Love Everlastin' Book 3 (2 page)

A sensation of pins and
needles tormented his hands and feet, but the pain was not enough
to equal the torment in his mind. He knew he was safe and secured
within a dwelling, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to feel
protected at the moment. He'd been on a direct path to
self-destruction. So close, he believed he'd heard death's approach
at the periphery of his mind.

Against his will, his
eyelids fluttered open. A blazing hearth a short distance away,
first filled his vision. Waves of heat washed over him and he was
surprised to realize that perspiration was trickling down his face.
His gaze dropped to where his hands were clawlike upon his
blanketed lap, the skin red and chafed and looking far older than
his actual years.

Finally, the pain in his
hands and feet grew unbearable. He locked his teeth against a
protest and breathed sparingly through his nostrils.

"I don't like this, Roan," a
woman whispered, just loud enough for Winston to make out her
words.

In a slightly louder tone, a
man replied, "Give it a while. If he doesn't come round soon, I'll
fetch the doctor."

The woman sighed deeply,
impatiently. Winston could feel her gaze on his back and he sensed
her reluctance to have a virtual stranger within her
home.

Winston lightly frowned as
he studied the light blue and deep purple plaid of the lap blanket
covering his legs. The MacLachlan plaid was red and blue, the clan
badge, a castle. For the life of him he couldn't remember which
clan blue and purple represented, and the fragment of lost memory
annoyed him.

No, no' MacLachlan. No' the
clan at all. Baird. Lachlan Baird.

"How are you
feeling?"

The woman's soft tone drew
his gaze to his right. He stared into vibrant green eyes that not
only betrayed the extent of her concern for him, but also her
wariness. When he tried to speak, he discovered his raw throat was
incapable of releasing anything but a raspy croaking
sound.

"Darling, fetch him some
Scotch."

The woman Winston knew to be
Laura Bennett, straightened from her bent position and looked off
to her left. "I think some hot tea—"

"Laura-lass," Roan Ingliss
said with a hint of impatience, "a Scotsmon knows how to take care
o' his own."

"Fine. Then you get
it."

Her stubbornness brought a
hint of a smile to Winston's aching lips. From the corner of his
eye, he saw Roan Ingliss—new laird of Baird House—leave the room.
Laura drew up another winged-back chair and seated herself to
Winston's right. He watched her askance as she stared into the
flames for a time, her expression unreadable. Winston realized his
presence had caused a rift between the couple.

It had never been his
intention to cause anyone a problem. Quite the opposite. He'd
slithered away from his former life, sparing everyone who even
remotely knew him, the embarrassment of seeing him retire from the
world. He certainly hadn't parked across the street from Baird
House to cause a problem for the residing couple. Not only hadn't
he elicited their help, but he was perplexed that they had somehow
rescued him from his own stupidity.

Finding Laura's gaze riveted
on him, gave him a start. The heat of a guilt-based blush surged
into his face and he looked away.

"Don't you think there's
been enough deaths here to last us a lifetime?" she asked, an edge
to her tone which made him inwardly shrivel. After a moment, she
added, "A nod will suffice, thank you," and it, too, was delivered
scoldingly.

He nodded then gulped past
the rawness in his throat.

She sighed, its sound
carrying a note of dismay. "I remember you. You were here Christmas
Eve."

Again he nodded, but this
time he forced himself to look at her. She was still watching him
with an analytical glint in her eyes, a maternal look that reminded
him of his grandmother who had died nearly twenty years ago. He
found himself wishing he could return to those days, if only
briefly. Katherine Theresa Connery had been the only person in his
life to have understood him, and to have accepted him, strange
gifts and all. The letters she'd written to him over the years were
in the trunk of his car. They remained his only true
treasures.

Them and the rose
petals.

"Here."

Roan's deep voice caused
both Winston and Laura a start. While she delivered the laird an
exasperated look, Winston hungrily fixed his gaze on the proffered
brandy snifter.

Scotch in a brandy
snifter?

It didn't matter. The golden
whiskey which filled half the glass seemed to wink at him. He felt
it beckon to him to experience its promised warmth, taste its
promise of liquid stamina. He attempted to lift his right hand, but
the maddening prickling sensations weighted all four of his
appendages.

"I'll do it," Laura said.
Taking the snifter from Roan, she tipped the brim to Winston's
lips. He attempted to take too large a swig. The Scotch went down
his throat, burning tissue and making him cough. Behind him, he
heard the laird laugh low, and Winston's temper surfaced. But again
when he attempted to speak, only garbled sounds emerged.

"Sip it," Laura
chided.

She tipped the brandy
snifter again to his lips. This time, Winston took meager sips. The
burning in his throat continued for several seconds then finally
the pain dulled to little more than scratchiness. He sipped and
sipped while unconsciously flexing his fingers and toes. The Scotch
settled poorly in his stomach but undaunted, he stayed with it
until he'd downed the last drop. By the time Laura lowered the
snifter to her lap, he was alert and beginning to feel his blood
flow through his hands and feet.

"Are you up to something to
eat?"

Winston shook his head then
almost immediately nodded when it occurred to him he couldn't
remember when he'd last eaten. He didn't need to compound his
weakness with a hangover.

"The stew's still on the
stove," Laura said, rising from the chair. "Roan, you want
anything?"

"No. Thanks."

Winston stared down at his
hands as the laird lowered himself onto the chair Laura had
occupied. For a time, silence hung in the air between
them.

Clearing his throat, Roan
braced his forearms atop his knees. "I didn't mean to handle you so
rough, but I bloody weel thought you were dead—frozen on the front
seat o' yer car!"

Winston offered an
apologetic look.

"Look...Mr. Connery, I
didn't recognize you at first. I rummaged through yer wallet once I
brought you inside."

Roan's light brown
eyes—amber in the firelight—narrowed broodingly. He reached out and
took something from Winston's lap. A moment later, Winston was
staring at the shriveled, dried petals of the rose he had plucked
Christmas Eve, the petals he'd been clutching for more hours than
he could recall.

"O' course," Roan went on,
"I recognized yer name right enough, but I've got to tell you,
you’re a sorry sight compared to the mon I remember here Christmas
Eve. Now, if ma memory serves me correctly, didn't Lannie tell you
to bring a womon here?"

A vile burning sensation
rose from the pit of Winston's stomach, into his throat. For a
horrifying moment he thought he was going to vomit, but the burning
proved to be psychological, not physical. He stiltedly nodded.
Tears misted his grey-green eyes. Anger thrummed through his
veins.

Roan lowered his gaze to his
upturned palm and absently poked at the petals spread across it. "I
couldn't help but notice tha' yer gold shield was missin’." He
spared his guest an unsettling, measuring look. "You returned here
for a reason, Mr. Connery. I'd like to hear why."

Although his voice was but a
hoarse whisper, Winston spoke his first name.

"All right," Roan said.
"Winston, what's this abou'?"

"She died."

"I'm sorry, I truly am. But
is tha' any reason to try to freeze yerself to death so bloody
close to ma property?" Roan's voice grew deeper with frustration.
"If you’re so bent on killin’ yerself, mon, at least have the
decency to do it far away from Laura and the laddies. Or are
you...
Winston
...fancyin’ addin’ yerself to the Baird House list o' the
walkin’ dead?"

"Your sarcasm is no'
appreciated," Winston wheezed.

Roan slapped a palm to his
chest. "Beg yer pardon, Mr. Detective, sir, but I'm resistin’ a
powerful urge to shake some sense into you! If you came for help,
mon, this house welcomes you. But I'll no' tolerate anither suicide
on or near this property. Do you understand me?"

"Roan."

Laura's gentle chiding
straightened the laird in his chair. He rose to his feet and
immediately stepped aside, allowing her to seat herself next to
their guest. She laid the silver tray she carried, on her lap.
"Roan made a batch of lamb stew this morning. It's pretty
good."

"Pretty good?" Roan
challenged indignantly.

With a roll of her eyes, she
amended, "Absolutely the best lamb stew ever cooked on a gas
stove."

Roan grinned. "Give the cook
his due, I say."

A smile straining to appear
on her lips, she went on, "Anyway, can you manage on your own? I
don't mind spoon-feed—"

"I can manage," Winston
rasped.

With a nod, she placed the
tray on his lap, then rose and stepped back out of Winston's sight,
allowing him to eat in a semblance of privacy.

Despite his aching trembling
hands, he did manage to eat most of the stew and half the corn
biscuit. He finished the cup of tea and, feeling full and almost
human again, dabbed at his mouth with the white linen napkin.
Shortly, Laura took the tray away and disappeared into the dining
room to Winston's left. It was then he looked up and regarded the
reticent laird, who stood ten feet back, his arms crossed against
his broad chest.

"Thank you."

"Ma pleasure," Roan
murmured. He came forward and lifted the chair. Once he had
replaced it next to one of the pink and gold sofas arranged on a
Persian carpet in the center of the room, he returned and
positioned himself alongside Winston. "A good night's sleep is wha'
you need. Can you negotiate the stairs?"

A tremor of fear speared
Winston, but he forced it back. He drew in a ragged breath and
eased himself up onto his feet. At first he swayed. Teetered like a
drunk. Seconds later, he felt steady enough to take a step. Then
another. And another.

Laura returned. She went to
Roan's side and linked an arm through one of his, her sympathetic
gaze on Winston. "I think he should sleep in the library tonight.
He doesn't look too steady to me."

"I don't want to be a
burden."

Roan's previous burliness
visibly evaporated. Going to Winston's side, he cupped a supporting
hand beneath the man's elbow.

"Ma Aunt Aggie fixed you a
room on the second floor." He looked at Laura and explained, "The
library sofa is too hard." To Winston, he went on, "It has a
private bathroom. Ma aunt was lookin’ forward to seein’ to yer
needs but the lads wore her ou'. I'm afraid she's in the grayness
for a time."

"Grayness?"

"Don't ask," Roan said
humorously.

"Thank you. Mr.—"

"Roan."

Winston nodded. "Roan, may I
ask anither favor?"

"Sure."

"Ma rose. I'd like it back,
please."

"Laura, it's on the coffee
table."

"Okay, I'll get it," she
said.

Winston momentarily closed
his eyes. When he opened them, he found the laird shrewdly studying
him. "It means a lot to me," he murmured.

"We'll talk in the morn when
you’re rested. Have you a suitcase wi' you?"

Winston shook his
head.

A mischievous gleam lit
Roan's eyes, and he grinned. "Weel, now, you’re o' a slighter build
than me. Lannie's clothes should fit you nicely,
though."

"Oh, God," Laura
groaned.

Winston arched a questioning
brow. When Roan laughed, he decided he didn't want to know what had
struck the man so funny. But by the time he'd gotten to the foot of
the staircase, he remembered Lachlan Baird's mid-nineteenth century
attire on Christmas Eve. An image of himself dressed in black,
snug-fitting trousers, black knee boots, and a full-sleeved shirt
like those worn by pirates in the movies, prompted a guttural laugh
to escape him.

His spirits lifted and, for
the first time in a very long time, his shoulders didn't feel quite
so burdened with the problems of the world.

"I've clothes to spare,"
Roan said good-naturedly to Winston, and offered Laura a playful
wink.

The only thing Winston could
think of to say was another, "Thank you."

With Roan to his right and
Laura behind, Winston began to climb. One step. Slowly, two steps.
Feeling exhausted, the third step. He reached out to further
balance himself with the highly-polished, mahogany rail. The
instant his skin made contact, a blast of icy psychic waves coursed
through him. He released an inordinately loud gasp, as if a great
bellows were in his chest in lieu of lungs. He was oblivious to
Laura shrinking back, and of Roan's face going pale. He could only
focus on the freezing ignitions going off inside him, one after
another, in such rapid succession, he couldn't catch his breath.
His body violently shook, not unlike someone in the throes of
electrocution. His palm was stuck fast to the wood. Wisps of
vibrant blue psychic energy whip-lashed from the hand.