"I canna bear the thought o' him touchin' you," the man said poignantly.
He, too, blended into the ambiance of the room. Short sideburns. His dark hair swept back from a high brow. The black longcoat accentuating his broad shoulders.
A slow, evil smile spread across the woman's mouth as she reached out with a gloved hand and boldly cupped his crotch. She gave a tug, urging him closer. Then she leaned to and pressed her lips to his lower abdomen.
Laura wanted to look away, but could not.
"Tessa," he groaned, dipping his head back, his profile revealing to Laura his painful need.
"The poor sod will never have me, Robert."
Robert Robert Roberrrrt.
Running a hand over the rigid erection concealed beneath his fawn-colored trousers, the woman peered up through thick, pale lashes. "Tis you I love. His paughty hands will never touch ma skin, I promise."
Someone cried out Laura's name, shattering her stupor.
In a matter of seconds, she saw Roan rushing toward her, his face ravaged with a look of sheer horror. Something compelled her to look down. As if watching in slow motion, she saw Alby back away from the hearth, a poker in his hands, the curved end scraping across the fieldstone. A fire-enveloped log rolled toward him, one end making contact with the bottom of the blanket enshrouding her.
Terror squeezed her vocal chords, paralyzed her.
Roan swung the boy behind him, abruptly dropped him to the floor then harshly yanked the blanket from about her. Lachlan snatched it from him, threw it on the floor, and stomped out the flames with a booted foot.
"Are you burned?" Laura heard Beth ask, but to Laura, the voice came from very far away.
She could not pull her gaze from Roan's deathly pale face, the wild fury in his eyes. He trembled violently, his fists clenched at his sides.
After a quick inspection of Laura's person, Lachlan informed, "She's unharmed."
"Thank God," Beth wheezed, lifting a sobbing Alby into her arms.
Kahl and Kevin remained quiet, their fear-induced shock making them look like manikins.
Roan couldn't breathe. Every nerve in his body was as taut as a spring. Although the incident had passed without injury to anyone, fear and anger continued to coil through him, building and building until he could no longer confine them.
Glaring at Laura, he bellowed, "Wha' the hell's wrong wi' you? He could have pitched headlong into tha' bloody fire!"
"Let it go," Lachlan warned, placing a hand on Roan's arm.
Viciously, Roan wrenched away, his burning, accusing look riveted on Laura. "Come the morn, I want them ou' o' here, Lannie! Tis no place for children!" His gaze targeted the laird. "No mair, mon! She's no mither!"
"Calm yerself," Lachlan warned in an authoritative tone, his dark, penetrating eyes boring into Roan's.
"Calm maself?" Roan's voice quivered with emotion. "I'll no' stand by and watch anither child die! Damn you, Lannie! I wash ma bloody hands o' this bunch!"
"Roan, you're understandably upset, but you're scaring the children."
Beth's softly-spoken statement caused something to further snap in Roan. Turning toward her, the firelight awarding his features an evil glint, he charged, "The little boogers are obsessed wi' fire!"
"They're just children."
"Wha' have you and old Lannie to lose?" he sneered. "Baird House could appreciate three little spirits wanderin' its halls—"
Roan sucked in a sharp breath when a stinging blow was dealt to his face. Stunned, he stared with widened eyes at Laura's poised weapon-hand. In the seconds to follow, the silence in the room held substance. Then a log crumbled on the grate. Red embers crackled, snapped.
"Laura, Lachlan and I will stay up with the boys tonight. We'll have them sleep in our room, okay?"
Tears spilling from her eyes, Laura gave a feeble nod.
Roan stalked across the room to the middle window, and stood in the shadows staring out into the night. Laura remained perfectly still until the other couple had ushered the boys from the room then she walked to Roan, stopping just out of reach of him.
"I-I don’t know why I slapped you again. I’m...sorry. Roan? Roan, please talk to me."
Shivering, he crossed his arms against his chest and rubbed his upper arms for warmth.
"What happened to your son?"
"You can't turn yer back on children," he said hatefully, refusing to look at her. "And you can't afford to daydream when they're around!"
"I was wrong—"
He turned on her so swiftly, she experienced a rush of fear. "Wrong? Sayin' ye're wrong doesna excuse yer stupidity!"
Tears fell in abandon down her cheeks. "Stop it."
"Ye’re no' fit to raise those lads!"
"Roan...please!"
Quaking, compelled to rid himself of the demons riding his shoulders, he went on, "Wha' gives you the right to think tha', because ye're a womon, you've got a parental bone in yer body?"
He jerked her against his steely body, imprisoning her in a vicelike hold.
"You really dinna want them, do you, Laura?" he hissed into her face, oblivious to her sobs, her uncontrollable trembling. "What's one less little booger to worry abou', aye?"
"Why are you talking so odd? And who are you talking to, Roan?" she wept, looking at him, her eyes pleading with him to help her understand the reason behind his brutality.
It took a second before her questions penetrated his rage. Puzzlement masked his shadowed face, then a contrite form of horror that offered her hope. His hands dropped to his sides. He leaned back, staring at her as if expecting her to strike out at him again.
“How am I talkin’...odd?”
“You were using contractions the way Mr. Baird does.”
Roan scrubbed his face with his palms. “Tha’s...crazy.”
Comforting herself within her own arms, she gave a toss of her blond head. "What happened to your son?" she repeated.
Roan looked away then stepped around her to leave. Laura's fingers clutched the front of his shirt, forcing him to remain unless he plied her free.
"What happened?"
Tears rose in his throat and swiftly filled his eyes. Looking upward, he gave a feeble shake of his head.
"All right. I won't pressure you." Laura cleared her throat in an attempt to alleviate the quiver in her tone. "But you listen to me, Roan Ingliss. I would never wish harm to anyone, let alone a child. Roan, I never had an irresponsible moment in my life until I set foot in this country!"
"I'm sorry—"
"I made a mistake, but it will never happen again."
His gaze reluctantly lowered to her face.
Laura swallowed past the tightness in her throat, and stepped back. "I'm going to check in on the boys then I'm going to bed. Just...stay away from us. I'll make sure they don't get into any more trouble."
Laura headed for the door to the hall. Halfway to her destination, Roan called her name, prompting her to stop.
"Stay in ma room, tonight. I'll sleep on the couch in the library."
For a moment, Laura thought to argue. She didn't want to curl up beneath covers that had touched him, or lie atop a mattress that had supported him. But she was too weary and emotionally exhausted to demand another room, or take the time to make a bed.
With a single nod, she left.
For a long time afterward, Roan stared out the window. Self-disgust left him chilled to the marrow of his bones. He wondered if he'd ever shake the past, ever come to terms with the guilt he suffered over his son's death.
Regardless, what he'd said and done to Laura was nothing less than cruel.
And the boys....
Like it or not, tomorrow, he owed it to them to explain his behavior.
* * *
Nightmares haunted Laura's sleep.
The blonde with the bright blue eyes, stormed through room after room, wailing and shouting for a name Laura couldn't quite grasp. Everywhere this woman went, the walls buckled in and out as if b
reathing. A bright light followed close behind her, humming with static electricity. Humming with life.
The dream shifted. A boy of about eight, crying so hard the sound could barely pass through his raw throat, pounded small fists against a door. Loud, raspy breathing filled the room he was in, a room Laura recognized as one of the servant quarters in the tower. As the breathing grew louder and louder, the boy shrank in size, until he'd become so small, a breath of air blew him beneath the door.
Again—
A thousand candles burning throughout a massive bedroom. Atop a large bed, the blonde hastily straddled a faceless man's legs, and feverishly tore open the front of his shirt. He groaned, its sound echoing eerily within the chamber. She unfastened the tiny buttons on the front of his trousers, yanked them past his hips, then screamed. In lieu of his genitals, a gleaming jeweled-handled dagger stood erect.
The blonde again, shouting from the top of the tower. Lightning caging her; thunder drowning out her cries for help.
Back to the tower, where a wall of rock begins to breathe. A hand that Laura knows is her own, reaches out to touch it. The rocks explode outward, showering her unseen self. A hand shoots out, the fingers cinching her neck. Gasps follow. Laura can't breathe. Amid the airborne dust, a skull emerges, amber eyes glowing within the white sockets—
Laura bolted upright in the bed, a hand pounding her chest to force air into her lungs. Cold perspiration coated her skin, matted strands of her hair to her face. Her eyes fearfully searched the darkness, fathomless darkness like she'd never before seen.
The attic, whispered a voice.
A freezing gust of air moved across the bed.
Terror paralyzed her.
Look in the attic, the same voice, sweet and beckoning, said.
"Who are you?" Laura choked, shivering uncontrollably.
In the attic.
Laura adamantly shook her head. She was afraid to close her eyes. Afraid not to. Air eddied around her, caressing her overly-sensitized skin.
In the attic! the voice said belligerently.
Jumping from the bed, Laura pulled off the top quilt and wrapped it around her trembling, chilled body. Companioned only by the stillness, the darkness, and the coldness of the night, she left the room.
Chapter 7
One moment, Laura was stepping into the hall outside Roan's bedroom, the next, she felt herself awakening with a start. Disbelief robbed her of breath. She stood in the center of the attic, which was illuminated by a soft green glow. Her feet were numb with cold. She clutched the quilt about her more tightly, fearfully surveying her eerie surroundings.
A feminine zephyrous voice filled the room, causing Laura to shrivel within. "Put them in the attic. I never want to see them again."
A male voice, deep, reverberating, intruded. "Both should be destroyed, love."
"No, Robert!"
"Tessa, love, if they're ever found...."
"They'll remind tha' devil tha' I bested him. Curse his soul! Curse his soul and his wealth for corruptin' us!"
An icy breath passed through Laura. She nearly cried out, instead, bit down on her lower lip, drawing blood.
She turned to face the only exit, the staircase seeming miles away. Labored breaths roared in her ears. Her heart thundered painfully behind her breast. A threat of tears stung her eyes, but she refused to succumb to the compelling need to weep.
Again, the male voice eddied around her. "Tessa, you canna go on like this. Ye're makin' yerself ill."
A woman's sob lanced Laura in the heart. "He'll never leave us be, Robbie. He'll punish us our whole lives."
"We sinned, Tessa."
"Sinned? Tis poverty the sin!"
"We sinned against him, love."
"Damn him, Robbie! I hope he wanders aimlessly for all time!"
"Och! Dinna curse him no mair, Tessa! Tis our souls'll be damned for all time!"
"Curse him, Robbie. If you truly love me, curse him!"
"Don't do it, Robbie," Laura whimpered.
"I...I curse you, Lannie Baird." His voice rose a full octave. "I curse yer black soul!"
Laura's legs buckled beneath her. She dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.
A void yawned inside her. A dark, fathomless void. All sense of existence was denied her. She became trapped within infinite grayness. Cold, desolate grayness. Eternity.
A sudden sense of falling seized her. Then, total absence of movement. Between her breasts, a green glow appeared and pulsated in sync with the beat of her heart. She felt herself moving swiftly through nothingness. Coldness invaded her every molecule.
A scream rose in her throat but became lost in the void.
Then a strong, loud heartbeat filled her ears. It was not her own, but of something behind her.
To move proved almost impossible. After what seemed like hours, she turned on her knees to face a bright, pulsing green glow on the far side of the room.
As if in slow motion, she fought against the leadenness in her limbs and got to her feet. She crossed the room, leaning into the windlike timelessness rushing at her. The glow blinded her, but she went on until her bare toes struck something solid.
Again she went down on her knees. Her eyes closed, she groped the object until she rationalized it was a large trunk. She cracked open her eyelids. The glow was now soft.
Pulsating and soft.
In cadence with her heartbeat.
Hypnotic.
If the faded and cracked wood was any indication, the trunk was old. A brass plate on the front bore the engraved letters AIKEN. Laura's hands paused short of removing an oval lace covering from the lid when her gaze lifted and spied a tall object, draped with a dark green blanket, standing behind the trunk.
Excitement quivered through her. Getting to her feet, she pulled the heavy object from its niche, propped it against the wall by the small round window, and hastily pulled off the blanket.
A gasp of sheer awe escaped her. She knelt to one knee, a trembling hand reaching out toward the surface of the portrait. Two faces stared back at her: The blonde in her dreams and someone resembling Lachlan Baird. The couple, depicted from their laps up were dressed in Victorian attire and sitting in front of the fireplace in the parlor, his arm draped over her bared shoulders.
While his eyes possessed a sparkle of mischief, the woman's lacked luster. Her pouty full mouth held a hint of grimness.
Laura lowered her arm and folded her hands atop her lap. They were a strikingly handsome couple, but somehow ill-suited. The artist had taken great care to portray them as he saw them and, in that, Laura suspected he hadn't cared for the mistress of the house. The present owner bore an uncanny resemblance to his ancestor, although his skin was far paler than the man's in the portrait.
Something compelled her to look at the trunk. Crawling back to it she removed the lace cloth, folded and set it aside, then lifted the lid. Various garments vied for her attention. She fished through the contents, no thoughts going through her mind. The soft green glow remained the only lighting within the attic.
A soft hum prompted her to look over her shoulder. Dressed in a full-length lace gown, Beth Staples danced across the open floor. Laura wistfully watched her for a time. It never crossed her mind to question the ghostly image.
Somewhere in the house a woman wailed in the throes of labor.
Laura returned her attention to the trunk.
She withdrew a black satin nightgown, trimmed with purple bobbin lace. Despite the coldness of the attic, she dropped the quilt, stripped out of her cotton nightgown, and slipped on the sensual garment. Empire style with thin straps, it fit her perfectly except in length. The owner had been taller than Laura by several inches.
Moaning in ecstasy, Laura ran her hands down her satin-covered hips. Cotton would never feel the same. She felt sensuous and powerful. Her hands passed over her breasts, her hardened nipples tickling her palms.
"I'm back, Robbie," she said in a guttural whisper, her
eyes glazed with raw passion. "I've been waitin', love. Tarry no longer in the ither world. Come home, Robbie. Come back to me."
Stooping in front of the trunk, Laura pushed aside the clothing and exposed the right inner side. A compartment opened. She palmed the cold implement it concealed, and stood.
Eyes devoid of expression inspected the jeweled dagger, which felt hot against her skin. Her gaze cut to the portrait, and riveted on a red glow pulsating on Lachlan Baird's broad chest.
Heat washed through her. A pulse of fury awakened in her heart. Gripping the ornate handle of the dagger, she carried it in a threatening manner to the portrait.
"Curse you, Lannie!" Laura hissed. "I'll no' rest till I rid ma house o' you!"
Her face a hideous mask of hatred, she plunged the dagger again and again into the breast of the man in the portrait, the magnified sound of the canvas ripping, threatening to burst her eardrums. But still she slashed away, shredding every part of his image.
"Fegs!" a voice boomed.
Whirling about, she blindly lunged her dagger-hand forward. Dark eyes widened in surprise and horror combined then lowered to view imaginary blood seeping through the left breast of his white shirt.
Again and again, Laura plunged the knife into Lachlan, the frenzy burning within her brain supplanting her reasoning. The force of her attack drove Lachlan backward, his staggering steps closing his distance to the staircase.
Remembered pain disoriented him.
Intermittently his blearing vision saw images of Tessa superimpose his houseguest.
Tessa back?
Outrage began to restore his strength. The blade cut into him, just below the left side of his rib cage. With a growl of rage, he shot out a hand to snatch the dirk but at the instant he would have grasped it, a large figure stepped between him and the crazed woman.
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 13
