Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (3 page)

"Burdening you!"

Laura hastened to the side
of the settee, her hands balled at her sides. Bright splotches of
red stained her cheeks. The wild disarray of her short curly hair
lent her a look of almost comical madness. "I need to get to
Edinburgh."

Roan's eyes rolled up to
deliver her an amused look. "Be serious. I'm no' abou' to risk ma
life ou' in this storm."

"Then who can I contact who
would be willing to help me?"

Shifting his gaze to the
coffee table, he ran his hands up and down his face. "I've no
idea."

"I don't believe
you."

Releasing a short burst of
breath, he got to his feet and faced her. His eyebrows drew down in
an angry scowl as he informed, "Believe this, lass: if it were in
ma power to send you and yer sons on yer way, you'd've been gone
hours ago."

"They're my
nephews."

"Ma condolences," he
grumbled. Seating himself, he propped his feet atop the coffee
table, one ankle crossing the other. Despite his determination to
ignore the twitching of his skin, he crossed his arms against his
chest and rubbed the irritating sensation moving along his
flesh.

Laura gulped past the
tightness in her throat. It was obvious the direct approach wasn't
going to work. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she said in her
most beguiling tone, "I need help. Please, Mr. Ingliss, you must
help me."

His eyes closed and he
lowered his head. Laura stared down at him, using all her willpower
not to succumb to the tears pressing at the back of her eyes. This
arrogant stranger had no idea how hard it was for her to ask help
of anyone. But she was frightened, not of the woman who supposedly
haunted this house, but of what to do about the three lively
spirits asleep on the second floor.

This man kept his
heartstrings well secreted from outsiders, but she had to find
them, even if it meant groveling.

"My sister-in-law died
giving birth to Alby," she blurted, and rushed on, "Jack, my
brother, remarried a little over a year ago; a nineteen-year-old
British girl named Carrie Wilks. Eleven months ago, Jack suffered a
stroke and died within a few days."

Tipping her head to one
side, she looked to see if she'd spurred the slightest reaction in
him.

Nothing?

"He was thirty-seven," she
added, but to her chagrin, it came out sounding like a cold-hearted
afterthought.

Her heart slowly rose into
her throat. His silence was a blaring indication that he wasn't
going to make this easy.

"We weren't a close family,"
she went on, a genuine tremor in her tone. "I...didn't even come to
England to attend his funeral. Neither did my parents. They
couldn't bring themselves to interrupt their Hawaiian vacation, and
I was...engrossed in a project at work."

Ahh. His shoulders jerked.
He is actually listening.

"Two weeks ago, Carrie
called. I'd never spoken to her before that day. She was crying,
pleading with me to come for a visit. She claimed the boys were
having a rough time without their father, and said she believed a
visit from their aunt would make a world of difference. For the
first time, I realized I knew nothing about the boys."

What is he thinking?
she wondered, moistening her lower lip with the
tip of her tongue.

"Jack had never sent
pictures. All I'd ever gotten was a call after each of them was
born."

A dispassionate, "Charmin',"
was all Roan said.

Me or
Jack
?
Is it just
my imagination, or is he taking this all out of context?

An edge of perplexity to her
tone, she continued, "I arrived in London six days ago. Carrie and
the boys were there to greet me. I remember thinking she didn't
look old enough to be married, let alone to pass for a stepmother
to three children.

"The first couple of days
went relatively well. Oh, the boys proved to be royal hellions, but
then I've never really been around children. I just kept telling
myself that these were Jack's boys and that I only had a few days
left to be with them. Little did I know at the time, I was psyching
myself up to fall into Carrie's trap."

When she fell silent for a
time, Roan turned his head and narrowly eyed her. "Wha' kind o'
trap?" he asked gruffly, as if driven to satisfy his
curiosity.

A tremulous smile quirked at
one corner of Laura's pouty lips. At long last he was responding.
"She suggested I take the boys out for the day. A picnic at the
playground. She even packed our lunch. What a disaster that turned
out to be. Kahl took a dive in a brook. Alby vanished for nearly
two hours and, while I was searching for him, Kevin heavily
peppered all the food. They fought me every inch of the way when I
dragged them back to the house. Carrie wasn't there. I just figured
she went shopping or visiting."

With a nod of his head, Roan
straightened his gaze to the hearth. A muscle ticked along his
well-defined jawline.

Laura swallowed a moment's
disappointment. Was she losing him again?

"When she didn't return that
night, I really began to worry. The following morning, Kevin
informed me that she'd packed up her things, and had told the boys
that they were going to return to the States with me. I went into
shock. Kevin handed me a letter she'd instructed him to give me
after she'd left. Basically, it said she refused to raise the boys.
She was off with her new boyfriend and it would be useless for me
to try to find her."

"Charmin'."

One more 'charmin'' out of
him, and I swear I'll...

"Things became really
complicated when I couldn't find the boys' birth certificates. I
took the house apart and couldn't find a one. Then that evening, a
large burly man showed up at the door, informing me the house was
supposed to have been vacated two days prior. He wouldn't listen to
a word of reason. Two men were waiting in his van. The three of
them stormed into the house and barely gave me enough time to pack
two bags of clothes for the boys. Then they rudely ushered us out
onto the street."

Laura cranked her head to
one side to observe Roan's reaction. A flutter of nervous tension
moved in her abdomen at the sight of his grimly set
mouth.

"Carrie had at least left
her car and the keys in the ignition." She moved to the back of the
settee. "What else could I do? It didn't seem very important at the
time that I hadn't touched a stick shift in ten years, or that I
hadn't a clue how to drive on British roads."

She returned to her former
position, absently wringing her hands at his continued
silence.

"The sidewalks roll up in
St. Ives after five o'clock. I had no idea where I was going. I
drove until dusk then the boys and I slept in the car that night.
In the morning, I found a small cafe and checked the phone
directory for the closest American Consulate. A waitress was kind
enough to highlight the shortest route to Edinburgh on the map I'd
purchased. After that, I went to a gas station across the street,
and we started out."

Damn you, Ingliss! Do you
even have a heart?

"The storm began shortly
after we entered Scotland. I located a B&B last night, but when
I went to prepay for our rooms, I discovered I didn't have my
purse. My money, passport, and return ticket...all gone. The last
place I remember seeing my purse was at the station, and I don't
have the foggiest recollection of which town that was
in."

Roan continued to stare
across the room. Frustration gnawed unmercifully on Laura's nerves.
Her gaze lifted to study a circular display on the far wall, of
ancient swords, their points meeting in a tight center. The sharp,
shining metal of the blades winked at her. For a fleeting moment,
she visualized holding one of the razor-sharp edges to his
throat.

Let him squirm.

A feeling of absolute
loathing swelled inside her, turning her blood to ice. Shivering,
she seated herself on the coffee table alongside his right foot.
His disquieting gaze shifted to her face. There was something in
his eyes she could not fathom, but it filled her with a sense of
foreboding. A shiver of primitive awareness swept through her mind,
an instinctual awareness, as yet, she didn't understand. He'd done
nothing to her to warrant the gloom moving like a mist through her
system. She wasn't afraid of him, but definitely chary, and even
that was not the normal wariness she experienced when in a man's
company. Something deep inside her craved to touch upon his soul.
For a reason totally arcane to her consciousness, she had a
burgeoning suspicion that to comprehend the components of his
personality would lead her to understand herself.

Nothing that had happened to
her since arriving in Great Britain had made much sense.

There was no denying he was
the most handsome, virile man she'd ever met, but she was
level-headed enough to know that a cover—however well designed—was
nothing but a means by which to entice aesthetic
proclivity.

Leaning to, she braced her
forearms atop her knees. "Mr. Ingliss, I'm practically desperate.
No. I
am
desperate. Help us to get to Edinburgh. Please."

For what seemed an eternity,
they stared into each other's eyes.

Somewhere in the house, a
clock gave forth three chimes. Then all became silent, an
encompassing silence, further stoking her unease.

What would he say if he knew
what an uncharacteristic impact his build and rugged countenance
had made on her? Would he bend over backward to send her on her
way? Or would he take advantage of her inexplicable
weakness?

His features completely
occupied her vision. Excellent, defined cheek bones. A thicker,
sensual lower lip. Straight nose. But his eyes were his best
feature. Surrounded by pale, thick lashes, the soft-brown color of
his irises cried out to be noticed. A woman could easily get lost
in those eyes.

A woman could easily fall
victim to their spell, and fail to question the real man residing
behind them.

Her gaze lowered to the
downy hair on his chest and her palms began to itch. Fighting back
a fierce desire to rake her fingers across that sea of masculine
planes, she said almost in a monotone, "I washed out your sweater.
It's laid out over a towel on the side of the tub."

He eyed her skeptically then
reached up and ran his fingers through the thick, longish hair
capping his head. After a short time, he placed his feet on the
floor, leaned forward, and boldly rested his brow to
hers.

Excitement quivered through
her. What was wrong with her? She knew that he was testing her
courage not to shrink away. What would he think if he knew that it
was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms?

"Despite all yer woes, you
thought o' ma sweater, aye?"

Her heart flip-flopped
behind her breasts. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of
what she was feeling. He was a stranger! And a rude, crude,
infuriating one at that!

The skin of his wide brow
was hot. The tip of his nose met hers, and she swallowed
reflexively. His musky scent filled her nostrils. She wanted
him—

"You know, lass...." A slow,
tormenting smile strained across his mouth. "...you nearly roped me
in."

In a barely audible voice,
she asked, "Beg your pardon?"

Leaning back against the
settee, he mockingly bobbed his head, the devilish gleam
brightening his eyes, sorely unsettling her. "All tha' is missin'
from yer sad, sad story is a wee dog givin' his life for the sake
o' you and the laddies."

Several seconds later, his
words sank in. As if wrenched from the spell she'd been under, she
sprang to her feet, hissing, "You heartless bastard!"

Without thought, she swung
out a hand, and dealt him a stinging slap to the side of his face.
The satisfaction she experienced was brief. With a swiftness that
left her breathless, his large hands caught her by the waist and
swung her down on his lap. He growled deep within his throat as he
twisted around and effortlessly lowered her shoulder blades to the
embroidered upholstery. Her hand swung up again, but he caught her
wrists and pinned them to the material above her head.

The massive, naked breadth
of his chest and shoulders filled her vision, mentally disarming
her. Fear wedged in her throat. Not because he had effortlessly
overpowered her but because she found his actions inexplicably
exciting.

"Let me up," she
sobbed.

"The last time I fell for a
womon's soft tone, I lost somethin' verra precious to
me."

"Everything I've told you is
true!"

"Maybe, maybe no'. As far as
I'm concerned, ye're Lannie's problem."

"All right, I'm...Lannie's
problem. And I’m sorry I hit you. I don’t know what got into me.
Now, please let me up!"

He retained his hold, his
thumb lazily massaging the inside of her left wrist. Pleasurable
sensations frolicked down her arms, rippling to the core of her
heart. When she could no longer tolerate the havoc his touch
wreaked on her skin, she stammered, "W-when can I t-talk to
him?"