Love Everlastin' Book 3 (25 page)

"Baking?" asked Kevin
skeptically.

"Cookies and wee cakes.
Laura's plannin’ to make flavored snow cones—cold, for sure, but
nonetheless appetizin’, if the gleam in yer eyes is any indication.
So, laddies, tis up to we males to handle the bakin’. Are you wi'
me?"

The boys looked at Beth,
again at Roan then scrambled from the bed with whoops of hilarity.
Roan passed Beth a grateful look then, reminding the boys not to
awaken the twins, ushered them toward the staircase.

Before he descended with
them, Beth ran into the hall and breathlessly asked, "Roan, have
you seen Lachlan?"

"Last I saw him, he was
headed to the carriage house."

"Thanks. I need to talk to
him."

"Beth?" Roan gestured for
the boys to meet him downstairs and turned to Beth when they were
out of earshot. "He's shut himself off from everyone. Are you
really determined to confront him right now?"

"He hasn't come near me
since we arrived. And as far as I know, he hasn't even seen the
twins. I'm damn angry with him, Roan. I need to get this off my
chest."

To her surprise, Roan leaned
forward and kissed her on the cheek. He straightened back with a
shy grin and a sparkle in his eyes. "Then give him hell, lass. But
help yerself to one o' Laura's coats and her spare set o' boots.
She won't mind. They're by the front doors on the
coatrack."

"Thank you, I will. I won't
be gone long. The babies should sleep until I get back."

Ten minutes later, after
she'd again checked in on the twins and found them still asleep,
Beth went downstairs, donned Laura's fur-lined boots which were a
tad too large, and a blue, down-filled three-quarter length coat.
As soon as she stepped through the outer set of doors, a freezing
gust of wind slammed against her and robbed her of breath. She
almost relented to an urge to dash back inside the house. But she
didn't. She looked at the carriage house a short distance away and
felt a lump rise into her throat.

If Lachlan meant to be
cruel, than he couldn't have chosen a better way. In death he had
wooed, pursued and won her heart. Now, alive, it was as if she were
a leper. Angry? No! She was fuming mad and determined to make him
smart just a little – if she could. From what she'd been told by
Aggie, Deliah and Laura, he was distraught over being one of the
living again. Distraught! Had he lost his mind?

The way to the carriage
house proved slippery and, by the time she made it to the door, the
cold had worked through the dark tan slacks she wore and bitten her
knees. Without preamble, she opened the door and walked in. The
interior was lit by two lanterns. Sitting on a cot across the
spacious room to her left was Lachlan. Elbows resting on his knees
and his chin atop his entwined fingers, he was deep in thought and
not aware of her approach. At that moment Beth felt torn with
emotions. On one hand, she wanted to throw herself into his arms.
On the other—

Instinct chose the latter
and she whacked him on the top of his head.

"Och!" he bellowed, jumping
to his feet. The instant he realized she was the one who had hit
him, he shrank back, his dark eyes seeming too large for his pale
features.

Beth also recoiled at the
sight of his face covered with a thick, bright red mustache and
beard. They made his skin appear paler and his eyes even blacker
than usual.

"Beth," he managed, her name
coming out more of a croak.

"At least your memory's
intact," she said flippantly, glaring at him. "Which is more than I
can say for your heart, you miserable sonofabitch!"

"Dinna disparage ma mither,"
he muttered, looking aside to spare himself the accusation in her
eyes.

"You're a coward, Lachlan
Baird."

His gaze cut to her face and
he scowled. "I need time to think, womon!"

"You need time to think?
Poor baby." She sucked in a breath in an attempt to lessen another
urge to whack him. Her hands clenched and unclenched. Her heart
pounded wildly behind her breasts. "Have you even looked at the
twins?" He glanced away and she barked, "Have you?"

He shook his head, then
gestured his sense of helplessness. "I canna see them yet, Beth.
I'm no' fit to be around anyone."

"Oh, you're not fit, all
right." Tears stung her eyes. "How can you do this to them? To me?
Was loving me only under the condition you remained
dead?"

He looked at her as if she
had punched him in the gut. "I have no future in this time, Beth! I
canna offer you and the babes anythin’!"

Beth couldn't see the
anguish ravaging his features, or hear the desperation in his tone.
Something inside her died at that moment, and she knew it was
something more precious than had been her life.

Leaning toward him, tears
falling unchecked down her face, she said, "If you were even half a
man, your first concern would be for your family, and not for
yourself. So wallow in self-pity. Go crawl to your grave and
remember the good ol' days, mister, because you're right. You don't
belong here. You certainly have no place in my future. And you look
like death warmed over. Nothing like the man I thought I
loved."

She fled the carriage house,
leaving the door open behind her.

Lachlan sat hard on the cot.
Sat like the rag-doll of a man he'd become. Tears burned at the
back of his eyes but he refused to release them.

His Beth was right. Crawling
back to his former resting place was his only recourse.

* * *

The Phantom's nostrils
flared as he stared down at the infants in the crib. They'd been
stirring for about a minute now and he realized he would soon have
to leave. Dressed entirely in black, a steel gray, three-days'
growth shadowing his lower face, his cold gray eyes regarded the
babies with disdain. Now and then he flicked a glance at the
embroidered, lace-trimmed pillow angled on the antique rocker next
to the crib. It wouldn't take much to permanently silence the
twins. Since he'd found the wall entrance in the library and had
been exploring the narrow thruways, he'd heard the babies crying
more often than not. And each time their wails cut into his ears or
sparked his nerve endings, he thought about silencing
them.

He had no way of determining
if they would become part of the technological destruction of the
planet. His Guardian only granted him foresight with the mothers,
the begetters. Or perhaps, he reasoned, the fact that the infants'
cries so irritated him, was indeed a sign that they, too, were the
enemy.

A sob caught his notice.
With the agility of a cat, he opened the secret passage at the back
of the closet and slipped inside the darkness. He kept the door
slightly ajar and listened. Soon, he heard, "Mommy loves you," and
knew the babies' mother had returned. It struck him that her voice
held an element of sorrow.

Soundlessly closing the
door, he stood for a time in the darkness, pondering the reason
behind her despondency. Did she know her babies were destined to
destroy the world?

His locked his teeth so
tightly, pain shot along his jawline.

Being a mother, she wouldn't
have the strength to end what shouldn't have been bred. But he
wasn't emotionally involved. When the right time
came....

* * *

Hunger wrestled Winston from
his deep sleep. He felt deliciously good and reluctant to move,
especially spooned as he was to the back of the warm body sharing
his bed. His stomach growled, more pesteringly this time and he
grimaced. Then he grinned and snugged closer, and inhaled the
slight floral scent of her hair. She remained fast asleep, not even
stirring when he palmed her left breast. The nipple was soft and
pliable. For a moment he considered rolling her onto her back so he
could feel the textured nub between his lips, but decided, instead,
to content himself with caressing her. The fingertips of his left
hand trailed over the breast and beneath it. Tenderly moved down
her ribs and made a path across her flat abdomen. His hand was
traveling upward when he came across something that made him frown.
Doubting his touch perception, he retraced the area.

Where a belly button should
have been, was a flat, smooth surface.

Still doubting, he scooted
back and eased her onto her back. She stirred slightly, but quickly
became still and lost within the depths of slumber.

Winston wasn't aware he was
holding his breath as he cautiously drew back the quilt. He saw for
but a second her naked torso before she turned back onto her right
side and partly drew up her knees in a semi-fetal position.
Realizing the cold had nearly awakened her, he lowered the quilt on
them then lay on his back staring up at the ceiling.

His eyes had confirmed what
his touch had relayed to his brain. And it dawned on him that he'd
seen the anomaly before. On the tower. When she'd been dancing nude
in the moonlight.

All human beings have
navels.

Yet, Deliah
didn't.

No longer hungry but sick to
his stomach, he eased himself from the bed and lethargically donned
his briefs, slacks and sweater. His mind was a battlefield of
questions as he took a clean pair of socks from the drawer in the
armoire and sat on the edge of the bed to put them on. Forgotten
was that she was in the room, and that he was even sitting on the
very bed where they'd made love.

No navel.

What did it mean?

He'd first encountered her
in the fourth dimension.

Was she a being from that
world?

She'd talked about a
monastery that once stood on Baird land, and the evil that had
swept over the place.

She'd hidden in the tree.
Hidden? How had she fallen asleep in a tree?

He rocketed to his feet when
something touched his back. He whirled and looked down to see
Deliah smiling up at him sleepily.

"Ye are dressed. And here I
was dreamin’ o' us pleasurin’ each ither again." Lowering the quilt
just enough to expose her breasts, she patted the mattress. "Come,
Winston."

His panic fled. So did
everything else he thought he'd felt for her. His expression
deadpan, he asked dully, "Wha' are you?"

She frowned prettily at
first then realized he was serious. A bleak look crept into her
eyes. She sat up, drawing the quilt to her chin. Her gaze crept to
the vicinity of her torso. "I thought the magic would last till
this eve."

"Wha’ magic?" he asked
caustically.

"The forgetfulness I
sprinkled on yer face," she murmured.

Winston thought of the
golden sparkles he'd seen on his inner eyelids just prior to their
lovemaking. Anger simmered in his blood and he took several breaths
through his nostrils.

"You're a witch."

Her head shot up and her
eyes widened in disbelief. "No. Bite yer tongue! I be no witch,
good or bad. Wha' I be, ye will never understand."

"Try me."

She adamantly shook her head
and cringed back against the decorative headboard. "I thought
freein’ ye o' yer inhibitions would simplify the knowin’, but I can
see ye canna accept me. Ye winna accept wha' ye canna dissect in
yer mind and rationalize.

"Weel, Winston, either ye
come to terms wi' the worst o' wha' ye can imagine o' me, or remain
ignorant o' wha' be the truth." A sob gave her pause, and she
visibly braced herself to go on. "I love ye wi' all yer faults. Yer
ups and downs. Yer goodness and yer darkness. I accept ye. I
deserve no less. I will accept no less."

His features darkened with
contempt. "You're no' human."

"No? I know I have a heart,
because ye are breakin’ it, Winston Ian Connery. I must have a
soul, because I can feel it shrivelin’ inside ma breast. I bleed
and I cry. And I love wi' the same passion as—"

"A
human
female?" he mocked.

She flinched as if he had
struck her. Gulping back the tears rising in her throat, she
slipped from the bed on the opposite side, drawing the quilt around
her as she got to her feet. Her back to him, she said, "I'll no'
ask forgiveness for I've done naught wrong by ye."

Winston watched her walk out
of the room, his chest rising and falling with each great breath
that roared in and out of his lungs. He wanted to cry. Scream.
Smash something! Anything to vent the betrayal coiling ever-tighter
in his gut.

Witch. Dimensional
nymph.
What did it matter. She'd been
somehow blinding him to truths, and he inwardly berated his
stupidity to have allowed it to happen.

A feeling of being watched
triggered his awareness. His head shot around and he saw a peacock
perched on one of the window sills. Its beady dark eyes were
staring at him. He knew it was ludicrous, but he could almost swear
he read intelligence in the bird's colorful face. And he could
almost swear this feathered Peeping Tom was
Braussaw.

The bird released a
spine-chilling cry and rapped its beak twice on the window pane.
Winston stepped toward the windows, but jerked back when the bird
melted into thin air. For a moment he couldn't think. Couldn't
move. He'd encountered more than his share of strange occurrences
in his life, but Baird House was proving to be the biggest
challenge of all.