"Naw," Kevin piped in, popping a chunk of oatcake into his mouth. "She's pissed, all right."
"Kevin!" Laura gasped, issuing him a visual scolding.
"Pissed?" Roan rose to his feet, his brow drawn down in a scowl. "Wha' have you been dippin' into?"
"What?"
"Whiskey?"
"What are you talking about?" Laura asked, visibly rattled.
"Pissed. Drunk."
After a moment, her confusion fled. "No, Mr. Ingliss, I do not drink. The pissed Kevin referred to, means...upset."
"Angry," Kevin lightheartedly corrected.
"I think we've heard enough from you," Laura told the boy.
"We're outta bog rolls," Kahl said to Roan.
"Out of what?" Laura asked him.
With a grin, Roan explained, "Toilet paper."
Laura grimaced. Bog roll? Once she got them back to the States, she was going to have to work with the boys on their language.
She was about to turn back to the sink when her gaze happened on Alby, whose brow lay on the table. Frowning, she walked up behind him and leaned over. "Alby? Hon, are you asleep?"
Roan quickly went to Laura's side and placed a hand on the back of the boy's neck. "He's burnin' up," he gritted out. In a swift, parental movement, he lifted Alby's unconscious form into his arms and carried him to the sink.
"There's a clean cloth under the sink," he instructed Laura. He turned on the cold water tap. "Soak it good and lay it across his brow."
"He seemed fine this morning," Laura murmured tremulously, doing as Roan had instructed. Her face as white as a sheet, she inspected the boy's parched lips then glanced at the brothers at the table. "Did you notice anything wrong with Alby?"
"He puked next to my side of the bed last night," Kevin said.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Kevin shrugged. "Carrie never wanted to hear that kind of stuff."
"I'm not Carrie, am I?"
"Laura." Roan's soft tone brought her gaze to meet his. "Calm down."
Tears instantly sprang to her eyes. "I don't know what to do," she admitted in a small voice choked with emotion.
Roan re-wetted the cloth and gently dabbed it over Alby's red face. "Ma son had his share o' fevers."
"You have a son?"
Pain radiated from Roan's eyes when he glanced at her. "He died a few years ago."
"From a fever?"
Looking down into Alby's face, Roan gave a solemn shake of his head. "Boys, help yer aunt to draw a cool bath in yer room," he said over his shoulder.
Kahl and Kevin sprang from their chairs, but only the younger of the two approached the adults.
"I'll clean up the kitchen," Kevin said as he started to gather the bowls.
"No' on yer life!" Roan snapped.
"I did dishes all the time," the boy protested, suddenly seeming far older than his seven years.
Laura caught Roan's glance and nodded.
"All right. We'll be upstairs," Roan said to Kevin as he turned toward the dining room door. "Join us when ye're done."
"Yeah, yeah."
* * *
The day drew on with excruciating slowness. For the most part, Laura felt completely helpless as she shadowed Roan, until at one point he told her to try to relax and keep Kahl and Kevin entertained. She read to them in the library until they could no longer sit quietly. She took them to the tower, absently listening to the gruesome stories the place visited upon Kevin's fertile imagination.
Hours later, at Roan's request, she heated a can of chicken soup for Alby, who refused to take even a sip of the broth. She could barely stand to hear the child's moaning and sobs, while Roan, to her utter bewilderment, seemed quite naturally in his element taking care of the boy.
Between baths in cool water, Roan rocked him in an antique chair by the window, humming lullabies to ease his delirium. Laura's tolerance lasted but a matter of minutes before she herded the older boys out of the room to look for something else to keep them occupied.
Late that night, after hacking a smoked ham into uneven slices, she made sandwiches for all but Alby. Roan devoured his while cradling Alby on the rocking chair. Laura and the boys ate theirs in silence in the kitchen.
After prodding them to wash their faces and hands at the kitchen sink, she led them back to the bedroom. Uncharacteristically cooperative for once, they climbed atop the feather mattress, removed their shoes and socks, and lay quietly while their aunt covered them with the quilts.
"Don't wake Alby or Mr. Ingliss," she cautioned, planting a kiss on each of their brows.
"Alby still sick?"
"I don't know, Kevin. He needs his rest." She tucked the quilts beneath their chins. "So do both of you. Now close your eyes."
She wasn't sure how long it took the boys to fall asleep. Her body was numb, her mind burdened with recriminations. Glancing in Roan's direction, tears misted her eyes. How easily he slept holding Alby in his arms, as though he'd done it countless times. He was proving to be the kind of guardian her nephews needed. Firm, yet attentive. Not like a certain aunt who panicked at the sight of a runny nose.
Caught up in a mantle of self-pity, she rose from the bed and walked into the hall.
* * *
Roan's eyelids lifted when Laura left the room, and he stared at the empty doorway for a long time. Then his gaze lowered to the moonlit-kissed face of the boy in his arms.
A smile of immeasurable warmth played across his mouth.
How many times had he rocked Jamey during those three years of his life?
He looked to the doorway again. The smile faded.
Easing himself onto his feet, he carried Alby to the bed and gently laid him toward the center, to Kevin's right.
How angelic and peaceful they appear when sleepin’, he thought, and smiled wryly as he brushed the back of his fingers over each of their brows.
Exhaustion settled over him. Walking into the hall, he was half-tempted to go to bed himself, but he was concerned for Laura's state of mind. He hadn't meant to exclude her from taking care of Alby—at least not intentionally. She'd been so pale since the fever in the boy had been discovered.
Believing she'd gone downstairs for a cup of something hot, he headed for the staircase. He was about to descend when a draft drew his attention to the opposite end of the hall. The heavy drape covering the tower entry was flapping back.
Frowning at the warmness of the draft, he entered the tower and began to climb the stone, newel staircase that hugged the rock, outer walls. Stories he'd heard all his life of Baird's remains being found in this part of the mansion, had long doused his interest in exploring it. He paid no attention to the sparse furnishings of the bygone servant quarters as he ascended. On the fourth landing, at the top of a steep set of wooden steps, he discovered the ceiling hatch open. The instant his head breached the opening he spied Laura standing by a four-foot tall, crenelated circular wall.
He climbed onto the flat roof, and for a time was content to watch her. She was more than simply attractive, he realized, admiring her slender form, accentuated by the snug dark slacks and brightly-colored sweater she wore.
Her face, lifted to the silver illuminance of the night, showed to advantage the delicate angles of her jawline. Long, graceful fingers lay anchored on the opposite upper arms.
"The fever broke. He'll be fine."
At the first sound of Roan's husky voice, Laura gave a start.
"Thank you."
"It was ma pleasure." Roan stepped to her side and gazed out in the direction of the shadowed waters of Loch Ken. "It’s quite a view from up here."
Laura nodded.
"Spill it, lass."
Green eyes swung up to regard his profile.
"Somethin' is eatin' at you. Get it off yer chest."
"It's been a long day, that's all."
Roan offered her a lopsided grin. "Liar."
"I'm not in the mood for another confrontation," she sighed. She started to turn away when
his hand clasped her arm and stayed her. "And I'm not in the mood for another lesson in preeing, thank you," she delivered icily.
"In yer dreams," he chuckled, releasing her arm and lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm here to talk."
"I can't think of anything we have to talk about."
Roan gave an exasperated roll of his eyes. "Ye're a stubborn womon if I've ever met one."
Stiffening, she countered, "I'm sure you've had your fair share."
"O' women or just plain stubborn women?"
The laughter in his eyes crumbled her attempts to appear stern. "Fine. You want to talk?"
"Aye."
"Then tell me...how did your son die?"
A shadow of pain clouded his expression. "It’s no' a subject I care to discuss."
"Are you still married?"
"No."
"I see," she murmured, staring sullenly out across the glistening land. "The subject you will discuss is me, right?"
"Tell me abou' yer family," he urged in a soft, seductive tone.
She eyed him warily, her heart thudding behind her breasts. "Whatever for?"
"I'm curious." Bracing his buttocks to the wall, he folded his arms against his chest and looked down into her defiantly strained features. "Behind all yer spit and polish, I sometimes see a verra lonely womon."
"Ha," she said flippantly with a toss of her head.
"I'm curious, you see, because ma family is close. We're scattered from here to the west coast, but we keep in touch. We Inglisses have an understandin', we do. Family comes first, wha'ever the price."
Laura looked away. She didn't like the feeling of being beneath the scope of his practiced eye. His curiosity was too personal, and she was already having enough of a struggle keeping herself emotionally distant from him.
"Had a brither o' mine died, Laura Bennett—wha’ever the differences between us—I would have done anythin' to have the chance to say ma final goodbye to him," he went on, his tone as painfully probing as a needle in a raw wound. "No' so wi' yer clan."
A shiver passed through her as she murmured, "Different strokes for different folks."
"Why are you workin' so hard to have me believe you've no heart?"
Her anger-brightened gaze cut to his face. "Why do you care if I have heart or not...eh?" She emphasized the latter with a sneer, then felt instantly contrite and looked out across the scenery.
Roan heaved a whimsical sigh. "I, too, don't like feelin' helpless, lass." Hearing a sob catch in her throat, he leaned his head back to see more than just her profile. "But yer brither.... How could you no' come to say yer goodbyes to him? I don't understand."
Gulping past the tightness in her throat, Laura unconsciously gripped the rough edge of the wall. "My brother was seven years older than me. We were both passed off to every neighbor, friend and family member who would take us while my parents pursued their dream of traveling the globe. We simply got used to them not being around."
Her voice grew huskier as she continued, "Steven resented having to watch over me as much as he had to. When he turned eighteen, he enlisted in the Air Force. I was twenty-two before I heard from him again, and he'd only written to tell me how much he loved England, and his plans to spend the rest of his life here. I got the distinct impression he blamed the morals of all Americans on his hang-ups. He wanted his children to have the kind of family life he'd been denied.
"It was a two-page, bitter...bitter letter, and at the time, I was angry that he'd sent it to me. I showed it to our parents." A dry laugh caressed her throat. "They shrugged it off, so I tossed it away without a further thought about him."
She paused to will back a threat of tears.
"Then...as I told you...he called after each of his sons was born. Nothing but a brief gloating message of his ability to procreate."
Shrugging, she ran her fingers through her pale hair. "How ironic that I should now have his sons." She lowered her hands to the wall. "Steven would hate the fact I'm taking the boys to the States, and he would hate the fact that I'm all they have in this miserable world." Her voice cracked when she added, "Justifiably so."
"Have you never been in love?"
She tried to focus on the loch in the distance, but could not. "Love is for dreamers, Mr. Ingliss. I've never believed in dreams, or in magic, or in anything I couldn't see and touch."
An invisible fist closed around Roan's heart. To guard his dismay at her disclosure, he shifted behind her. Placing his hands atop the wall, he caged her within his muscular arms. He was aware of her indignant stiffening, but chose to ignore it while he deeply inhaled the gentle floral scent of her hair. "And here you are, lass, in the heart o' magic land."
"Am I?" she asked coldly.
"Look around you," he laughed softly. "Wha' do yer eyes tell you? Wha' do you feel against yer skin?"
Laura could not stop a shudder from coursing through her. "Back off, Roan," she rasped, folding her arms against her.
A smile played across his mouth as he contentedly gazed about the landscape. "All ma life, I've hated this house and all it stood for," he began, unwittingly pressing himself closer against her and grazing the top of her head with the underpart of his chin. "And I've hated Lannie wi' a passion tha' has just abou' eatin' away ma innards like a cancer. But so much has changed ma way o' thinkin' the past couple o' days. His cursed magic has finally opened ma eyes."
Whirling to face him, Laura furiously glared into his face. "So we're back to the ghost stories again?"
Closing one eye for but a moment, Roan winced. "Ye're no' payin' attention, lass. Get yer mind off ma anatomy and look around you."
Briefly, Laura considered throwing herself from the roof of the tower, or the less dramatic, ducking beneath his corralling arms and running like hell to the relative safety of her bedroom. But the laughter in his tone held a challenge, and she remained rooted. Her shoulders haughtily thrust back, her chin lifted in a show of defiance, she looked into his smiling eyes with as much bravado as she could muster.
"I'm not going to allow you to provoke me anymore."
"Ahh, is tha' so? Weel—" He chuckled and teasingly planted a quick kiss on her brow. "—wha' else but magic would whisk you from the clutches o' a loomin' oak?"
"I don't find you particularly amusing."
"No? But then, yer sense o' humor is a wee wabbit."
"What?" She frowned. “Wab—what?"
"Wabbit? Tired...ill."
Lowering her head, Laura pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I'm going to check on the boys." A moment later, when he made no move, she wearily peered into his face. "I'm exhausted. Can't we put this off until the morning?"
"Ye're no' leavin' till you open yer eyes," he grinned with devilish glee, straightening back and folding his arms across his chest. "And no' till I get a weel deserved apology for you doubtin' ma word."
"Your word?" Her temper resurfacing, she asked, "Your word regarding what?"
"Lannie."
"When hell freezes!"
"Explain the dinin' room, then. And the statue...?"
"It never happened," she returned smugly.
"Och! Ye're sayin' we shared the same hallucination?" he asked incredulously.
"Makes perfect sense to me."
"Are we hallucinatin' now?"
A warning light went off in her brain at his coy tone. "Possibly. It's a delightful notion that you're nothing more than a figment of my imagination."
"You just insulted me."
Laura gave an airy shrug.
Scratching his head, Roan walked to the flagpole by the opened hatch and linked an arm around the cool metal. "It’s a bonny warm night." He waited until he saw a pensive frown crease her brow, then went on, "And it’s strange tha' snow falls ten feet ou' all around us, yet this roof is as dry as a summer's drought."
Awareness slowly seeped into Laura's brain. Turning, she realized that it was snowing—very hard—everywhere as far as the eye could see, except over the to
wer. Her gaze lifted to see a hole in the clouds directly overhead. A black velvet sky, jeweled with stars, crowned the tower, and only the tower.
The roof was dry, the air warm. And yet, the other roofs to the mansion bore blankets of the white stuff.
"Lannie's doin'," Roan informed, a smug grin turning up one corner of his mouth.
Laura stared at him for a long time before forcing her legs to carry her to the hatch. She was in no frame of mind to try to rationalize the phenomena.
"Good night, Mr. Ingliss," she said in a strained voice then cautiously descended the steps.
For a time, Roan remained hugging the flagpole, his eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. He'd wanted her to face the truth about the house; he'd succeeded in scaring the wits out of her.
Fatigue revisited him unexpectedly. In two days, he'd only dozed off occasionally.
A gasp burst from his lungs when the air became bitter cold, and snow began to fall on him. He quickly descended, closing the hatch behind him.
"You bleedin' cleg," he muttered testily, storming into the second floor hall. "I'll throttle you, Lannie, I swear!"
He was about to enter the room he'd been using when he glanced down the hall. His scowl darkened out of impatience. Laura had implied she was going to bed, but he knew he wouldn't sleep a wink until he saw for himself that she was asleep, and with the boys. Grumbling beneath his breath, he strutted down the dimly lit hall, a palm rubbing the stubble on his jawline. The bedroom door was open when he arrived. He was about to step past the threshold when his bleary vision zoomed in on a tall figure standing by the bed. After a moment, Lachlan Baird followed Roan into the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.
"Good o' you to make an appearance," Roan grumbled, running a hand through his thick, disheveled hair. His bloodshot narrowed. "It would have been nice to have had a wee help wi' those little monsters in there," he added in a hushed tone.
"I returned as soon as I could," Lachlan said calmly. "Suppose you fill me in over some scotch."
Roan's expression went deadpan. "Scotch?"
"Aye."
* * *
An icy cold, internal caress snapped open Laura's eyes. For what seemed a long time, she lay perfectly still, staring into the darkness. She couldn't fathom what had awakened her, or why gooseflesh covered her arms, despite the fact they were tucked beneath several quilts. At first the house seemed unnaturally quiet and still, but an inner sense warned her that something was amiss. Somewhere within the walls of this bizarre mansion, there was physical movement. It was not something she could hear or see, but she knew without doubt that something was happening.
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 6
