas. Since the soapy dishwater had proven so
entertaining for Deliah, Laura wanted to introduce her to a bubble
bath. The excitement in Deliah's eyes told Winston he couldn't
compete with what Laura was describing to her, so he graciously
excused himself and went into the hall.

Suddenly, he felt like the
odd man out. Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, he glanced
up the staircase, then down the hall to the library. The pocket
doors were open. He couldn't hear Roan or the boys, but he headed
in that direction, hoping to spend a little time with them. No one
was there.

Winston particularly liked
this room. It had a masculine atmosphere that appealed to him. Of
all the rooms he could remember in the main part of the house, this
one was the least furnished. The dark-stained, built-in shelves
were filled with leather bound books from the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries. Red plaid covered the overstuffed sofa and two
chairs. The coffee table and the end tables placed at each end of
the sofa were highly polished cherry wood. An enormous braided rug
of black, red and dark green, covered the oak plank floor between
the sofa and the red brick fireplace with its red-and-black veined
mantelpiece.

The fireplace was fully
stoked and the hearth light's orange glow softened the contours of
the room. He considered taking a book to read in his room, but then
thought better of it. He wasn't really in the mood to sit or lie
still. The restlessness stirring inside him was
maddening.

If he could only take a long
walk in one of the gardens surrounding the house.

Or just a long walk in the
fresh air.

He ended up standing in
front of one of the windows, his arms folded against his chest, his
gaze scanning the woods which separated the house and the open
field where four headstones existed beneath a solitary oak. Large
snowflakes continued to fall. Driving had to be hell, let alone
walking in this stuff. He'd thought yesterday's rain would clear
away a lot of the white stuff, but it hadn't lasted but a couple of
hours. It had rained, then hailed, then frozen atop the
accumulation of compacted snow. Now it was snowing
again.

He was beginning to think
spring would never come.

And if it did, would the
snow ever go away?

"Depressin’, isn't it?" Roan
chuckled.

Winston was surprised to
find the man standing directly behind him, also looking out the
window.

"I'm getting
claustrophobic."