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

by Mickee Madden

  Their legs paralyzed, the threesome turned their heads in Borgie's direction. His face was gaunt with terror, his eyes ludicrously large in his deathly pale face. His hand trembled so, the lantern swayed beneath the handle bridging his upturned palm. Shadows danced across the room, ominous dark etchings mingled with silver-blue moonlight.

  Beth felt herself slipping from awareness. Summoning what little strength she had left, she released a broken wail of anguish.

  Absolute darkness and soundlessness fell like a curtain around the threesome, entombing them, coiling invisible restraints about their physical beings and their wills.

  Beth wept in silence, uncaring that it was depleting what little energy was left her.

  Laura stood frozen in shock and terror. She tried to counsel herself to worry about Borgie's plight, but the darkness and silence had swallowed her completely. She couldn't see or feel, touch or smell Roan. She couldn't sense another presence. It was as if she were utterly alone. In the darkness. In the silence.

  Buried alive.

  Unfinished business.

  Roan also believed he'd been entombed alone. He pounded his fists against solid nothingness, enraged with fear for Laura and Beth—and in the back of his mind, for Borgie.

  His cousin had brought about the laird's wrath.

  Damn Borgie's greed!

  Roan'd seen the look on Beth's face. Never had he witnessed such torment, such devastation. And Laura. He'd sensed her fear as if it'd been his own. Where was she? Was she still terrified? It maddened him to think of her needing him, and he couldn't reach her. He couldn't even see her.

  "Laaaaaannie!" he stormed, driving his fists relentlessly against the darkness.

  Panic overpowered Beth. She became aware of an unfathomable something trying to merge with her life force—to rob her of her existence.

  "Lachlan!" she wailed, pushing outward with what little power she could summon. "Lachlan, stop!"

  "Lannie!" Roan barked, his fists hammering the air. "Release me! Let me ou'!"

  The inky blackness winked, then began to wane to shades of gray.

  An unseen Lachlan's voice rang out, "I'll see you dead, you blastie!"

  A cry of sheer terror pierced the air. Roan, Beth and Laura looked into the bedroom in time to see Borgie lift into the air by invisible means, dangle a moment, then fly through the paneless window.

  "Oh ma God!" Roan wailed, running to the orifice. He leaned over the sill. Below, in the snow, Borgie's twisted body lay in a heap.

  Disbelief rooted Beth. She was only vaguely conscious of Roan and Laura running down the staircase. An image of glowing red eyes burned in her mind. Her phantom heart felt agonizingly branded by Lachlan's betrayal.

  She loved a man incapable of controlling his rage. At least, she had loved him. At the moment, she felt nothing but contempt for him. He'd betrayed her trust in him, and her belief and her devotion to his gentler side. He'd become that monster right in front of her eyes, and that monster had lashed out at a man incapable of defending himself.

  A low, gut-birthed groan swelled into a cry of desolation, reverberating throughout the house. Her quasi-life seemed utterly futile, without purpose.

  No. Not entirely without purpose.

  She couldn't pass on to the next plane of existence and leave Lachlan loosed on an unsuspecting world. She'd drag him with her. She'd end his vengeance against the Inglisses once and for all.

  Snow flurries swirled around her when she next materialized. Her chest moved with pseudo breaths. For a time, she stared down at Laura, who was knelt alongside Roan at Borgie's side.

  The house creaked in a chilling lament, shattering what little serenity the night had left to offer.

  "His pulse is verra weak," Roan said breathlessly.

  "We don't dare move him. Roan, you have to find a phone and call for an ambulance."

  His stricken gaze peered into Laura's eyes. "A phone...? Aye...aye, a phone." He stood, but remained rooted, visibly confused.

  "I left the keys in the car." Unconsciously, Laura stroked Borgie's cheek. "Hurry, Roan!"

  Roan turned, and gave a start when he saw the translucent form an arm's length away. The haunted depths of Beth's eyes hit him in the gut, drawing him from his stupor. "Stay wi' Laura, Beth."

  She nodded, her gaze riveted on the unconscious man. She was unaware of Laura staring at her, of the questioning fear the green eyes betrayed.

  "I think he's...going to die," Laura said unsteadily.

  Beth's gaze lifted to search the other woman's face. She shook her head then shook it again more adamantly. "He can't die. Not here. Not because of—" Her voice caught on a sob. "Not because of Lachlan."

  Laura's fear of her presence finally penetrated Beth's awareness. Going down on her knees and sitting on her folded legs, she tearfully regarded the blonde.

  "Hatred is so evil, Laura," she said tightly. "Hate and rage. I don't possess the strength to stand up against Lachlan's—"

  "Need of vengeance," Laura completed, with such detachment, Beth shivered.

  "Laura, this has to end."

  "Unfinished business."

  Beth slowly nodded, translucent tears spilling down her face. She further slipped into the grayness, fading before Laura's dulled eyes. "Help us, Laura. Help us before it's too late."

  "What could I possibly do?"

  "Search your heart for the answer."

  When Beth was gone, Laura murmured, "Too late." Her movements slow, mechanical, she opened her shoulder purse, fished through the contents, and removed the dagger.

  The jewels glistened overly-bright in the moonlight, winking up at her. With every movement of her hand, the gleam reflecting off the blade rendered slashes of light across her face.

  "Too late," she whispered, her face devoid of expression. "No heart. No search. No answers. Too...late."

  Somewhere in the night, a dog howled mournfully at the moon. The bleak sound caressed Laura's soul, once again stirring the presence sheltered deep within her subconscious.

  Her gaze lifted unseeing to the house.

  Unfinished business.

  What does that mean?

  She'd thought it had been Roan. Their relationship.

  Now she wasn't sure about anything.

  Without lowering her gaze, she leveled the sharp edge of the blade against her left palm, and lacerated the tender skin. Nothing indicated that she'd felt the slightest pain. Blood spilled from the wound. Dark red, black-red blood against the light medium blue of Borgie's coat.

  Behind her, a dark shape moved among the trees.

  Watching.

  Listening.

  Waiting.

  A cloud passed in front of the moon. A cacophony of howls serenaded the night. Behind her, the orange glow of the fallen lantern made a bid to embrace the surrounding darkness.

  Mindlessly, Laura replaced the dagger in her purse. Her hands dropped to her sides, palms upright. Within seconds, her left palm pooled with blood. It trickled between her fingers. Unnoticed. Tinting the blanket of white beneath the hand.

  She wanted to weep, but she didn't know why. She only knew that something was very wrong, and she was somehow responsible.

  When Roan returned some time later, it was to find her lying unconscious beside his cousin.

  * * *

  Movement beside her roused Laura from her deep sleep. She didn't need to open her eyes and, with the dawn's light filtering into the room, verify that Roan had climbed into bed with her. His musky, wintry scent filled her nostrils. His arm draped across her middle as he spooned against her, snuggling close.

  Her eyelids cracked open to reveal bloodshot whites surrounding her green irises. Dark shadows underscored the puffiness beneath her eyes.

  She'd only lain down an hour ago.

  "How's Agnes holding up?" she asked hoarsely.

  "She's refusin' to leave his side. God, Laura, he's gone into a coma. It doesn't look good."

  No. None of it was real. She was going
to really wake up at any minute. What scared her the most was that she would awaken in her apartment, to the realization that she'd only dreamed about having found her significant other.

  "Is yer hand still botherin' you?"

  Dully, her gaze focused on her bandaged left hand. Some dreams could be so real. She could even feel pain. "I still can't remember how I cut it."

  "I'm so sorry you came back to all this," he said thickly, the cool fingers of his left hand stroking the hair at her exposed temple. "You've had to deal wi' too much stress."

  "I'm a survivor." Am I?

  A sad smile touched his mouth before he kissed her sweatered shoulder. "Aye, you are, thank God." Lowering the side of his face to the pillow again, he stared absently at the back of her head. "Aggie's so quiet, Laura. When I left, she was just starin' down at Borgie, showin' no emotion at all. It’s all ma fault."

  The meaning behind some dreams were also elusive, as now. "How are you responsible?"

  "I let Lannie sway me from ma original plan. I'd first gone to Baird House to find a way to banish him."

  "Only he can banish himself. Don't you know that by now?"

  Her cold, distant tone sent a chill through Roan. Bracing himself up on his right elbow, he placed an anchoring left hand on her shoulder and turned her onto her back. Her gaze swung around to meet his. Sadness washed through him. His poor Laura. Her face still bore bruises and small scars from the night of the fire. She seemed more fragile than he'd ever seen her. Small and fragile and lost beneath the covers on the bed.

  "What's Agnes going to do if Borgie dies?"

  Roan closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't know. He's her only child. She's never denied his faults, but she's never denied her love for him, either. She's goin' to need me for some time now, Laura. I can't abandon her, especially if he...dies."

  "I wouldn't expect you to."

  His gaze lovingly swept over her features. "It means us will be on hold for a time."

  A smile gave life to her eyes once again. "I'm not worried about us." Unless this is a dream. "Just don't shut me out, Roan. I want to help in any way I can. The boys, too. They really took to Agnes. They may help her to get through the trying times to come."

  Roan grinned and shook his head. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

  "Last night at the hospital."

  A blush crept into his cheeks. "Where I turned somewha' green while they were stitchin' yer hand."

  Lifting her uninjured hand, she lovingly stroked his jawline. "You look terribly tired."

  "Aye. I've a wicked headache, but I've got to get back and check on Aggie."

  "Rest for a while.

  His gaze lingered on her lips. "Wi' you?"

  A mischievous gleam came and left her eyes. She turned back onto her right side, and plumped her pillow before laying her head atop it. "Sleep. We have the rest of our lives to make love."

  A low moan rattled within his chest as he snuggled against her.

  "Close your eyes and get some rest."

  "Aye. For a wee time."

  A soft, tenuous smile graced her lips. Her eyelids closed. "Aye. For a...wee...time."

  Within seconds they both were fast asleep.

  The cottage was bathed in quietude. A neighbor had taken the boys the previous night.

  In the parlor, standing in front of the cold hearth, Lachlan despondently stared at a framed picture on the mantel. A much younger Agnes smiled back at him, her arm about the shoulders of a sulky twelve-year-old boy.

  Borgie.

  Lachlan lowered his face into his hands for a time. He'd given a lot of thought as to what had happened last night, but he couldn't make sense out of most of it.

  Yes, he'd lost control, but he didn't feel any more so than usual where Borgie was concerned. He'd left the house abruptly upon realizing that pushing Beth into the hall had been his biggest mistake to date. He dreaded another confrontation with her, especially since she had every right to be angry with him.

  Roan and Agnes were another matter. Damn him, but he liked the man! And the old woman. She didn't deserve to lose her only child, even if that child was such a useless corbie!

  It would take more than smooth talk to straighten out this mess. It would probably require more of him than he believed he had to offer.

  Unfinished business.

  He'd focused too long on Tessa. He'd let down his guard and had abandoned his self-restraint.

  There had to be a way to make it all right, but he was at a loss as to where to begin.

  A soft rap came at the front door. He stared at it, wondering if he should answer. On the fourth knock, he crossed to the door and swung it open. Surprise then gratitude beamed on his face at the sight of Viola Cooke standing demurely on the stoop.

  "Mr. Baird," she said, her voice trilling with her own surprise to find him there. A second passed. Clearing her throat, she asked, "May I come in?"

  Lachlan stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. He closed the door, lifted an isolated finger to his lips to hush her, and led her the short distance to the couch. He remained standing while she unbuttoned her navy blue, full-length wool cape, and seated herself.

  "Ye're an answer to ma prayers," he crooned, bowing to her.

  "I just got the news about Borgie Ingliss. I thought maybe I could offer to watch the boys."

  "They're no' here, right now." Lachlan furtively glanced in the direction of the bedroom that secreted Roan and Laura. "I need yer help, dear lady."

  "Whatever I can do," she said kindly.

  Lachlan moistened his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. "I'm responsible for the mon's fall."

  "Oh, dear."

  He bobbed his head. "Aye, oh dear, oh...dear. I'm up to ma ears in trouble, and I havena a clue as to how to explain wha' happened. No' tha' I understand wha' happened."

  "Word is, Mr. Ingliss was thrown from a window on the second floor of Baird House."

  Lachlan gave an exasperated roll of his eyes. "I didna throw the mon anywhere."

  "Then how did he fall?"

  He shrugged then scowled. "I'm no' sure. Tis all so muddled in ma mind. Too much happenin' at once."

  "You've been under a lot of stress—"

  His laugh cut off her sentence.

  "Stress? Dear lady, I'm dead!"

  Viola's eyes mistily regarded his strong features. "We all have our crosses to bear, Mr. Baird."

  A frown darkened the laird's visage. "What's wrong?"

  A tear slipped down one wrinkled cheek. "I loved that house."

  Withdrawing a lace-edged handkerchief from her cape pocket, she daintily dabbed at her moist nostrils. "It breaks my heart to see it so...ravaged."

  Lachlan went down on a knee, and took her hands into his own. "In the great scheme o' things it was but a house. Ma concern lies wi' the livin'. Will you help me?"

  From the depths of her heart, she replied, "I would give my life for you."

  "Nothin' so drastic, dear lady," he sighed with relief.

  Chapter 11

  His head lowered, Roan elbowed his way through the dart match players and observers at Shortby's. The place was packed. No one seemed to notice his arrival until he'd reached the bar and ordered his usual from the young bartender, Jimmy MacDormick. Too numb to pay much heed to what was going on around him, he settled on the only vacant stool, oblivious to the hush that had fallen over the room. Oblivious to Jimmy's scowl. No sooner was his mug of bitter placed in front of him, he tipped the rim to his lips and drank down a third of the brew. He wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. His stomach was so empty he could almost swear he heard the tepid liquid bottoming out.

  A moment's lightheadedness plagued him. His gaze became lost within the dark color of his ale, his mind a million miles away.

  Laura hadn't been happy about him going out for a brew. Hell, she didn't understand that a man sometimes had to get away, get rowdy, let off a little steam. Not that he planned to do any-thing but enjoy one simple pi
nt.

  Mostly, he just wanted a little space to think.

  During the past week, he'd either been with Laura or his aunt. At the hospital or home. The days had blurred together. He hadn't even been aware that it was Friday, or he might have stayed at home to avoid making friendly with his dart mates.

  Sighing, he downed another good portion of the bitter, closing his eyes while he reveled in the feel of the liquid sliding down his throat. His skin tingled. A comfortable dullness cushioned his brain against his attempts to think too deeply.

  "How's Borgie these days?" asked a nasally voice.

  Opening one eye, Roan set his glass down and turned slightly to regard Arnold Markey. The probing quality in the older man's dark eyes didn't settle well with Roan. He was tired of answering the same questions, day after day.

  "Or have you seen him lately?" Arnold queried with a mocking grin.

  "Wha' makes you think I wouldn't be visitin' ma cousin?"

  "I never said no such thing. A wee defensive aren't we? Is yer conscience botherin' you, or wha'?"

  My conscience?

  Roan turned to face the man completely, hardness creeping into his pale brown eyes. "If you've somethin' to say, mon, spit it ou'."

  Arnold Markey spat on the front of Roan's coat.

  One of the men, sitting at a table in the front right corner of the bud, guffawed. Someone else scolded him. Everyone kept their eyes on the two men at the bar. It'd been a while since a brawl had blessed the establishment and Silas had instigated that one when one of his regulars had stiffed him on a long-running, sizeable tab.

  One eyebrow arched, Roan casually eyed the offensive matter.

  "Matter-o'-fact, Roan, we don't want you around here, anymair."

  "Speak for yerself," Silas said to Arnold, walking behind the bar from the direction of the water closet. "Roan, let me buy you a pint. Turn around and chat wi' me."

  Roan remained motionless, but for a muscle ticking at his jawline. He glowered into Arnold's beefy face, waiting, just waiting for the man to make the wrong move.

  "You side wi' the devil, you bed the devil. No friend o' Borgie's will have anythin' to do wi' you."

  The bloody hypocrites. "I didn't know Borgie had any friends," Roan quipped, his gaze sweeping the room, daring anyone to contradict him. Then he looked Arnold straight in the eye and offered a lopsided grin. "Ye're in yer cups, Arnie, but because I'm a mon o' principles, I'm goin' to deck you anyway."