Arnold guffawed in Roan's face. As calm as could be, Roan drove his right fist upward, catching the bigger man beneath the chin. A sharp clack of teeth rang out. Arnold's eyes rolled into his head as he keeled over backward and hit the floor in a dead faint.
Pandemonium ensued.
Weeks of frustration found an outlet through Roan's swinging fists. Faceless bodies converged on him. His ears were deaf to the expletives detonating around him, deaf to the several patrons goading the brawlers to draw blood.
From behind the counter, Silas scratched his balding pate. Chairs and tables were being broken. Glass mugs. The floor was slick with ale. But he enjoyed a good fight, and he'd known for a long time that Roan was operating on a full head of steam.
Tempers had been building since Borgie's accident, although, very few spoke to the man, let alone cared what happened to him. The outrage stemmed from the fact that it had occurred at Baird House. Folks in Crossmichael were a wee touchy when it came to that place.
Two men dragged Roan across the center of a table, punching him as he dropped to the floor and attempted to roll away.
Silas frowned then shook his head when Roan jumped to his feet, both fists flying and nailing fleshy targets. In the far left corner, Remmy O'Hallary danced an Irish jig on the center of a round table, his mug held shoulder-high, ale sloshing over the rim.
A fist rammed Roan in the midriff, prompting a grunt that the onlookers cheered.
It was Roan against four now, and Silas wasn't sure who was getting the worse end of the deal. Roan possessed a high tolerance to pain.
One of the four, Willy Canabra, released a high-pitched howl when Roan ducked, and James McKenna's fist popped the wrong man in the nose. Blood spurted from Canabra's nostrils and through his fingers as he tried to stop the flow. With a triumphant laugh, Roan elbowed Canabra in the gut. Canabra fell hard on his butt. Swinging with the same arm, Roan rammed his fist up under McKenna's chin.
McKenna hit the floor with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
Silas winced as the last two men grabbed Roan from behind by his coat, lifted him off the floor, and sent him sailing over one of the few standing oblong tables. Then Silas' own temper flared when three more men hauled Roan to his feet, and another drove his fist into Roan's midriff.
"Hold it, now lads!" he boomed, hurrying around the counter.
"Just gettin' started," one large man snarled, then turned to have a shot at Roan.
"I said hold it!"
The pub became quiet but for the heavy panting of the participants. Closing in, Silas shoved his way to Roan, his fierce look prompting the men who were confining Roan's arms, to release him.
Roan fell to his knees, the back of a trembling hand swiping across his bloodied mouth.
"Hollan, Arnold—and you two by the window," Silas began heatedly, one balled fist resting on a hip, "lend a hand in cleanin' up the place." He targeted the man who'd been about to punch Roan. "Jack, fetch me the mop. C'mon you pack o' hooligans! You had yer fun, now's the time to pay wi' a bit o' sweat!"
"I'll take care o' it," Roan rasped, unsteadily getting on his feet. He cast those around him a scornful look, then met Silas' gaze. "And I'll pay for the damages."
"Get yerself home, lad," Silas said kindly, clapping Roan on his upper arm.
"Kist House," one middle-aged woman sneered, pointing an accusing finger at Roan. "That's where you belong!"
"Old Lannie went too far this time," Arnold spat from his slouched position on one of the stools.
"Borgie better pull through," the elderly man who had been dancing the jig, piped up. "Orwise, we plan to raze tha' bloody house, once and for all."
Roan numbly regarded the hostile faces around him. "If you all know wha's good for you, you'll stay away from tha' place," he warned.
"Who you worried abou'?" another woman asked, contempt marring her wrinkled face. "Lannie or yer cousin?"
Roan swayed on his feet.
Who was he trying to protect?
He didn't know any more.
Releasing a sound of disgust, he staggered through the gawkers, to the door, and stepped out into the cold, bitter night. He slammed the door shut, dislodging soft snow from a small overhang above him. The stuff plopped on top of his head, working its way down the back of his coat. In a taunting ballet, snow flurries swirled around him.
Ignoring the sting of the open wounds on his hands and face, he limped across the parking lot to his van, and climbed in behind the wheel.
Pain thundered in his head. His vision was blurry. He briefly contemplated walking to his aunt's rather than to risk driving, but the idea of forcing his stiff leg muscles to carry him, prompted him to start the engine and pull out onto the narrow road.
He couldn't think. The headlights' glare off the snow smarted his eyes.
Who am I protecting?
Borgie's greed had brought about the confrontation, but Lachlan could have backed off.
Viola Cooke had told him of Lachlan's visit to his aunt's house. Damn the mon's audacity! To his knowledge, Aggie didn't know of the laird's intrusion into her home. That was all she needed. She'd aged ten years in one week. He was sure her heart wouldn't take much more stress.
So Lachlan can’t remember exactly what had happened that night? Convenient.
Why couldn't he focus his anger at the laird?
His world was again falling to pieces, and he couldn't do a thing to stop it.
He slammed on the brake. The blood rushing from his head, he dazedly gaped at the desolate building looming off to his left.
Reflexively, he switched off the ignition.
It wasn't possible, he tried to rationalize.
Baird House?
Aggie lived in the opposite direction.
What am I doing in the parking area by the carriage house?
Anger energized his protesting muscles. Climbing out of the car, he took a long look at the mansion, then swung his gaze to the dwelling he'd used when he'd first come to work for the laird. Soft light could be seen through the window. Someone was inside. How he was sure it was Lachlan, he didn't know.
The door was unlocked. Breathing heavily, he entered the carriage house, immediately spying Lachlan, who was sitting on the cot across the room. Roan slowly approached. Several candles were lit atop a crate by the pillowed end of the cot. The laird not once looked up. His attention was on the piece of wood he was whittling.
"You bring me here?" Roan asked testily, stopping a few feet away.
Lachlan gave a low shake of his head. He turned the nearly completed lion he'd been working on, over on his palm, and frowned.
"Stay away from Aggie's."
Now the laird's gaze rolled up to look at Roan. "How's yer cousin farin'?"
"Wha' do you care?"
Lachlan's eyebrows peaked above his dark eyes. "I care tha' I canna remember wha' happened."
Despite his raw, bloodied knuckles, Roan clenched his hands at his sides. "No," he sneered. "You only care tha' you lost yer temper in front o' Beth!"
"Tha', too. But you have also had yer doubts tha' I tossed him ou' the window."
Roan quaked with anger. "I know I didn't do it, and I'm bloody damn sure Laura and Beth didn't, either!"
Diligently adding the finishing touches to the wooden piece, Lachlan shrugged. "I know how it looks. And, granted, when I think back, it seems verra possible tha' I...." His brooding gaze nailed Roan for a moment before lowering to the lion. "...unwittingly sent yer cousin through the window."
"You were ou' o' control!"
"Aye." Setting his carving tool by the candles, he reached down for a burlap sack and lifted it onto his lap. He was about to place the wooden lion inside when he became pensively quiet, his gaze locked onto the finished piece.
"Ma brither Ian was a fine whittler. He used to make the maist wonderful puppets for the tent shows when they came to town. 'Lachlan,' he'd say, 'Tis a thinkin' mon's skill. The hands keep busy, but yer mind is free to pon
der the ways o' the world.' I think o’ ma brithers this time o' year."
Placing the lion into the sack, he stood and held it out to Roan, who remained motionless, glaring at it.
"For the laddies," Lachlan explained. "Christmas is nearly here. I wanted to give them somethin'."
Roan's anger plummeted. Torn with indecision once again, he went to the window and buried his face into his hands.
Lowering the sack to his side, Lachlan closed half the distance. "Roan, wha's troublin' you?"
A bitter laugh burst from Roan as he whirled to face his family's tormentor. "Wha' could possibly be wrong?" he laughed theatrically, his hands gesturing wide. "Borgie's in a coma. Aggie's no' sleepin' or eatin' worth a bloody damn. Now I'm to bear anither burden on these shoulders o' mine?"
Lachlan silently waited for him to continue.
"Wha' you ask?" Roan flung snidely. "I'll tell you wha'! Who will be yer next victim? You see, old mon, some o' the same folks who were here helpin' to work on yer house, are now talkin' o' levelin' the place to the ground."
Lachlan's face remained expressionless.
"How many o' them will you vent yer rage on?"
In lieu of a response, the laird shoved the sack into Roan's hands. Roan stared down at it for a long time. When he again met the near-black eyes, his expression was one of bewilderment. "I don't understand you."
"You never did," Lachlan said sadly.
He faded from sight, leaving Roan to stare dazedly into space.
* * *
The homey sound of a rocking chair moving to and fro on the wooden floor, greeted him when he entered his aunt's house. A weary smile tugged at his sore lips when he saw Laura sitting in front of the hearth, her head bent, her hands nimbly working a set of knitting needles. He softly closed the door, and placed the sack of wooden toys on the couch. An arm pressed to his aching middle, he walked to the rocker, bent over, and planted a kiss on her cheek.
She smiled.
"Wha' are you makin’?"
"Scarves and hats for the boys."
A flicker of puzzlement creased Roan's brow. Had he only imagined she'd spoken with a Scottish accent?
"Aggie knits a storm every winter," he said absently, his gaze falling on the sack of toys. "Ah, I saw Lannie at the carriage house. He's carved some toys for the lads. Maistly animals."
"How nice."
Nice?
"Any coffee on?"
Laura looked up. She blinked then whitened when she noticed his face. "What happened?" she cried, dropping the ball of yarn and needles to the floor, and jumping to her feet.
"Don't touch," he grimaced, staying her outstretched hand in midair.
"Roan!"
"I was in a wee fight at the pub."
"A wee fight?"
He smiled ruefully. "You should see the ither men."
"You were fighting with more than one?"
He opened his arms. With a groan, she stepped into his embrace and laid her head against his shoulder.
"You've got to get a grip on your temper," she chided in a small voice.
"Aye. Where are the lads?"
"Liza took them again." She looked up and woefully inspected his face. "She claims the boys are absolute angels at her house."
Roan chuckled. "Her own can be a handful." He glanced down at the yarn on the floor. "Maybe I should take up knittin'."
Glancing down over her shoulder, Laura said, "My grandmother used to make the most beautiful afghans." She sighed. "I definitely don't take after her."
"Oh, I don't know." Drawing her closer, he brushed the tip of his cold nose against her brow. "You were workin' a mean stitch when I came in."
Leaning back, she frowned at him. "A mean what?"
"You were knittin'—"
"Roan, I don't even know how to hold the needles." With a scoffing laugh, she gingerly touched his lower lip with the tip of an isolated finger. "I tell you what. Go fix yourself some coffee, and I'll draw you a hot bath."
For a moment, he thought to argue with her on what he'd seen when he'd come in, but an image of her joining him in a foaming hot bath easily swayed him.
"Are you goin' to scrub ma back?"
Her eyes sparkled. "Only if you scrub mine."
He glanced across the room in the direction of the kitchen. "Aggie home?"
"She was for a little while, then left with Ben for the hospital."
"No change in Borgie?"
Laura shook her head. "She didn't say very much, except that she was planning on staying the night at the hospital. Ben mentioned that Dr. Waikens has been monitoring her when she's there. It was his suggestion that she sleep over."
Rolling his eyes in relief, he deeply sighed. "He's been her doctor for years."
"He'll take good care of her. Now...we need to worry about you." She stepped out of his hold and ran a sympathetic gaze over his battered face. "You look terrible."
"I love you, too," he grinned. Heading for the kitchen, he asked, "Can I fix you a cup o' coffee or tea?"
"No, thanks."
He disappeared into the kitchen. As if compelled, she lowered her gaze to the yarn and needles. A chill shuddered through her.
Hugging herself with her arms, she went into the small hall off the parlor, and into the sole bathroom. On the far wall of the blue and gold decor, sat a deep claw foot tub. Corking the drain, and sprinkling some bubble bath atop the plug, she turned on the taps to a desired temperature. The soothing sound of cascading water awakened her fatigue. Sitting on the floor, her arms braced along the rim of the tub, she laid one side of her head atop a forearm.
Knitting, of all things. Roan must be punchy. By the looks of his face, he took quite a beating.
"Laura!"
Startled, she turned her head to see Roan standing inside the doorway. Then she snapped her head around, released a gasp at the sight of bubbles rising up in front of her, and hastily turned off the faucets.
"Did you fall asleep?" he asked, placing his cup of coffee on the toilet tank.
"I must have." Rolling up the sleeve of her baggy sweater, she dipped her hand into the water, pulled the cork and watched until the iridescent foam had lowered several inches. She replaced the plug, and ruefully smiled at Roan.
"Oops."
"Oops," he parroted, grinning.
He'd removed his coat and boots in the living room. His red plaid shirt was only half buttoned, revealing a thermal T-shirt beneath it. He was about to finish unbuttoning his shirt when she rose to her feet and pushed his hands aside.
"That's my job." Her gaze locking with his, she plied the dark buttons free and helped him out of the shirt. "Hands up, sir," she said lightly, tugging the thermal from the waistband of his pants.
His arms went up but he winced.
With great care, she drew the thermal top upward, her gaze sweeping over the muscular planes of his chest as it came into view. Roan finished the task and tossed the garment to the floor. He unfastened his pants, watching her appreciative expression of his physique.
When several seconds later he stood nude in front of her, he quipped, "Ye're overdressed for the occasion, aren't you, lass?"
A delicate blush rushed into her cheeks. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation.
"Are you sure you're up to this?"
He glanced down and grinned wickedly. "I'm no' salutin' for ma health, darlin'." Releasing a throaty sound, he pulled her into his arms and lowered his head. But at the instant he covered her mouth he jumped back with a grunt, a hand dabbing at his split and swollen lower lip.
Laura arched a cocky eyebrow at him. "I can see this is going to be a painful experience for you."
"Painful be damned," he grumbled, cozying up to her. "No worse agony than a mon denied a little lovin'."
"Spoken like a true stud," she laughed. "Climb in."
He looked disparagingly at the tub. "Alone?"
"Temporarily."
Her seductive tone caused a shudder to course through him. His heart
hammering with excitement, he lowered himself into the blanketing heat of the water. Bubbles oozed over the sides of the tub. He moaned contentedly, his muscles instantly responding to the soothing effect of the bath.
Dipping a clean face cloth beneath the bubbles, Laura then passed it to him. He held the hot, wet cloth to his face, lowering it in time to witness her peel out of her sweater.
Laura was vitally aware of him watching her undress. In part, she reveled in the sensual demonstration, but her shier side prompted a crimson blush to stain her cheeks. When the last vestiges of her underwear were removed, she stepped into the tub, pausing a moment for effect, before sitting, facing him amid her share of the bubbles.
Roan released a low whistle. "I still can't believe you came back."
"It's a sure thing, Roan Ingliss, you're stuck with me."
He nodded wistfully.
"Did you see Lachlan when you were at the carriage house?"
He scowled. "I'd rather no' talk abou' him, right now." He slid toward her. Once she positioned her feet beyond his hips, he glided her onto his lap.
"I love you, Laura. I know I'm no' always attentive, or able to tell you wha' I'm feelin', but I need you to always know tha' ye're a part o' me, I can never lose again."
Resting her forearms atop his shoulders, she twirled the tendrils at his nape around her fingertips.
"It's strange, Roan, but I feel as if we've been together for a very long time. My life in Chicago seems so hazy now."
"Are you sure abou' stayin' in Scotland? You know, I was thinkin'...maybe the five o' us should go to the States. I could get a job—"
"Baird House needs you."
He laughed a bit uncertainly. "The house doesn't need anyone."
Unfinished business.
"We can't leave with unfinished business shadowing our lives."
"Laura, I'll no' find a local to work on the place."
"Then we'll do it ourselves." She brushed her lips against the side of his neck then nipped the corded flesh with her teeth. A secretive smile graced her mouth when he released a spurt of breath. "As long as we're together...." She trailed the tip of her tongue along the left side of his jawline, stopping when she reached his earlobe. "...we can do anything." Her lips surrounded the fleshy lobe. Her teeth gently nibbled.
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 21
