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

by Mickee Madden

  Her hand smarted, her head throbbed and her body ached miserably, but none of it explained her inability to control her emotions. From the moment she came to in this house, she felt like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse.

  Sinking to the floor, her legs folded beneath her, she surveyed the room through a new mist of tears.

  Of course she didn't want to haul the boys out into the cold. Perhaps she knew Roan wouldn't let her leave the house under unfavorable conditions. But wouldn't that mean that she wanted him—anyone—to take charge of her life?

  No!

  Somewhere inside her, the real Laura Bennett was hiding. Why, she didn't know, but she wanted her back.

  She looked toward the hall door to see the boys coming toward her. A smile strained past her despair. Alby climbed onto her lap and pressed the side of his head to her chest. Kevin sat crosslegged on the floor to her left; Kahl to her right, his legs folded beneath him.

  They passed questioning looks among themselves, waiting for her to say something to assuage their curiosity. They knew something was wrong, but Laura didn't know what to tell them.

  The silence took its toll on Alby. He began to whimper as he nestled his chubby face in the folds of her coat. Tears sprang into Kahl's eyes. Kevin fought harder not to relent to the emotions swelling inside him.

  "It'll be okay," Laura said softly, encircling Kevin and Kahl's shoulders with her arms and drawing them closer to her. "Mr. Ingliss is going to call the consulate."

  "Are we staying?" Kahl sniffed.

  "For a while longer," she replied. Despite her efforts, her tone sounded hollow.

  "Laura, I gotta take a slash."

  A chuckle rattled deep in her throat, and she kissed the top of Alby's head. "Take a slash, huh?" Her mood brightening, she smiled in earnest. "While we're waiting for Mr. Ingliss to return, how about if we explore your tower, Kahl?"

  His eyes gleaming with anticipation, he sprang to his feet. "Yeah. It's cool. Maybe we'll find a skeleton, huh? Do you think? Huh?"

  "One could only hope," she said wearily, getting to her feet.

  * * *

  The laughter and conversation in Shortby's wound down when a gust of wind and a snow-clad, half-frozen Roan came through the door. Shutting it with more force than necessary, he crossed to the bar, peeling off his gloves along the way.

  "Roan, ma boy!" one elderly patron laughed. "Join me for a pint!"

  "Later," Roan grumbled, climbed onto a stool and testily beckoned for the bartender. "Yer phone workin'?"

  "On and off," Silas MacCormick said, eyeing Roan sympathetically from above wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his narrow nose.

  "Ma tab still good?"

  Silas nodded.

  "Have me a bitter ready," Roan ordered, placing his gloves on the counter and sliding off the stool. He went to a black telephone at the end of the bar and lifted the handset to a red-rimmed ear.

  "Damn me," he swore at the silence that greeted him, then slammed the handset home and returned to the stool.

  Silas' dark eyes twinkled beneath bushy white eyebrows as he placed a handled glass in front of Roan.

  "Where you been, lately?"

  "Kist House," Roan replied with a grimace.

  "No say. Borgie was by last eve. Left here, staggerin'."

  "He's an arse, too."

  "Too?"

  Roan gestured that it wasn't worth an explanation. "Ma bloody car skidded into Kastor's dyke." He downed half the warm, dark ale before adding, "Course, he wasn't home so I could use his bloody phone."

  "You walked from Kastor's?" With a roll of his eyes, Silas feigned a theatrical shiver. "The wind has a cruel cut to it."

  Turning halfway on the stool, Roan looked over the dozen other men occupying the establishment. "Taylor been in today?"

  "His wife's abou' to give birth. Methinks she's got the leash tight ‘round his neck, these days. Can't say as I blame her. He wasn't around when the ither five popped ou' now, was he?" With a laugh, he pulled a bar towel from his shoulder and gave a swipe over the spotless counter. "Six. Can you imagine six wailin' kids under yer feet?"

  A shadow passed over Roan's features but for a moment. "No, can't imagine it, Silas. Damn, I need to make a call."

  "To Aggie?"

  "No. The American Consulate in Edinburgh."

  Silas' eyebrows quirked upward. "Wha' for?"

  "It’s a long story."

  "Hey, lad!" boomed a familiar voice, a beefy hand clapping Roan on the back. William Shaw parked his broad buttocks on the stool to Roan's left. "Up to a game o' darts?" His broadening grin exposed a missing upper front tooth. "I'm in ma cups but feelin' lucky as hell," he added, gleefully rubbing his hands together.

  Roan glanced off to his right, to the dart board mounted on the wall of a raised platform area. Looking at William, he gave a solemn shake of his head. "No' today."

  "Why no'? I'll spot you a—"

  "No' today," Roan scowled into his face.

  Lifting his hands in a placating manner, William Shaw left the stool and returned to his three drinking buddies across the room.

  "What's eatin' you, Roan?"

  Silas' soft tone elicited a sigh from Roan. "Wha' isn't, these days?"

  "Hmm. If I didn't know better, I'd bet ma life you were a mon wi' a lot o' womon trouble. But ye're Roan Ingliss, aye? Folks ‘round here know you to be a loner."

  Despite his mood, a gleam of laughter brightened Roan's eyes. "A loner I may prefer to be, ma friend, but it’s a womon all right who has me in knots."

  Silas rested his bony elbows on the counter, his upturned palms supporting his chin. "Go on," he grinned.

  "Nothin' really to tell. Damn me, I need a bloody phone."

  "A Yank, aye? I mean, you did mention the American Consulate, didn't you?"

  "Aye...on both accounts. She drove smack into an oak on Baird's land. Her and the laddies—"

  "Laddies?"

  "Her three nephews."

  "How old are they?"

  Roan shrugged. "Young."

  "And the womon...pretty, aye?"

  Roan scowled, finished off his lager then slapped the bottom of the glass down. "You ask too many questions."

  "Ah." Straightening, Silas chuckled. "Yer defensiveness says it all, ma lad."

  "It does, huh?" Arching a haughty brow, Roan wagged a finger at the man. "You don't know a thing, old mon. Trust me."

  An air of superiority gave flight to Silas' outgoing personality. "Don't know a thing, you say? I'll bet a day's wage she's young, pretty as a day is long, and built to shackle a mon's reasonin'."

  Flustered, Roan slid off the stool. "I've got to get back. I'll probably return in the morn to use the phone." Digging into his right pocket, he extracted some coins, picked through them, and flipped a pound on the counter. "If Taylor, Borgie or Archie come in, ask them to come to Kist House. At the least, I need to know if there's a coach goin' to Edinburgh anytime soon."

  "No' likely you'll see the white o' their eyes up there."

  "Just ask."

  "Aye," Silas grinned, and winked suggestively. "But I'll tell them no' to bother you too long efter dark. Lest you be warmin' yer bones—"

  "Yer dentures are too large," Roan clipped, retrieving his gloves into one hand. "They make yer head look all shrunk up."

  Silas heartily laughed and offered Roan a jaunty salute. "I'll be damned! Roan Ingliss is smitten wi' a Yank!"

  The pub fell silent once again. Roan was conscious that all eyes were on him. Shrugging deeper into his coat, he turned on a heel and beelined for the door. Shouts from a few of the customers made a bid to stall him, but inwardly seething that perhaps the old man's words held some truth, he exited the pub. Icy wind claimed him again. Leaning into its bite, he plowed across the small parking lot, toward Crossmichael's main road. More than half the day had been wasted trying to locate a working telephone. He knew Laura Bennett wouldn't appreciate his efforts. If she was even still at the house.

&
nbsp; His threat had been rash, and if there was one thing he knew about Laura, it was that she didn't like to feel out of control. But what was a man to do when a woman's stubbornness exceeded the bounds of tolerance? He did care what happened to them. He wasn't about to subject himself to sleepless nights wondering if they'd arrived safe in Edinburgh.

  Lannie's energies had to replenish soon. If not....

  Roan didn't want to dwell any longer on the volatile emotions the woman's presence provoked. It wasn't her fault that she resembled Adaina, or that Adaina and Jamey had so tragically died. And it wasn't her fault that he found her so maddeningly attractive.

  Dusk was settling in over the land when he trudged up the driveway to Kist House. Ice particles weighing down his thick lashes, he gazed over the facade of the Victorian mansion as he approached the massive, double front doors. Every part of him ached from the cold, especially his feet, which felt as if embedded with fiery needles. He entered the small greenhouse, stomped his boots to shake off the snow caked onto them, and reached for the left knob on the second set of double doors.

  The door swung open. Laura Bennett's small frame stood in the opening.

  Their eye contact was brief. Brushing past her, he entered the hall, shucked out of his coat and hung it on a rack to his left and began to rub his bare arms with his palms.

  "I thought you might need this," Laura said demurely, lifting a blanket she'd earlier placed by the rack.

  Without looking into her face, he eagerly shook the blue and purple plaid blanket open and swung it over his bare shoulders.

  "I couldn't figure out how to work the stove, so I didn't put on any water for tea. You look...."

  Roan met her nervous gaze and frowned.

  "Frozen," she completed in a small voice.

  "Where are the laddies?"

  "Sleeping. Did you.... Were you able to get to a telephone?"

  Roan drew the blanket tighter about him. "Aye, but the lines are down. I'll try again in the morn."

  She stared into his eyes for what seemed a long time before lowering her gaze to the floor between them. "I was worried you wouldn't come back."

  Her words took him aback. When she looked up again, he closed one eye and leaned closer.

  "All right, hit me wi' the punch line and get it over wi'."

  Laura gave a bewildered shake of her head. "I was worried. The wind picked up shortly after you left— What happened to your car?"

  He started walking toward the secondary hall, Laura falling into step alongside him. "I slid into a dyke. Helluva mess."

  "A dyke?"

  He stopped just past the barroom and looked down at her. "A dividin' wall."

  "The car's totaled?"

  He arched an inquiring eyebrow.

  "It's wrecked?"

  "Aye, but I'm in one piece," he said sarcastically.

  Her gaze swept appreciatively down his tall frame. "I can see that." She met his brooding gaze, guarding her concern for him. "How far did you have to walk?"

  "Far enough," he grumbled.

  Clasping her hands to the small of her back, she followed him into the kitchen. Silence accompanied them for a time while he filled a kettle and placed it on a gas burner atop the antiquated stove. He lit one of the wooden matches kept on a wrought iron rack above the appliance, turned one of the knobs, and lit the unit. Turning and eyeing Laura, he blew out the match.

  "There's a question in yer eyes," he said matter-of-factly.

  "Not a question." Laura squared her shoulders. "I'm sorry if I don't always understand what you're saying."

  Again, he looked at her inquiringly.

  "You didn't have to take my head off because I didn't know what you meant by a 'dyke'."

  He smiled mockingly. "And here I thought I was bein' civil—especially in light o' the fact I'm half frozen and as frustrated as hell."

  "You're forgiven," she said airily, refusing to let him goad her. "Actually, I do have a question." She waited while he obtained two mugs from a cupboard and placed them next to the stove. "You used a word this morning that I can't get out of my head."

  He slanted her a look while lowering tea bags into the cups. "Wha' word?"

  "This morning you said 'pree'd'. I was asking to be pree'd."

  Edging two paces closer, her hands still clasped at the small of her back, she tilted her head to one side. "What does the word mean?"

  Warmth spread across Roan's chest as he struggled not to crack another grin. Feigning a pensive frown, he breached the short distance between them.

  "Define it? Hmmm. I guess showin' beats the bloody hell ou' o' tellin'."

  Laura had no idea what was coming. Swiftly, as if to completely take her unawares, he lowered his head and lightly kissed her. A spasm of shock first rooted her then she jumped back and stared at his amused expression as if he'd lost his mind.

  "That's a verra wee pree," he winked. "When a Scotsmon puts his blood's worth into it, lass, the word takes on all kinds o' definitions." He arched an eyebrow. “So slap me and get it ou’ o’ yer system.”

  Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him.

  Roan released a thready breath. Gripping her arms, he hesitantly drew her against him. Immediately, he felt the warmth of her body radiate through the blanket.

  "There's somethin' better than tea to take the chill ou' o' a mon."

  Mesmerized by his closeness, the mischievous glow in his alluring pale brown eyes, she breathed, "Is there?"

  Releasing her, he quipped, "Scotch. Would you mind fetchin' me a bottle?"

  With the deliverance of the dead, Laura bid, "Good night, Mr. Ingliss," and left the kitchen by way of the dining room.

  Roan laughed. Then laughed again.

  "Good night, lass," he beamed, feeling more lighthearted than he had in years. But then he sobered and brushed the back of a hand across his tingling lips.

  A fey ache thrummed in his heart. An ache akin to excitement.

  The whistle of the tea kettle gave him a start.

  Without thinking, he poured steaming water into both cups then grinned wryly at his absentmindedness.

  He looked to the door she'd passed through moments ago. One wee kiss and the chill had completely left him. He was almost afraid to imagine what making love to the woman could do for him.

  Chapter 3

  Bitter cold winds buffeted the exterior walls of the warm, toasty kitchen. Roan could not block out the mournful sibilations as he forced down the bland brose he'd earlier concocted. He also could not shut down his awareness of Laura's silence, or her laden disappointment with his failure that morning to locate a working telephone in town.

  She'd awakened at the crack of dawn in a foul mood. Not coffee or breakfast, or his attempts to cheer her up, had made the slightest difference. He'd even donned one of Lachlan's ridiculous full-sleeved shirts to appease her indignant airs over his state of undress. The woman simply expected more of him than he could deliver.

  And it irked him.

  So the brose was lumpy. He'd never professed to be much of a cook, although how he could have screwed up something as simple as oatmeal mixed with boiling water, butter and salt, was beyond him. Regardless, a thank you from the woman would have been appreciated.

  Peering at her from his lowered head, he found himself counting the number of times she lifted her spoon to her mouth. Deliberate small portions, as if to prolong the agony of finishing the meal. And her gaze never left the bowl.

  Too bad. Whatever her mood, her green eyes always fascinated him. Clear. Vibrant. Sexy—

  Clearing his throat, he straightened in the wooden chair and pushed his bowl aside. The next time—if there was a next time—he decided they would eat at the long dining room table, and not crowd five around a table built comfortably for two. The other table would also place them farther apart, which, during his intermittent urges to throttle her, would require him to leave his chair and hopefully regain his reasoning by the time he got to her.

  To dispel
his mental wanderings, he asked, "Can I get anyone anythin' else?"

  Shaking his head, Kahl reached for another oatcake.

  "Naw," Kevin said through a mouthful of food.

  "No, thank you," Laura corrected him then looked coolly at Roan and repeated the words.

  Roan's gaze clashed with hers. Rising from his chair, he refilled his cup with dark, strong coffee, and sat again.

  Kahl giggled, his impish blue eyes staring askance at Roan.

  "What's so funny?"

  "You look like a girl," Kahl grinned, staring at the ruffled cuff of the shirt Roan wore.

  A flush worked its way into Roan's cheeks, and he grinned. "Aye, so I do. Hard to believe grown men willingly wore these things, aye?"

  His gaze cut to the woman across the table from him. She stared through him before looking down at her bowl once again. "It’s the owner's shirt. I braved damnation to enter his grand suite and take a loan o' one o' his possessions."

  Scrinching up his face, Kevin grunted, "Huh?"

  Taking a sip of coffee, Roan winked at the boy. "Lannie's verra possessive o' his belongin’s."

  "That's enough," Laura warned, her eyes flashing at Roan through a darkening expression.

  Roan arched a brow. "Beg yer pardon, but wha' can I talk abou' wi'ou' insultin' yer sensibilities?" Pushing an ear forward with an isolated finger, he probed, "Eh?"

  "Knock it off."

  A look of spleen brought ruddy color to Roan's face. "I tell you wha', Miss Bennett, make me a bloody list. And don't be shy abou' sparin' ma feelin’s."

  "Here we go again," Kahl sighed, his gaze pinging between the adults.

  Laura cast the boy a heated glance, then rose from her chair and carried her bowl and cup to the sink across the room. Roan watched her, her every stiff movement further fueling his temper.

  "I'm neither responsible for yer predicament nor the storm."

  "I never said you were," she responded, standing at the deep porcelain sink, her back to him.

  Turning sideways in his chair, Roan began to drum the fingertips of his right hand atop the table. "Then spare me the dirty looks. I'm doin' the best I can. Ye're simply expectin' miracles where there's none to be found."