Roan sighed. "Aye, it’s a mess, for sure." He was silent for a moment. "You mentioned before you had a brither named Ian. Was he yer only sibling?"
"Two ithers, Angus and Gavin. We were all given Ian as a middle name, efter ma paternal grandfaither. Patrick preferred to be called Ian. I was the youngest. You have brithers?"
"Just a sister I would rather forget." Roan stood and stretched the small of his back. "I've got to step ou' back and relieve ma bladder. Don't soak up all the heat while I'm gone."
Lachlan gave a brief nod, then braced his elbows on his thighs and watched Roan go out the back door.
The night air made Roan grimace as he walked toward the white picket fence separating the property. He was about to unzip his fly when he detected voices. After a moment, he pinpointed the general location and realized he was hearing segments of a heated argument.
Dashing back to the open door, he shouted, "Lannie, somethin’s goin’ on in the field!"
Lachlan appeared at the threshold. He followed Roan to the fence, where he, too, heard voices drifting in from the clearing beyond the woods, the area of his supposed resting place.
The two men entered the woods, oblivious to the cold, their concentration focused on keeping afoot on the slick ground. Before they exited the wooded area, two beams of light could be seen bobbing beneath the bare branches of the solitary oak in the center of the field. Both men stopped to weigh the situation then looked at each other.
"Why would someone be messin’ around the graves?" Roan asked, his heart hammering inside his chest.
Lachlan lit into another run, taking the lead, fury fueling his momentum.
Near the ancient oak, Roan and Lachlan found three men struggling on the ground. One of them, younger than the others, seemed to be fighting off the other two, his fists sailing and guttural Gaelic curses abounding. The older men appeared to be attempting to hold down the third. As Lachlan and Roan slid to a stop, one of the older men raised his flashlight in a gesture that indicated he intended to bring it down on the younger man's head.
Lachlan grabbed the man's lifted arm. Ignoring his yelp of surprise, Lachlan yanked him off the younger man, leaving Roan to handle the second. While Roan was trying to separate the fist-driving pair, Lachlan's captive unexpectedly elbowed him in the midriff and shoved him. Lachlan pitched backward and struck the ground, while his assailant ran toward the road bordering the side of the property.
Dazed, Lachlan had sat up before he realized there was something odd about the ground beneath him. It was soft dirt, not packed snow or ice. From the corner of his eye, he saw something erect a scant half an arm's reach away. Horrified, he found himself gawking at his headstone.
He was sitting atop the partially excavated depression of his own grave.
With a howl, he bolted to his feet, in time to witness the second old man swing his flashlight at Roan. The blow caught Roan just above his right temple. He fell to his side, disoriented and unable to stop the man from taking off after his partner.
Panting, the younger man rolled onto his knees and gingerly helped Roan to sit up. Lachlan stepped out of the two-foot deep depression and loomed behind the remaining stranger, his hands fisted at his sides.
"Get yer paughty hands off him!" Lachlan warned, not touching the stranger for fear he would beat him to a pulp.
"I had no' part in this but to try to stop them," the young man said testily.
Lachlan's hands swooped downward. In his right he clutched the collar of the man's jacket, in the other, one of the flashlights. Both he lifted with equal ease. Whirling around, he deftly slammed the man against the broad trunk of the oak and cinched his free hand across his throat.
Focusing the beam of the flashlight on the man's face, Lachlan snarled, "Wha' are you doin’ on this property, diggin’ up ma grave?"
"Yer—" Despite the harsh light, his blue eyes widened. Then he squinted and gripped the wrist of Lachlan's hand in a futile attempt to move the beam from his face.
"Answer me!"
Roan got to his feet and unsteadily stood at Lachlan's side.
"I found them diggin’. Afore I had a chance to say a word, they turned on me."
"You just happened to be here?" Lachlan asked heatedly and tightened his grip.
"Aye!" the man gasped.
"Let him go," said Roan. "Lannie, the ither two wouldn't have run like they did if they weren't the culprits."
"How do I know they didna merely turn on one o' their own?"
The young man's eyes pleaded with Roan to reason on his behalf with Lachlan, but before Roan could say another word, Lachlan released him and stepped back.
Massaging his throat, the young man nodded in gratitude, his wary gaze on Lachlan.
"Wha' the hell?" Roan murmured, using the second flashlight to inspect the disturbed ground. Two shovels lay on the opposite side of the grave.
"Grave robbin’ is a grievous offense," Lachlan gritted out, his gaze raking over the stranger.
The young man straightened. He was as tall as Lachlan but slender in build and approximately in his mid-twenties. His long, wavy hair was unkempt and hung a good three inches past his shoulders. High cheekbones. A prominent jawline with a deeply cleft chin. Blood trickled from the left nostril of his straight nose.
"Sir, I may be wi’ou' a home or a place to sleep, but a grave robber I be no'. On ma honor, I was walkin’ the road and saw the lights. I thought maself fortunate to find anyone ou' so late, and only trespassed to ask if perhaps they had a place I could sleep for the night. I didna know wha' was goin’ on till I saw these markers and those men diggin’ up the ground."
Lachlan tilted up his chin and eyed the man with blatant cynicism. "Just walkin’ along the road, were you?"
"Aye. Lookin’ for a place to sleep the night."
Roan and Lachlan exchanged dubious glances then both focused on the stranger.
"Wha's yer name?" asked Roan.
"Reith, sir."
"Where are you from?" asked Lachlan, coldly.
"Originally from this area, sir. I've been away some time and, as ye can see, I be a wee down on ma luck. For the past two days I've been tryin’ to find a job in town."
"Wha' kind o' work do you do?" asked Roan.
"I'll put ma hands to anythin’, sir, but I be best working land. Gardenin’ and prunin’. I be willin’ to work for room and board."
"Are you now?" said Lachlan suspiciously.
"Aye, sir, on ma honor. I've really no use for money. A place to lay ma head and food in ma stomach is all I need."
Lachlan ran the beam down the man's length, and grimaced. "Ye're dressed like a ragged tinker, mon. Have you no pride?"
"Pride?" A tinge of indignation tainted Reith's voice. "Sir, I have mair'n ma fair measure o' pride, but tis never brought me naught but shame and grief. All I own be on ma back, and I be as glad to have it as ye in yer fancy shirt."
Roan grinned despite the throbbing pain in his head. "Damn me, but I like his spirit."
Lachlan continued to scowl into the young man's face. "Do you know who I am, laddie?"
"Lannie," Roan warned, which Lachlan impatiently flagged off with a hand.
Reith jerked in surprise at the question and gave Lachlan a serious looking over. "No, sir. Should I?"
"Lachlan Baird."
Genuine puzzlement masked the man's face. "Are ye someone o' importance?"
With a somewhat sardonic grin, Lachlan pointed to the disturbed ground. "Prior to a few weeks ago, tha' was ma grave."
A smile of uncertainty twitched on Reith's mouth. "Ye're a...ghost, sir?"
"I'm a born again pain in the arse."
Roan rolled his eyes heavenward and clenched his teeth against a groan.
"Weel, laddie, wha' have you to say to tha'?"
Reith blew out a breath, glanced at the grave then closed one eye and searched Lachlan's face with the other. "I've seen ma fair measure o' wonders, so I guess I say welcome back, Mr. Baird."
&
nbsp; A glint of wry amusement awakened in Lachlan's eyes. "Are you no' sorry you set foot on ma land, then?"
"Only for the beating," Reith said in earnest. "I need to work, sir."
"For yer room and board, aye?"
Reith nodded.
Lachlan glanced at Roan, who shrugged and said, "There's soon to be plenty o' work around here."
"Tell me, laddie, where is yer family?" asked Lachlan, suspicion still lacing his tone.
Reith lowered his head. "Ma wife asked me to leave."
"Ye're married?"
The blue eyes lifted. "Aye, Mr. Baird."
"Why did she ask you to leave?"
"In truth?" Reith croaked.
"Always," said Lachlan curtly.
"I shamed her. Shamed ma clan."
"Och, and you expect us to trust you?" Lachlan exclaimed.
"I be no longer tha' immature fool," Reith said. His gaze shifted to Roan, then back to Lachlan. "Sir, have ye never erred and wished ye could turn back time to right yer wrongs?"
Lachlan and Roan exchanged dubious glances and shifted uneasily.
"All right," said Lachlan, scratching his nape. He glanced at Roan, who nodded in confirmation as if divining Lachlan's thoughts, then frowned at Reith. "Tonight, you'll have to share yer lodgin’ wi' us. But wi' luck, come morn, our women will be forgivin’ our errin’ and you can have the carriage house to yerself. Room and board you'll have, but also a fair wage."
"That's verra generous, sir."
Lachlan scowled formidably. "Step ou' o' line and you'll answer to me."
"I'll do ye and the land proud, sir."
Roan knelt at the edge of the grave and scooped up a handful of the rich dirt. He considered its weight and texture then spread his fingers and watched it fall back to the earth. "You don't have any idea wha' they were lookin’ for?" he asked Reith.
"I overheard the men talkin’ afore they realized I was here. One o' them said if they found the graves empty, they would have their proof."
"Proof o' wha'?" Roan clipped, standing and facing the younger man, his hands on his hips. It wasn't his intention to appear intimidating to the stranger, but his stomach was knotted with something he couldn't quite define, and he was anxious to get away from the graves.
Reith didn't answer right away. His shrewd gaze was fixed on Roan's face as if reading his thoughts, or at the least, pondering the cause of Roan's sudden testiness. Finally, he said, "Physical proof. That be the term I heard. I thought it be a strange thing to say, but even stranger when the ither mon said somethin’ abou’ the scam already bein’ the hottest story o' the decade. Photographs o' empty graves would be worth a wee fortune."
"Scam," Roan murmured, his bleak gaze shifting to Lachlan's now blanched face. A memory flashed vividly through his mind. "Shortby's. Good God Almighty! There was a mon sittin’ at the counter wi' a camera!"
"Och, aye, the flashin’!" Lachlan exclaimed. "Fegs, wha' have I done?"
"Don’t panic," Roan rasped, his hands held up in a pleading manner. "Those bastards didn’t get their bloody photos, thanks to young Reith, here. No, no need to panic. I'm sure we'll come up wi' a plan to prevent this from happenin’ again."
"Do you now?" Lachlan asked with a scowl. "How abou' if I lie in ma grave and wait for the next corbie to come along? A weel-timed boo might solve all our bloody problems, aye?"
"At the least," said Roan humorously, "the intruder would shit his breeks."
"I dinna think so," said Reith cryptically, pointing.
Roan and Lachlan looked in the direction of the manor. The sky between it and the carriage house was unnaturally lit up. Horns and voices rent the night.
"No," Lachlan murmured, swaying on his feet like a drunkard. "Canna be so. Tell me it canna be so!"
This time Roan took the lead, Lachlan and Reith closely following as they ran across the field and into the woods. They stopped and hunkered within a patch of high brush situated between the houses. From this position, they could see a horde of men and women, some with varying camera equipment, others with professional lighting systems. There were shouts for the occupants of the main house to come out and answer questions, and heated demands for a response to the accusations of fraud regarding the supposed hauntings of Baird House.
A media blitz had arrived.
"Reith," said Lachlan, "go into the carriage house and stay ou' o' sight."
"But, sir—"
"Do as I say!"
Without hesitation, the young man stayed low to the ground and made his way to the back door.
Lachlan met Roan's troubled gaze and rasped, "Ma God, wha' have we done?"
"We?" Roan rasped. Hadn't Lachlan accepted the blame at the graves?
Lachlan Baird's convoluted existence had never been more complicated than it was now. He watched the media frenzy unfolding a short distance away, his horror deepening with each passing second, and his fevered mind scrambling to come up with a simple way to unravel the havoc he'd inadvertently brought upon the estate and its occupants.
He inwardly winced, shriveled from the inside out at the thought of Beth's reaction. She'd already relegated him to the carriage house, temporarily barring him from seeing her and their two week old twins. Not that he could blame her. He had been an ass of late. Nothing she wouldn't forgive after a while.
But this?
She blamed their problems on his liking for Scotch. How anyone could hold a wee libation responsible for a man's stupidity was beyond him. Granted, he'd been in his cups more than he should since their return, but he had a damn good reason.
Didn't he?
Crouched behind the hedge, Lachlan looked askance at Roan when he gave his arm a squeeze, as if to warn him not to make a sound or move. He didn't need coaching in that respect. He planned to stay very quiet and very still...unless Winston or one of the women—or, God forbid! one of Laura's nephews—opened the door to confront the reporters.
He squeezed his eyes shut a moment then opened them and glared at the noisy trespassers not more than twenty feet away. Every shouted accusation of fraud made his hands repeatedly clench.
Fraud against whom?
Crossmichael?
The county?
All of Scotland?
Mentally groaning, he cursed his now former pride in being the renowned ghost of Baird House—worldwide. Over the long, long decades, many articles and stories had been written about his murder and his sometimes very deliberate, ostentatious shenanigans to verify his spectral existence. He couldn't count all the psychic investigators who had visited the mansion over the years, most of whom had believed it their duty to send the "restless spirit" to his final resting place.
The reporters had been equally guilty of underestimating him. While a few came with the sincere hope of seeing The Lucky Baird, himself, there were countless numbers who had mocked his existence and strived to prove him an elaborate hoax. He'd toyed with psychics and reporters alike, using them to dull the edge of his boredom.
Back then it never occurred to him a time would come when he would regret the publicity he'd milked out of his murder.
Now it was all coming back to haunt him.
Wouldn't the reporters just love to sink their career-sharpened fangs into this story!
He could well imagine the bold headlines:
GHOSTLY DUO ONCE AGAIN BONAFIDE FLESH AND BLOOD MORTALS!
TWINS! HEAVENLY CONCEPTION OR DEVILISH DECEPTION?
His stomach churned as he wondered if Beth had been pregnant before she died. Being dead himself, he hadn't thought precaution necessary.
Yesterday, an innocent visit to Shortby's had resulted in a brawl with several of the regular patrons. What bloody bad luck that one man'd had a camera. And now, if the media storming his property was any indication, Baird House was about to make the news again.
This time, Lachlan wasn't of a mind to play with them. It was no longer a game. His immaturity in accepting his new life paled in significance to the fact that he now k
new he had to cease being Lachlan Baird. For the sake of Beth and their children, he had to lose his identity, and that terrified him.
Everything he'd done in his prior existences had been for naught, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Gulping back a burning sensation in his throat, he shifted his gaze to Roan's profile. The man's face was like an open book, every line telling the story of his thoughts. Lachlan knew that for his sake, Roan was trying his mightiest not to appear panicked or resentful, but it was there in his gaunt features and the way he searched Lachlan's eyes as if desperate to understand how Lachlan could have been so careless to announce his identity at Shortby's.
Roan was right, but there was no going back. The damage was done and Lachlan didn't have a clue as to how to defuse the situation.
Wiping his brow with the back of a hand, Roan began, "No matter wha' happens—"
Lachlan's head shot around and his eyes widened in shock, effectively cutting off Roan's intended warning. One of the male reporters was reaching out for Braussaw, the stuffed peacock sitting atop the partially melted snowman that Roan, Laura and the boys had put together a few days earlier. With a howl of outrage, he bolted from his hiding place, leaving Roan behind to dumbfoundedly watch after him. Just as the reporter's hand was about to touch Braussaw's tail, Lachlan slugged the man to the ground. He pulled the peacock into his arms protectively, cradling it against his chest as he was besieged by other reporters.
Harsh lights blinded him. Shouted questions flew at him like an onslaught of bullets. He turned his back to the crowd closing in on three sides, but turned again when he heard Roan bellowing for the trespassers to get off the property.
Microphones and glaring lights were thrust in Roan's face, which he batted aside again and again with increasing belligerence.
Panting, Lachlan tried to clear his mind. He'd really done it this time, but he couldn't have allowed an outsider to touch Braussaw. He at least owed the defunct bird that much. But in rescuing a dead peacock, he'd gotten Roan and himself into deeper trouble, and something told him, an insidious voice laughing in the back of his mind at his rashness, that this time, he was in over his head.
Hope Everlastin' Book 4 Page 2
