Roan lunged for them, snatching Kahl and Alby in his arms in his pursuit of the oldest boy. By the time Laura walked to the parlor, Roan and her nephews were embroiled in a wrestling match atop the couch, Roan trapped beneath the energetic trio piled on top of him.
Laura braced a shoulder to the wall and watched them for a time, a wistful, faraway smile gracing her lips.
A daughter would be nice, she thought. A little girl with Roan's eyes.
A little blond daughter with Mary's sweet disposition.
Breath-robbing sorrow welled up in her from the ancient memory.
Mary Blossom Ingliss.
Tessa's first and most cherished daughter.
One spring rainy morning, Mary had left the house, and had never returned. The sixteen-year-old had vanished from the face of the earth and had never been heard from again.
The pain in Laura's heart felt very real, and very new. Tessa—Laura, herself, in some respect—had never recovered from the loss of her daughter. Her heart had sustained an open wound of unrelenting grief until Tessa's body had at long last given out.
It occurred to Laura that she could search through the records—providing there were any—and try to unravel the mystery behind the young woman's disappearance.
Greater miracles had been accomplished since her arrival in Scotland.
No one could simply vanish without a trace.
* * *
Winston Connery passed over the psychic beacon for the third time before coming to a stop. His hands in the pockets of his trench coat, he coldly stared down at a depression behind a group of large rocks. Although it was daylight, he could see the shimmering psychic energy print that had been left behind. He looked up. A strong image manifested in front of his mind's eye.
It was night. Late at night. A man lay on the ground by the house. A woman—the Bennett woman—was sitting beside the man. She held something in her hand—
Reaching out with his psychic sense, he zoomed his mind's eye on what she held.
The dagger he'd seen imbedded in her chest three days ago.
He watched in trained detachment as she sliced open her palm with the edge of the weapon. Her expression, vacant yet deadly, sent a chill through him.
Why was she looking like that?
Had she been aware that she was being watched?
He sank to his knees amid the very spot the Phantom had knelt. His nostrils flared. His eyes became orbs of rage.
Focus, he counseled himself. He couldn't afford to assimilate the killer for too long. It had proven too costly in the past.
The Phantom had watched her. Winston experienced the killer's madness, his lust to overpower the woman.
Fear?
The Phantom had experienced a rush of fear.
Fear of what?
Bolting upright, he clenched his fists within his pockets.
The images were gone. His reluctance to cling too tightly to the prints had caused him to fail once again.
Gazing across the massive building remains, he felt his heart rise into his throat.
Baird House held the answers. He didn't know why he was so sure but he was. If he hadn't thought to probe the back of the building the morning after the fire, he would have been on the plane to Paris.
He would have discovered that the lead had been false.
The Phantom was here!
Pulling up his collar over his red-rimmed ears, he walked back through the woods, to where his car was parked on the street.
When he was out of sight, Agnes stepped in front of the second floor window, in the room Roan had used. Her frown deepened the crevices on her wrinkled brow, but deepening interest in the young stranger, snapped in her eyes.
A psychic, she mused. No wonder she was having such a hard time reading his mind.
His personality was also a challenge. On the surface, he appeared controlled, but she had managed to decipher a fragment of his aura, and in that, had touched upon the thin shield which barely held back his darker side. Of course, she was just learning to use these mental powers. She could have misread him.
But she didn't think so.
He possessed a conflicting mixture of personalities and passions. Whether he realized it or not, he was in desperate need of help—exactly the kind of troubled soul that a place like Baird House could put on the mend.
A little love. A little hocus-pocus.
"You'll be back," she whispered through a knowing smile.
She vaporized and returned to the grayness, to collect enough energy to see her through the 'gift' Lachlan planned to offer that night. If he accomplished even half of what he'd sworn to her, it would be a night like no other in the world.
Chapter 15
The greenish, luminescent mist surrounding Lachlan was all that lit the remains of the parlor. Agnes found him floating above the partially fire-gutted floor, in front of the barren fireplace, staring at where Beth's portrait had been. She paused at the blackened door to observe him for a time. It still amazed her how human and alive he was. Too bad she'd had to die to completely banish the blinders she'd worn most of her life.
His sadness permeated the room. She sensed it as if she, herself, were experiencing it. She also felt his anxiety with leaving his home. Only his love for Beth Staples was giving him the strength to pass on into the unknown. She understood his doubts. What if there wasn't an actual state of existence beyond the light? He would not only lose his home, his Beth, but even his memories of her.
She couldn't imagine an existence without the companionship of memories. For that matter, she couldn't imagine a nonexistence at all!
Voices carried into the room from outside. Hours earlier, she'd stood on the tower and watched cars slowly passing by, and wondered just how many of the locals would find the courage to come to the estate.
"Are you aware o' the gatherin' ou' there?" she asked Lachlan, pointing to the gaping holes where the windows had been.
It was several seconds before he turned his gaze to her. He nodded solemnly. "They're quiet enough."
Agnes folded her hands in front of her, her gaze flitting over his strong features. "You could always remain here. Ye're part o' this family, Lannie."
"Aye." A despondent smile tugged at his chiseled mouth as he looked to where the portrait had been. "As much as I would love to watch the lads grow up, I canna stay wi'ou' ma Beth. There's a fierce ache o' emptiness inside me. Fierce and infinite, Aggie."
Agnes lowered her head. She understood what he was feeling. There was also emptiness yawning within her, an emptiness left since the loss of her son.
"Forgive me, Aggie," Lachlan said kindly. Her head came up, and he regarded her for a time. "I never liked yer son, but he didna deserve to die so young."
Emotions threatened to close off her throat, but she nonetheless managed, "He wasn’t always so...difficult."
Lachlan gave a desolate shake of his head. "None o' us were perfect, were we?"
"Speak for yerself," she said airily then sobered. "If you see him...would you tell him his mum is thinkin' o' him? Tell him...I love him?"
"Gladly, I will."
Sighing deeply, Agnes looked toward the south wall. Unseen waves rippled across the room, signaling her awareness. "They're growin' restless."
Lachlan turned to face the direction. "Aye, but I'm waitin' for him."
Her eyebrows drew down in a frown. "He's a curious one, this Mr. Connery."
"Aye. Aye, he is. And he's a troubled mon."
"Weel, he came to the right place."
Lachlan smiled.
A ponderous expression accentuated the lines in Agnes' face. She tapped the first two fingers of her right hand to her chin for a time, then said distractedly, "I keep wonderin' how they're goin' to react to yer gift."
An enigmatic gleam manifested in Lachlan's dark eyes. "Maist will take it to heart."
Agnes arched a white eyebrow. "Wha' abou' the ithers? We're talkin' abou' some o' the same who were prepared to level this
place to the ground."
After a second of silence, he shrugged. "Tis useless to hold a grudge." He winked at her, grinning. "As weel we now know. They thought me responsible for Borgie's fall. Canna blame them. I was beginnin' to wonder maself."
"But wha' if they construe the 'gift' as the devil's play?"
Again Lachlan fell silent. Then he frowned and replied, "Anyone wha can find darkness in a winter's rose, is beyond hope." His inner sense locked onto a new arrival on the grounds, and he straightened with an air of exuberance. "He's here. Fegs! The mon's aura is strong!"
"I can feel it, too!" she gasped, a hand over her phantom heart. "This is weird, Lannie, this knowin' business."
"You'll get used to it."
She chuckled. "Mind you, I'm no' complainin'!"
"Tis good to hear, you old corbie."
Warmth spread through the woman's spectral being. A smile youthening her visage, she held out a crooked arm. "There was a time when I fumed to hear you call me such! So much has changed. Now...I would be honored, Master Baird, sir, if you would kindly escort me to the gala."
"Ma pleasure," he said, kissed her hand then linked his arm through hers.
Gliding across the floor, they passed into the hall, and headed in the direction of the front doors.
* * *
"Wha' the bloody..."
Winston Connery had been stunned to find a wall of people blocking the streets bordering the south and west property of the Baird estate. Never had he witnessed such a gathering, and hoped he never would again. Forced to back up and park two blocks away, he left his car, locked it, then sank his gloved hands deep within the pockets of his trench coat, and began his walk through the large, wet flakes beating down from the heavens. The bitter night air permeated his clothing, compounding his chill of trepidation. He'd nearly convinced himself to remain at the Inn. Nearly. Something powerful had compelled him to return. Something he couldn't quite define.
His doubt intensified when he unwittingly began to pick up on the emotions and thoughts of the people he approached. It usually wasn't so easy, so overwhelmingly received. He raised his mental shields, blocking out what he could as he inched his way through the packed bodies. The going was slow, ridden with apologies and false smiles to the disgruntled he pushed past.
Murmurs of "The devil" fell on his ears, inducing a perpetual scowl to darken his features.
The devil? Lachlan Baird?
The bloody hypocrites! They called him the devil, and yet they had sardined themselves in hopes of witnessing a spectacle.
When at last he'd made his way through the throng, he was again stunned to discover the driveway lined with newspaper and television reporters. Bright lights were trained on the ravaged facade of the house. Cameras were at ready. Men and women alike were jotting down notes, talking into microphones.
He ambled across the ice-crusted snow covering the south property. Ironically, only five people had ventured more than halfway across the front lawn. The rest kept back, afraid to venture too close to the dreaded grim manor.
Several yards away, he recognized the five as Roan Ingliss, Laura Bennett, and her three nephews, who were fidgeting beneath the blanket the couple had secured around them. Winston closed the distance, his expression guarded when Roan turned to look at him. When he stopped at the man's side, he gave a brief nod of greeting. Roan's eyes, he noted with deepening unease, possessed an element of mistrust.
"Are you here on official business?" Roan asked.
Winston glanced down at the boys' upturned faces. Immediately he sensed their eagerness to cut loose, and he grinned despite his attempt to appear aloof. Then he met the woman's gaze. He liked her eyes. Friendly, yet dissecting. She was mentally questioning his reasons for coming. Roan, on the other hand, projected a curious aura of smugness. Winston couldn't shake the notion that—although impossible—Roan had been expecting him. Now how could the man know, when Winston hadn't decided until the last minute?
Roan wasn't psychic.
Cursed place.
Winston received the thought, but didn't know from which of the spectators it had originated.
The crowd grew more restless with each passing second.
He didn't have to read their minds. Their nervous tension rippled through him, intensified his own case of the jitters.
He gratefully focused his attention on Laura and Roan as they protectively stepped in front of the boys when several of the reporters came toward them.
Winston stiffened. Roan was on the defensive. The man owned of a short temper. He didn't relax until the vibes emanating from the man lessened in strength. So Roan had a temper, but also steel-like control when necessary.
A barrage of questions pummeled the couple. Roan instinctively placed a protective arm about Laura's shoulders. For every question, he replied, "No comment," but the undaunted reporters kept hammering at them.
Admiration for the man flooded Winston. He couldn't have projected a calmer front, himself.
Kevin kicked one television newsman in the shins. Kahl and Alby were satisfied to throw snowballs, their aims somewhat off, but appeasing their mischievous personalities.
Winston further relaxed his guard. He opened his mind a little more, imbibing a small portion of Roan's emotions. The man was admirably protective of his new family. His love for the woman and the boys held such substance, Winston couldn't help but envy him. His gifts had never permitted him to openly love anyone. Not his family. Certainly not a woman. His job was his life.
His job didn't fear his abilities, it relied on them. He couldn't snuggle up to it, and it didn't wear a tantalizing scent, but then, it was incapable of shrinking away from him.
"Get tha' bloody thin’ back!" Roan warned, an arm lifted to shield his eyes from the glare of a camera spotlight.
"You're frightening the children," Laura scolded the man whose shoulder bore the weight of the camcorder.
A cacophony of alarming sounds rose up from the crowd. The light of the camcorder swung away from the couple to the front of the house, mingling with the others trained on the mystical pair who emerged from the greenhouse.
Roan placed his hands on Kahl and Kevin's shoulders, anchoring them. Before Laura could grab Alby, he took off into a run, and didn't stop until Lachlan had caught him up into his arms. The sight of the ghost holding the child quieted the onlookers. Winston found the scene oddly disquieting.
Kevin and Kahl wrenched free, and ran to join their brother. Roan and Laura stayed rooted, his arm going about her waist and holding her close.
Winston mentally noted everything.
He'd never thought highly of human nature. He considered mankind the cruelest animal of all. Perhaps viewing countless corpses had hardened him.
Perhaps he'd always been emotionally removed from his species.
But for the squeals of the boys, silence prevailed. The snow fell faster, glistening like jewels within the harsh lights flooding the focus area.
Curiously, the media refrained from intruding while Agnes and Lachlan hugged and spoke with the children.
He'd never known a reporter to respect a private moment.
But this wasn't exactly private, was it? Lachlan was saying his goodbyes to the children. Winston could feel the ghost's sadness. And Agnes....
The scowl returned to his face.
This latest ghost was nearly on the verge of tears.
Ghosts sobbed piteously haunting sounds. They rattled chains. But he'd not once heard of one actually shedding a tear.
He found himself wishing to see one spill down her cheek.
Much to his disappointment, she held them back.
Lachlan urged the boys to join their guardians. When they were back with Laura and Roan, the laird heaved a breath and took a long hard look at the spectators. One cameraman started toward him, immediately backing up when the specter lifted a hand in warning.
A grin tugged at one corner of Winston's mouth. Lachlan's bearing alone demanded admiration. R
egal. Confident. Lord of his kingdom.
Again, Lachlan swept a measuring gaze over the mass.
"He's waitin' for somethin'," Roan whispered to Laura, who nodded in agreement.
Winston agreed. Then the laird looked directly at him, and his insides became a thousand fluttering butterflies and realization burst in his brain.
Yes, he'd been expected. The laird had summoned him. He wasn't sure if that pleased or unnerved him, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling awed by the ghost's incredible range of influence.
But why had he been summoned? Had everyone here—
No.
He'd been singled out.
Was it possible the laird knew of Winston's desperate need to believe in miracles? At this point in his life, a miracle was exactly what he needed to direct him away from the abysmal sense of helplessness that had been slowly suffocating him since his tracking of the Phantom had begun.
Even a small miracle would be welcomed. Anything that would lighten his heart and restore his acute logic, without which, he was lost.
"Welcome to ma home," Lachlan said, his voice carrying to the boundaries of his property. "I depart this night to join ma Beth, but I couldna leave wi'ou' offerin' a gift to those both for and against ma existence."
Winston's heartbeat quickened. Damn if the laird wasn't reaching out, even to those who still marked him a devil.
"Too many o' you fear me and ma home," Lachlan went on. "You fear the unknown. But Roan Ingliss is now the master o' this grand place—" He cast a comical look over his shoulder, and amended, "—this once grand place, and I ask you all to respect him and his plans for this land. And I implore you to open yer hearts to wha' ye're abou' to experience."
Anxious murmurs passed among the crowd.
Roan turned his head, a mysterious smile offered to Winston. A shiver works its way up Winston's spine.
Lachlan gave pause then, with a solemn shake of his head, went on, "Baird House belongs to lovers and dreamers." His dark gaze settled on Roan's face, and a smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Dusk afore dawn, laddie. Tis how it should be."
He heaved another breath, one wavering with emotion. "It was once said tha' a mon shouldna love wha' canna love him back. Obviously, tha' person never came to ma home, for I have loved this place, and it has loved me in return. As it will ma heirs for as long as there is earth upon which it can stand."
Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 Page 28
