Love Everlastin' Book 3 (41 page)

Winston's stomach was in
knots by the time he reached the far side of the house. He peered
through the small panes of the door's window and saw no one in the
kitchen. The knob turned in his hand and the door
opened.

"Hel—lo," he called as he
stepped through the doorway.

The room's stillness made
him uneasy, but he closed the door behind him and placed the basket
on the island centered in the room. Breakfast odors scented the air
and the thirty-five by twenty foot room was warm, suggesting the
oven had been used.

"Fresh scones or muffins,"
he said to himself. "Maybe even a loaf o' bread."

He whistled softly as he
unloaded the basket onto the oak counter. The throwaway items he
gathered and tossed in a tall rubber trash can next to the double
sinks. The tub of butter he carried to the far end of the room,
where he opened a door to what appeared to be a large closet.
Inside was the refrigerator, an ornate wooden piece standing five
feet tall and four feet wide. He placed the tub on the second
perforated shelf then glanced down to see the ice block had
dwindled to the size of a block of cheese.

Closing the door, he removed
a deep pan from beneath the refrigerator, something he'd seen Roan
do during their baking session. He emptied the water into one of
the sinks, returned the tray to its slot, then went to a wall hook
next to the door and grabbed the ice tongs. Again as he'd seen Roan
do, he went outside to a low wooden chest situated to the right of
the stoop. Lifting the top and securing it open with an attached
metal rod, he saw three blocks of ice remained, each wrapped in
heavy brown paper. Roan had explained how, in the cold weather, the
iceman delivered seven blocks of ice every Friday to last a week,
while delivering one every morning during the hot weather. With no
electricity, it was the only way to keep perishable objects
cold.

Winston lowered the block to
the ground, closed the top of the lid, then hoisted the ice and
carried it into the kitchen. He placed it inside the bottom of the
refrigerator, alongside the remains of the last block. With this
done, he returned to the basket and transferred the used plates,
pans, and utensils to the left sink.

Although the piping system
was designed to allow lit fireplaces to heat portions of water for
baths and washing at the sinks, the kitchen water had to be heated
on the stove to do dishes. Winston was reaching for one of the
larger kettles hanging from cast-iron hooks over the island, when
he noticed Deliah standing at the doorway to the dining room. He
froze in place, his heartbeat throbbing in his throat.

Winston lowered his arms and
swallowed hard. She looked more like a teenager at the moment than
a woman of her centuries. A baggy red knit jersey hung to her
thighs, the long sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. Cream
colored stirrup pants, also loose-fitting, covered her to her bare
feet.

Seeming a great deal more at
ease than what Winston felt, she took the basket and placed it
inside one of the bottom compartments of the massive oak sideboard
across the island from him. Her hair was arranged in a single thick
braid, which swung against her back with her movements.

Winston frowned when his
mind dumped all thought, and he glanced about the room trying to
collect himself. From the corner of his eye he saw Deliah walk
toward him. She stopped at the end of the island, seven feet away,
watching him through an unreadable expression. Still a greeting
refused to formulate, so it was his intention to walk out the door
until he unwittingly lowered his gaze. Again he found himself
paralyzed, staring fixedly at the swell of her breasts and the
erect nipples clearly defined through the jersey. Seconds ticked by
before she spoke, and her tone was so casual and matter-of-fact, he
found himself all the more baffled.

"I canna bring maself to
wear the bindin’ undergarments. Last night, Laura asked why female
fays have breasts if we dinna give birth and nurse our wee ones. I
explained how we reproduce, and how we are born mair as wha' ye
call a toddler, and tha' we are indeed nursed on breast milk for
the first two years. Efter tha' stage, we transform to our middlin’
phase, which is a far longer equivalency to wha' ye call yer teen
years."

Winston finally forced
himself to look into her eyes and heard himself gulp. The heat of a
blush stole across his cheeks and perspiration broke out on his
brow.

"I'm sure the question o' ma
breasts would have crossed yer mind sooner or later."

"Umm...."

"Are ye comfortable,
Winston?" she asked softly. "In the carriage house?"

He nodded and swallowed hard
again. His palms itched and he flexed his fingers in a bid to
relieve the irritation.

"May I approach
ye?"

The question took him aback.
"I wish you would."

Without hesitation, she
closed the distance and stood within half an arm's reach. Her gaze
solemnly inspected his split and swollen lower lip, the small cut
on his right cheek, and the dark red blotch on his left jaw that
was transforming into a bruise.

"Are ye in pain?"

"No' really. It's just a bit
uncomfortable."

She wrinkled her nose
expressively. "Male fays dinna sprout hair on their
faces."

"I need to
shave."

She searched his eyes with
unnerving calm. "I can heal ye if ye allow me."

"Another root
job?"

She grinned mischievously.
"No, but I will need to touch ye."

The idea of that so appealed
to Winston, his head reeled. "If it's no' too much
trouble."

She studied him for a moment
longer, then lifted her hands and placed them on his shoulders as
she positioned herself against him. Winston was sure she could hear
his heart pounding. Sure she knew just how much he wanted her.
Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the cut on his cheek.
He felt moisture against the area, then a tingling sensation that
burrowed deeply into the wound. When next she targeted his marred
jaw, she was hesitant and he sensed she didn't like the prickly
feel of his stubble.

Again he felt moisture and
the same sensation seep into the layers of his skin. She settled on
her heels for a time, inspecting his lower lip. To his surprise,
she pursed her lips and he saw a foamy dab of spit emerge from the
tiny opening. He nearly flinched when she deposited it on the
laceration, but then she lingered this time, and he felt her lips
tenderly move against the wound. The tingling was more intense,
bordering uncomfortable, when suddenly it vanished.

When she settled back this
time, he sucked in the injured section and ran his tongue along the
surface. It was smooth. Neither cut nor swollen.

With a low, shaky laugh he
said, "First time I've been grateful to be spat on. Thank
you."

She nodded.

"Have you been outside this
morning? It actually feels like spring has finally
arrived."

To his chagrin, Deliah's
eyes filled with tears and she turned her back to him.

"Did I say something
wrong?"

She shook her head, but he
could tell by the taut posture of her shoulders she was
upset.

Heaving a sigh, he glanced
about then asked, "Have you seen the new oak?"

"I be aware o'
it."

Her voice held such despair
Winston instinctively turned her around and pulled her into his
arms. She didn't struggle, but buried her face into his right
shoulder and gripped the front of his shirt. Her body shook with
sobs for a brief time then he heard her draw in ragged breaths as
if attempting to rein in her emotions.

"Talk to me, Deliah," he
whispered, stroking the back of her head. "Why are you so
unhappy?"

A disparaging sound escaped
her before she lifted her head. She didn't look up and her fingers
loosened their hold, instead, lightly plucking at the material as
if keeping her hands busy offered her fortification.

"I canna think o' spring
wi’ou' achin’ for ma family. Tis our maist cherished season. When
we celebrate renewal wi' song and dance and await the arrival o'
the young ones."

Winston kissed her on the
brow then propped up her chin with the side of an index finger.
Tears still glistened in her eyes as she timidly met his probing
gaze.

"It be all lost,
Winston."

"No' all. You're
here."

A hitching breath spilled
past her lips. "Alone, I canna nurture the land."

Winston smiled. "There are
gardeners tha' help in tha' department."

"Aye," she said dully. "They
can weed. They can plant. They can grow wha' they sow in the earth.
But no one but a fay can nurture the magic o' the earth. It be the
magic wha' prevents blight. Magic wha' keeps leaves from turnin’
brown afore their time, and flowers in full bloom throughou' their
true phase.

"MoNae relies on us,
Winston, to protect her realm. I canna do it alone."

"Deliah—"

Winston sucked in a breath
when the dining room door opened and Laura stopped short at the
threshold. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face gaunt and pale.
Feeling that he had to say something, he managed a strained, "Thank
you for breakfast. I came in to return the basket."

Several moments passed in
tense silence, during which Deliah's gaze pinged between him and
Laura.

"I'll have your lunch ready
around noon," she said dispassionately, her solemn gaze watching
Deliah.

"I better go," Winston
said.

"Laura, canna he stay?"
Deliah pleaded.

Winston's lips parted to
speak, but Laura cut him off. "Winston, stay if you want. I'm not
angry at you. I had no right to take out my frustration on you,
last night."

"You were definitely wi’in
your rights," he said by way of apology. He looked down into
Deliah's glowing face and felt a sharp pang of remorse. "Deliah, I
can't. No' as long as Roan and Lachlan are on the ou’s."

Sorrow crept across her
features. "They must make their own peace. Winston, ye and I need
to talk. Please, stay wi' me."

A breath shuddered from
Winston and he rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment before
looking deeply into hers. "It wouldn't be right if I stayed
here."

Unable to stop himself, he
crushed her to him and kissed her hard, passionately, then as
abruptly released her and walked to the door. Opening it, he
glanced back at her, knowing he looked as bleak and as miserable as
did she, but unable to justify to himself why he should be forgiven
and not Roan and Lachlan.

"I'm sorry," was all he
could say. He hurried out the door, closing it behind
him.

What began as a beautiful
spring day, now struck him as gray and dismal, as dismal as the
ache in his heart.

C
hapter 16

A bitter taste filled
Winston's mouth as he lethargically ambled in the direction of the
carriage house, his hands in his pants pockets and his head held
low. Deliah's face, lined and shadowed with disappointment and
sorrow, occupied the scope of his mindscreen. He repeatedly told
himself he should turn around and finish what he'd begun in the
kitchen. He had come so close to opening up his heart to her, to
confessing how miserable he was away from her, to vowing a
commitment to love her for the duration of his life, and
beyond.

In retrospect, he'd become a
pro at evasiveness. An excuse always presented itself whenever he
found himself in a situation that threatened to make him feel
anything above and beyond what was required to complete each job.
In leaving her this time, he came to the sickening realization that
he had been responsible for his family's attitude toward him. Even
as a young boy, he had emotionally cut them off, choosing the
companionship of his psychic world to them. Little wonder they
couldn't relate to him.

How did any normal parent
hope to breach the depths of the mental walls he'd
constructed?

His parents weren't perfect,
but whose were?

The fact they couldn't find
it within themselves to give up their chosen way of life for a
child like him, didn't make them selfish or cold or even bad
parents. They'd done for him as well as they felt they could. Their
emotional abandonment had stemmed from years of frustration and
disappointment. His mother couldn't have another child. He was it.
He'd never scanned his parents and now knew why. It wasn't their
failings he had been afraid to view, but his own.

He had never cried as a
child. Never had a favorite toy. A favorite program or song. He'd
always been a passionate reader, but the reason didn't lie in the
stories themselves, but in the fact that he could take the mindways
and see the authors actually creating their works. Psychometry not
only made it easy for him to know their every thought and mood
during the productions, but granted him vivid images as if the
process of completing the book was a movie playing across his
mindscreen. He knew everything about the author, including the
creative mindset that formulated each storyline and every
character.