Time Everlastin' Book 5

by Mickee Madden

  Lachlan straightened away from the mantel. "You didna have to do all tha' work, lad. I told you I would take care o' it efter dinner."

  "Aye, sir, but I had help. Several dozen arms and wings, I did."

  Lachlan smiled in appreciation.

  "We left the treasure in the library, sir, and Taryn and Broc's belongin’s in her room."

  "Thank you," Taryn said.

  "Ma pleasure. Sir?"

  "Reith," Lachlan sighed. "Ye're a prince—a king once Blue—"

  "Never happen," she gnashed out, glaring at Reith.

  Low chuckles circled the room.

  "As I was sayin'," Lachlan went on, "callin' me sir—"

  "Be yer due," Reith said unequivocally, his regal tone brooking no argument. "Ye will always be ma mentor, sir."

  His chest swelling with pride, Lachlan clapped Reith on the back. "Did you see Broc when you went to Taryn's room?"

  "Aye."

  "Did he say if he planned to join us?" asked Lachlan.

  "Aye. Soon."

  Lachlan frowned comically. "A wee succinct in yer answers, lad."

  Reith grinned. "Weel, ye could say we startled one anither. He wasna prepared to see ma wings engaged, nor I...."

  "Nor you, wha'?"

  Reith shrugged. "He's a fine lookin' mon, cleaned up, sir."

  "Broc?" Lachlan sputtered then cleared his throat and offered Taryn an apologetic grin when she narrowed her eyes in his direction. "I only meant, lass, he's a wee rough around the edges."

  "Maybe I should go upstairs and—" she began, cutting off when Reith raised a hand.

  "He'll be down shortly," Reith assured. "Oh!" He pulled something from inside his shirt and handed it to Lachlan. "I wasna sure where ye wanted this."

  Beth left her chair and came to stand to Lachlan's right. "What is it?"

  "Ma mither's journal," Lachlan said solemnly, running his thumbs over the aged leather.

  "Wha's wrong?" Beth asked, linking an arm through his.

  "Fegs, lass," he sighed. "Her life is on these pages. Such as it was."

  "Have you ever read it?"

  "No. Broc has, though. He knows mair abou' her than I do."

  "Why haven't you read it?" Beth said.

  "Canna bear to read her sorrows in her own words."

  "You're assuming she didn't write about what also made her happy," Beth chided. "People write down their innermost thoughts, hoping one day someone will read them. Someone will connect with the words. Your mother was an incredible woman, Lachlan. Don't be afraid of what's in this book."

  Lachlan wrapped an arm about Beth's neck and pulled her close for a kiss. When he lifted his head, he said, "I didna do enough for her."

  "She gave you life," Beth said tremulously, "and in return, you brightened hers. From what you've told me, she never doubted your love for her."

  "Aye, she knew, but no matter wha' I said or did, lass, I couldna penetrate her sorrow. Ma existence brought her grief."

  "Lachlan, no—"

  "Tis true. Ma existence caused her misery. Caused a rift atween her and ma faither—"

  "Guin wasna your da!" came a sharp voice from the hall doorway.

  Startled, Lachlan dropped the journal. It bounced off the rim of his boot and landed in the hearth. Reith dashed to rescue it, but the dry pages were too quick to ignite, and he abandoned the attempt, stood and scanned the stunned faces in the room.

  An oppressive silence thickened the air. Taryn was the first to move, Deliah and Winston next, in unison, to retrieve their son. Her arms free, Taryn staggered to a position between Broc and Lachlan, her glazed eyes flitting between the statuesque men.

  "Broc?" she choked.

  Roan stood with a twin in each arm. Those sitting, rose, gawking, mouths opened in silent denial. Reith stood to Blue's side, the only one not surprised by Broc's appearance or his statement.

  Broc advanced into the room, his eyes locked with Lachlan's, his back inordinately straight. "In the beginnin', yer mither wrote abou' her expectations wi' the mon she was to marry, and later, how the adorin', gentle Guin who had courted her, became the cruel mon she lay wi' each night. She wrote o' her hopes for her sons, then o' her helplessness to teach them there was mair to life than business. Than greed."

  Broc took another step toward Lachlan. "Abou' the middle o' her journal, she wrote o' one fateful journey to visit kin on the Outer Hebrides. She didna go into details abou' tha' two weeks she vanished at the standin' stones. She didna have to for me to understand her reference to B and K, and the magical world she claimed she dreamt abou' afore she left the isle.

  "She wrote abou' ye, Lachlan, born eight an' a half months on, and her fear I would take ye below wi' me, should I ken ye existed. Years later, she wrote she brought ye to the inn, for her guilt at hidin' yer true identity haunted her. When ye snuck ou' to the site on yer own, she thought ye forever lost. But I didna ken ye were there. Karok, no doubt, but I, no."

  Another step brought Broc two arm's-lengths away. "I always believed Ciarda despised me for seducin' her, for seduce her, I did, so desperate was I to hold a womon at tha' time. She happened on the site one night when I was free to ride the land. Karok, sensing ma interest, carried her below."

  Broc swallowed convulsively. "Tha' first week, we talked abou' everythin' imaginable...and some things unimaginable. I didna touch her. No' in tha' way. But it did happen. Several times. All these years...these years, I...couldna justify havin' her, especially efter Karok snatched her from ma arms while we slept thegither, and I never saw her again. I lived wi' the belief I had ruined her. Had...dishonored her."

  Broc abruptly stood before the hearth, staring into the lapping flames. "She wrote in tha' journal she often wondered how the ‘dream mon' was, but like all dreams, he was best forgotten. Her life—however painful it be—was her hope she could one day sway her ither sons from their da's influence."

  Closing his eyes and shaking his head during on onslaught of memories, he went on, "So long ago, yet so vivid in ma mind. Her last entry..." He looked up and met Lachlan's brooding eyes. "...was tha' she regretted her silence, her secret, but ye were best kept from me.

  "When I finished readin' her journal, I was angry. So bloody angry. I had a son wha' lived and died afore I knew o' his existence. I thought the Lachlan Taryn mentioned, a descendent, till just afore I left Karok's realm on the night o' the intended sacrifice. Twas the reason for ma animosity toward ye. I saw no recognition in yer eyes, whilst I knew ye, felt ye in ma heart afore I came above and we first met."

  Broc flexed his fingers then rested a palm over his heart. "There be no good time to reveal maself afore now."

  Lachlan half-circled Broc, his gaze raking him over from his bare feet, clean kilt and linen shirt, to the hair he had chopped shoulder-length, to his clean-shaven face.

  In size and build and features, they were as identical as mirror images.

  "Lachlan," Broc said in a guttural plea, "say somethin'."

  Lachlan staggered back, his face the color of chalk, his mouth but a thin, compressed line. Without warning, he ran from the room and down the hall, slamming the outer doors as he escaped into the night.

  Trembling, Broc looked to Taryn for understanding. If possible, she was paler than Lachlan, her eyes clouded with something he couldn't define.

  She, too, ran from the room and disappeared up the wide staircase.

  Needing to break the suffocating silence, Broc looked at the others and proudly announced, "I dinna belong here. I'll find ma own way in this world."

  He was stalking toward the door when a blur of motion stopped him. His vision zoomed in beyond the angry features of the Faerie queen, to the blue and gold iridescent wings flapping in agitation at her back. She slapped a palm to his chest then none-too-gently tapped him on chin, drawing his attention to her face.

  "You can't ignite a bomb and not expect an adverse reaction!" she snapped.

  "Bomb?"

  "A thing that goes boom!"
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  Broc glanced at the hand stuck fast to his chest. His gaze crept up slowly, warily, questioning how far she would go to stop him from leaving the house. "Mayhaps," he murmured, and scowled hang doggedly. "I didna ken how to tell them any differently."

  Her restricting hand lowered and her wings relaxed. "I know, Broc, but running now isn't the answer. Taryn and Lachlan need time to let your revelation sink in."

  "To wha' end?"

  "Don't you think you should wait and find out?"

  "There be mair, and now tha' this much has been revealed, I canna hope the rest will be accepted any better."

  "I know," Blue said, her tone causing a chill to caress his skin.

  "No, ye dinna—"

  "Broc, I know."

  More than ever, he wanted to run. To run and hide from these people of Baird House, the fairies, and the last secret he had hoped was as dead as the kith and kin of his village.

  "Broc—"

  "Twas never ma intention to sire a child," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  "I know who you are. Don't you think it's time you knew the whole truth?"

  Sickly, he shook his head.

  "You think Lachlan should be denied his true heritage as well?"

  "How can he accept wha' I canna?"

  Blue gave a low laugh. "Well, hey, I'm only a three hundred-year-old fairy queen. Maybe I don't know everything, but it's a safe bet I've been around long enough to be considered a fair judge of character."

  Despite his misgivings, a smile cracked through his control. "Aye, Yer Grace."

  Her attention riveted on his hair and she chuckled as she slipped the fingers of one hand through it. "Come with me."

  "To where?"

  "My world."

  "No!"

  "Broc," she chided, and flicked a finger at his hair. "This is a hack job. Straight razor, right?"

  Crimson seeped into his face. ‘Aye, but—"

  "We'll fix your hair, then you and I will have a nice talk."

  Again, wariness crept into his expression. "Talk?"

  "Come along," she laughed, and pulled him from the room.

  Standing in front of the fireplace, Reith sighed, "Poor mon."

  Roan chuckled. "Nice talk? He's likely to return wi' bells on his toes."

  Chapter 19

  A cold mist fell upon the land, lending a surrealistic ambiance to the night. To brace himself against the dampness trying to permeate his bones, Broc folded his arms against his chest, and sat on the top step of the gazebo. The eves protected him against the drizzle but not the chill.

  Karok's realm had been a relatively quiet place. No so at Baird House. In the distance, dogs barked and howled. Vehicles traveled the road, blocked from his view by foliage. Peafowl crooned, now and then releasing a horrendous screech, of which he was sure he would never become accustomed. Yet, it was quieter here than inside the manor. It had been over two hundred years since he'd heard the laughter and shouts of children, and the rambunctious boys would take some getting used to.

  Everything in this existence would take some getting used to.

  Visiting Faerie would be a memory he would treasure. Intimidating at first, what with flying beings gathering to meet the "latest" addition to Baird House, and his mind trying to grasp the fact that he and Blue had walked inside the great oak near the carriage house. Walked in as if the trunk were but an illusion.

  True to her word, Blue instructed one of her maidens to properly cut his hair, after which, the "talk" ensued. To his immense relief, she had not foisted imperial dictates, or scolded his actions in the parlor. To his surprise, she not only understood what had motivated him, but was compassionate and generous in her endeavors to help him understand his true lineage. And knowing the truth explained much, but also strengthened his belief his son would shun him all the more.

  Broc left Faerie with the distinct impression Blue had lived through a harrowing experience herself, something that, although he did hint at her revealing her history, never came to pass. All he knew about the fairy queen was that she loved bacon, refused to acknowledge her love for her husband, and was grandly admired by her people.

  "One day at a time," she had told him.

  He understood the concept. Leaving Karok's realm had taken its toll, but he had left believing he and Taryn and—eventually—his son, would have a bright future together. Blue was confident they would come around. He wasn't so sure. The thought of approaching them left a sour taste in his mouth, and a nauseating tightening in his gut.

  Time wasn't the problem. Rejection was.

  He could survive in this century, but the prospect of doing so alone was not to his liking.

  A warbled coo wrenched him from his reverie. His eyebrows lifted and a smile cracked through the taut muscles at the sight of a peacock eyeing him from the bottom step. The smile vanished, however, when the bird's beady eyes struck him as being unnaturally intense in their scrutiny, seeming to stare and dissect his soul.

  "Ye must be Braussaw," he mused aloud. "Ma Braussaw has four legs. Wha' do you think o' tha'?"

  Braussaw ruffled his feathers then fanned his magnificent tail, cocked his head, and strutted off into the mist, disappearing into shadowed pockets of shrubbery.

  Broc sighed, and shivered. He should return inside. His frayed linen shirt, kilt and hide boots, were not adequate covering. He should return inside, but he wasn't yet prepared to face the others.

  An image appeared in his mind, startling him. He closed his eyes and brought the delicate features into sharper focus, somehow comforted by her presence.

  "Ciarda. I thought I'd forgotten yer face."

  She smiled and his chill lessened.

  "Ye wouldna be proud o' how I handled our son. He's a fine mon. The best o' us, I believe. But, och, I didna think before I leapt into proclaimin' ma parentage."

  Her image melted away and he found himself staring into the night, his shoulders burdened with sorrow.

  He was grateful Blue had stopped him from leaving the estate. Pride was seldom a reliable referee. How much time should he wait for Taryn and Lachlan to adjust? Lachlan's reaction he understood. Taryn's, he did not.

  Did her disappointment lie in learning he was a father, or specifically in that he was Lachlan's father?

  What difference did it make?

  Or was she using it as an excuse to get out of a relationship that, now at the Baird estate, she realized wasn't for her?

  Bone weary of juggling thoughts, Broc lowered his head and raked his fingers through his hair, capping the back of his skull.

  He recalled the look of shock on Reith's face when he entered Taryn's room and saw the beardless Broc for the first time. That should have been a strong indication of how the others would respond.

  "Bloody foolish," he muttered, roughly kneading his scalp. "If I could go back a day. Start this acquaintin' anew. Think afore I shocked the bowels ou' o' everyone."

  "That's a gross image," chuckled a soft voice.

  Broc's head shot around. Standing midway across the gazebo was Taryn, her hands clasped behind her.

  "The bowel bit," she added nervously, and approached. "Mind if I join you?"

  Swallowing the effusion of spit that gathered in his mouth, he nodded and watched her sit next to him, her gaze trained on her lap.

  "Aren't you cold?" she asked, not looking up.

  "A wee."

  Silence.

  "I met Braussaw—the peacock," he said, staring where the bird had disappeared.

  Taryn rubbed her arms for warmth and sighed contentedly when he scooted closer and draped an arm about her shoulders.

  "Do you want to go inside, lass?"

  She rested her head on his shoulder and murmured, "No. I'm okay. You?"

  "I be now."

  Silence.

  A dog howled from some distant place. Peafowl rustled branches in the surrounding shrubs.

  "I'm sorry," she said.

  "Ye have naught to apologize for."
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  "You look so much like...him."

  "Aye, the mon you once believed you loved," he said solemnly.

  Taryn sat up and stared into his eyes. "I-I need to explain my reaction. When I...saw you step into the parlor...."

  "Twas a shock."

  "Yeah, but...in a matter of seconds, Broc, I questioned my feelings for you."

  "I dinna understand."

  "I know you don't, and I'm not sure I can explain what ran through my mind. You see, when I saw Lachlan at the standing stones, I knew I never loved him, and I was relieved."

  A puzzled grin formed on Broc's face. "I'm mair confused now, lass."

  "So was I, believe me. I-I didn't have those feelings for him, Broc, which in a way—at least to my way of thinking—validated my love for you. In fact, I-uh...did question how I came to love you so quickly. I mean...I was confused. After so many years of not allowing myself to care about anyone, I find myself willing to give up everything to be with you. If you knew the old Taryn, you would question me, too."

  "Would I?"

  "Oh, yes." She focused on his bare knees and frowned. "I have a reputation for being a conniving bitch."

  "Ye're talkin' abou' ma womon."

  She met his smiling eyes and grinned shyly. "Ask anyone, Broc. I've never been exactly...lovable."

  With a chuckle, he kissed her brow.

  "Anyway," she went on, worrying her hands atop her lap, "when you stepped into the parlor...I thought...well, I convinced myself I knew all along you were related to Lachlan."

  "How could you ken, Taryn?"

  "Your eyes." She stared into them. "They were so familiar. So like his."

  "How would ma relationship to Lachlan make ye doubt yer love for me?"

  "I know it sounds crazy, Broc, but I got it into my head that my obsession to have Lachlan was merely transferred to you. Everything jumbled in my mind."

  "Naught to do wi' Ciarda?" he asked softly.

  "Honestly, I didn't think about her until after I got to our room. Then...yes, I was snapping in the face of a green-eyed monster."

  His eyebrows lifted quizzically.

  "Jealousy," she said. "I wanted to rip her eyes out for having a history with you. I know it's childish, and I know she was a part of your life a long time ago. I guess it's a stupid woman thing. A Taryn thing."