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

Impatiently, the stranger
plied the wooden matches from Alby's fingers.

"A fine pyromaniac you have
here," he said to Laura, his broad chest heaving in anger as he
straightened and scowled down at her.

Forcing herself to leave the
bed, Laura held onto the brass arch at the foot, and looked to
where the two older boys stood an arm's length away.

"Kevin, I'm asking you to
please watch your brothers while I talk to this...man."

"He lies," Kevin clipped,
the firelight casting one half of his features in stark relief.
"Don't listen to him."

"I-I won't. I...just need to
talk to him." She gulped back a rise of burning liquid in her
throat. "Can I-I trust you to watch after your brothers for a
little while?"

Petulantly, Kevin shrugged.
"Yeah. We're sleepy, anyway."

"Thank you."

At the same instant she
turned to face the stranger, the contents of her stomach
projectiled past her lips. It happened so quickly, her hand didn't
make it up in time to stop the flow. A moment later, swaying on her
feet, she could only gape at the mess on the front of the man's
sweater. No thoughts intruded upon her stupor for several seconds,
not until the incredulity enlarging his eyes, registered in her
mind.

Kevin whooped and pointed at
the man. “She showed you, mista!” His brothers joined his
laughter.

I don't believe
this,
she mutely groaned, shriveling within
herself.

"Weel...leave it to me to be
standin' in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Laura timorously met his
gaze again. Although she was staring into his face, she was
oblivious to everything but the damning glint in his eyes. The pale
grayness would have been welcomed right about now. The darkness. A
hole in the ground in which she could hide away and pretend she'd
never set foot on this continent. But it was becoming ever more
apparent that fate wasn't yet through testing her ability to
endure.

Donning a guarded
expression, he abruptly took her by the arm and marched her across
the room. Stopping at an opened door, he looked back at the boys
and scowled a silent warning, then ushered her into a dark room.
She stood passively waiting, inwardly questioning her lack of fear
in trusting this stranger.

A light came on to her
right. With calm she could not begin to rationalize, she watched as
he adjusted a brass key on a gas fixture alongside an oval mirror
above a sink.

"You've a nasty crack on yer
head but no concussion as far as I can tell." Easing his sweater
off over his head, he tossed it into a claw foot tub. "Ye're mair
rattled than anythin', I think."

He looked down at her, the
soft lighting lending his light brown irises an amber hue. "But
then I'm no' a doctor, am I?"

"I wouldn't know," she
murmured, her gaze taking in the powerful width of his naked barrel
chest and bulging biceps. Suddenly, she found herself overwhelmed
by his towering height. The top of her head barely reached his
dimpled chin. If she was forced to defend herself, she was afraid
the best she could do was bruise his ego.

Even that was
questionable.

"Are you goin' to toss yer
innards again?"

Crimson stained her cheeks.
"I'm sorry. I-I'll wash your sweater."

"I would worry abou' maself
if I were you. Are you feelin' jaggey?"

Unbidden, her gaze riveted
on his sensuous mouth. A cottony sensuality blanketed her brain
"Wh-what?"

"Light in the
head."

"No. Just a little
wobbly."

A skeptical gleam softened
his eyes, and he arched a thick eyebrow. "Wobbly, eh? I'll go
downstairs and fix you somethin' to—"

"No food!" she gasped,
swaying on her feet.

"Aye, no food." He scowled,
his gaze raking her from head to toe. "A cup o' tea,
then?"

"Thank you."

"When ye're through cleanin'
up, go left in the hall and down the stairs. I'll be waitin' in the
room across the foyer to the right. The door'll be
open."

"Thank you,
Mister..."

"Roan. Roan
Ingliss."

"Laura...Bennett."

"I'll be waitin',
Laura."

He was about to cross the
threshold when her cold tone arrested him. "It's Ms.
Bennett."

His head turned. The look of
dark annoyance he delivered sent a chill along Laura's
spine.

"There's an unwritten
practice here...
Miss
Bennett, tha' when a womon spews on a mon, he can call her
anythin' the hell he pleases."

Laura stiffened. For an
indefinite time, a visual war ensued. Then he disappeared into the
bedroom, leaving her to brace her hands against the sink, and
gingerly lower her head.

God give me
strength,
she mutely whimpered.

Whatever the man's faults,
however provoking his attitude, she had to hold back her temper. He
was the only likely candidate to help her and the boys get to
Edinburgh.

Glancing into the bathtub,
she grimaced.

Roan Ingliss obviously
wasn't thrilled about his uninvited guests. If there was ever a
time when she needed to utilize her petite stature and youthful
blond-capped visage, it was now. Appeal to the man's compassionate
side—if he had one. Find the right chord to ring his heartstrings.
If she didn’t get out of Great Britain soon, she was sure she would
completely unravel.

She released a sigh of
disgust as she went down on her knees in front of the tub. Draping
her arms over the rounded porcelain edge, she laid her brow against
the cold smooth surface.

Never in her life had she
resorted to feminine wiles to obtain anything she'd wanted. Not in
her personal or professional existence. But then, she'd never been
stuck in a foreign land before, and with the dubious custody of
three wild boys.

"Desperate measures for
desperate times," she murmured, turning on the taps to a desired
temperature. Her movements stilted, she began to rinse off the
matter clinging to the plain, dark green sweater. She refused to
think about regurgitating on her grudging host. It was unfortunate
for Mr. Ingliss, but she felt immensely better for having
unburdened her stomach. It had been just another example of her
having lost control since landing in London earlier in the
week.

Now, if only the headache
would go away. Was that asking too damn much?

A breeze moved through the
bathroom and passed through her. Laura gasped. The cold that had
touched her for but a moment, branded itself in her
memory.

Her eyes as wide as saucers,
she glanced about the suddenly too-close quarters. She wondered if
she were losing her mind, for she was positive she could feel a
presence in the room with her. Then it dawned on her that the
headache had mysteriously vanished.

"Hello?"

A nervous chuckle rattled in
her dry and scratchy throat.

"I must be
hallucinating."

The presence melted away
from her awareness. A shudder coursed through her as she stood
poised, air trapped in her lungs while she waited for something
more to happen. After seconds ticked by and nothing occurred, she
sank to her buttocks and braced her back against the side of the
tub.

Tears welled in her
eyes.

Laura Bennett, senior
designer for Holly Coe Cosmetics, Inc., was not one to easily lose
touch with reality. And yet, the past five days had badly shaken
her convictions about herself. If she could convince herself a good
cry would lessen her misery, she would weep a river.

Ha!

All she would likely get was
another headache.

* * *

"So where the bloody hell
are you, Lannie, you swineheart!"

Roan continued to pace
beneath a circular array of swords mounted on one parlor
wall.

"I didn't bargain for this,
I can tell you! Where are you? Laughin' off yer fool head, no
doubt!"

He sharply looked over his
shoulder, his heated gaze targeting a large portrait hanging over a
Victorian marble mantel. A snort escaped him then, turning on a
heel, he walked to the stoked hearth and glowered at the
heart-shaped face of the woman in the painting.

"Beth, give me a hand, here.
I know ye're still around. You brought me here to help. Weel, I
did. Now,
dammit
,
I would like to return to Aggie, if you please."

A sigh of frustration heaved
his chest. "The wind's pickin' up. I wasn't plannin' on gettin'
stuck here. No' even for you."

Hooking his thumbs onto the
waistband of his trousers, he sighed. "Beth, lass, I don't want the
responsibility o' a spunkie Yank and her obnoxious laddies. I've
no' the patience to put maself ou' for strangers. I've ma own life
to worry abou'."

Something compelled him to
look to his right. His heart rose into his throat when he found
himself staring into a sea of fiery green eyes. It felt as if an
invisible fist slammed into his gut. The skin on his arms and nape
tingled uncomfortably.

"How long have you been
standin' there?"

Laura released the crystal
doorknob and advanced into the room. Pale, her eyes seeming too
large for her gamin features, she stopped within an arm's length of
her host.

"Long enough." She spared
the portrait a glance before spearing Roan's eyes with a look of
unquestionable hostility. Then her gaze swept over him, and her
right eyebrow haughtily arched. Snug, dark brown trousers
accentuated his narrow hips and muscular thighs. Dingy white wool
socks covered his feet. In place of the sweater she'd soiled, a
dark purple and blue plaid lap blanket was draped over his
otherwise bare shoulders.

Placing his balled hands on
his hips, he further exposed the pale, curly blond hair matting his
chest to his collar bones.

A pulse drummed at Laura's
temples. Her skin twitched. "For the record, Mr. Ingliss, I didn't
deliberately drive onto this property to have a wreck. I lost
control of the car...which, considering the condition of the roads
is quite understandable. At least it would be understandable to a
reasonable person!"

"Save yer temper for the
laird o' this...." Roan offered a snide, lopsided grin.
"...house."

"You're not the
owner?"

Shaking his head, he folded
his arms across his chest. "There's no consanguinity between an
Ingliss and a Baird."

The news took her aback, but
she nonetheless kept her spine stiff. "When do you expect the owner
to return?"

"He's somewhere abou'," he
replied, casting the room a scornful glower.

Somewhere about?
Laura narrowed a fuming look on
him
. He talked to that portrait kinder
than he talks to me!
"Look, I'm grateful
for what you've done—"

"No!" Roan exclaimed with a
flag of a hand. Turning, he went to a pink and gold embroidered
settee positioned atop an enormous red and blue Persian rug, and
seated himself. "I don't want gratitude, Miss Bennett. I responded
to the heat o' the moment. Nothin' mair."

"Have you always been such
an ass, or is this little performance being staged strictly for my
benefit?"

Roan was at first shocked by
her words then threw back his head and released a booming laugh.
When he looked at her again, his bearish countenance had softened.
A gleam of mischief brightened his eyes beneath the arched
precipices of his eyebrows.

"It’s been a long day, Miss
Bennett. Forgive ma ill mood."

"Don't talk to me about long
days, Mr. Ingliss," Laura said through clenched teeth. "My first
and last visit to Great Britain has been nothing short of a
nightmare. So, please...." She affected a sickeningly sweet smile.
"...please forgive
my
ill mood."

"Tea,
Miss
Bennett?"

"No thank you,
Mr
. Ingliss. What I
really need is a telephone."

Raking a slow, measuring
look over her, Roan gave a shake of his head. "No phone. No
electricity."

Laura crossed half the
distance to the marble coffee table in front of the settee. "You
can't be serious!"

"Aye, lass." His gaze lifted
to the portrait. "No' long ago, a Yank abou' yer age came to this
bloody place. She died here. When the house is verra, verra still,
you can feel her presence—"

"Oh shut up! I don't believe
in ghosts."

His unsettling gaze searched
her features. "Yer car's beyond repair. And if the howlin' o' the
wind is any indication, the storm's worsenin'. I would say a good
part o' yer vacation is goin' to be spent wi'in these
walls."

"Why are you trying to
frighten me?"

"I doubt the boogeymon could
frighten you,
Miss
Bennett. But you see, I know this house and the powers tha'
control it. Old Lannie is undoubtedly derivin' some perverse
pleasure in burdenin' me wi' you and the laddies."