Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (30 page)

Somewhere in the night, a
dog howled mournfully at the moon. The bleak sound caressed Laura's
soul, once again stirring the presence sheltered deep within her
subconscious.

Her gaze lifted unseeing to
the house.

Unfinished
business.

What does that
mean?

She'd thought it had been
Roan. Their relationship.

Now she wasn't sure about
anything.

Without lowering her gaze,
she leveled the sharp edge of the blade against her left palm, and
lacerated the tender skin. Nothing indicated that she'd felt the
slightest pain. Blood spilled from the wound. Dark red, black-red
blood against the light medium blue of Borgie's coat.

Behind her, a dark shape
moved among the trees.

Watching.

Listening.

Waiting.

A cloud passed in front of
the moon. A cacophony of howls serenaded the night. Behind her, the
orange glow of the fallen lantern made a bid to embrace the
surrounding darkness.

Mindlessly, Laura replaced
the dagger in her purse. Her hands dropped to her sides, palms
upright. Within seconds, her left palm pooled with blood. It
trickled between her fingers. Unnoticed. Tinting the blanket of
white beneath the hand.

She wanted to weep, but she
didn't know why. She only knew that something was very wrong, and
she was somehow responsible.

When Roan returned some time
later, it was to find her lying unconscious beside his
cousin.

* * *

Movement beside her roused
Laura from her deep sleep. She didn't need to open her eyes and,
with the dawn's light filtering into the room, verify that Roan had
climbed into bed with her. His musky, wintry scent filled her
nostrils. His arm draped across her middle as he spooned against
her, snuggling close.

Her eyelids cracked open to
reveal bloodshot whites surrounding her green irises. Dark shadows
underscored the puffiness beneath her eyes.

She'd only lain down an hour
ago.

"How's Agnes holding up?"
she asked hoarsely.

"She's refusin' to leave his
side. God, Laura, he's gone into a coma. It doesn't look
good."

No. None of it was real. She
was going to really wake up at any minute. What scared her the most
was that she would awaken in her apartment, to the realization that
she'd only dreamed about having found her significant
other.

"Is yer hand still botherin'
you?"

Dully, her gaze focused on
her bandaged left hand. Some dreams could be so real. She could
even feel pain. "I still can't remember how I cut it."

"I'm so sorry you came back
to all this," he said thickly, the cool fingers of his left hand
stroking the hair at her exposed temple. "You've had to deal wi'
too much stress."

"I'm a survivor."
Am I?

A sad smile touched his
mouth before he kissed her sweatered shoulder. "Aye, you are, thank
God." Lowering the side of his face to the pillow again, he stared
absently at the back of her head. "Aggie's so quiet, Laura. When I
left, she was just starin' down at Borgie, showin' no emotion at
all. It’s all ma fault."

The meaning behind some
dreams were also elusive, as now. "How are you
responsible?"

"I let Lannie sway me from
ma original plan. I'd first gone to Baird House to find a way to
banish him."

"Only he can banish himself.
Don't you know that by now?"

Her cold, distant tone sent
a chill through Roan. Bracing himself up on his right elbow, he
placed an anchoring left hand on her shoulder and turned her onto
her back. Her gaze swung around to meet his. Sadness washed through
him. His poor Laura. Her face still bore bruises and small scars
from the night of the fire. She seemed more fragile than he'd ever
seen her. Small and fragile and lost beneath the covers on the
bed.

"What's Agnes going to do if
Borgie dies?"

Roan closed his eyes for a
moment. "I don't know. He's her only child. She's never denied his
faults, but she's never denied her love for him, either. She's
goin' to need me for some time now, Laura. I can't abandon her,
especially if he...dies."

"I wouldn't expect you
to."

His gaze lovingly swept over
her features. "It means
us
will be on hold for a time."

A smile gave life to her
eyes once again. "I'm not worried about us."
Unless this is a dream.
"Just don't
shut me out, Roan. I want to help in any way I can. The boys, too.
They really took to Agnes. They may help her to get through the
trying times to come."

Roan grinned and shook his
head. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

"Last night at the
hospital."

A blush crept into his
cheeks. "Where I turned somewha' green while they were stitchin'
yer hand."

Lifting her uninjured hand,
she lovingly stroked his jawline. "You look terribly
tired."

"Aye. I've a wicked
headache, but I've got to get back and check on Aggie."

"Rest for a
while.

His gaze lingered on her
lips. "Wi' you?"

A mischievous gleam came and
left her eyes. She turned back onto her right side, and plumped her
pillow before laying her head atop it. "Sleep. We have the rest of
our lives to make love."

A low moan rattled within
his chest as he snuggled against her.

"Close your eyes and get
some rest."

"Aye. For a wee
time."

A soft, tenuous smile graced
her lips. Her eyelids closed. "Aye. For a...wee...time."

Within seconds they both
were fast asleep.

The cottage was bathed in
quietude. A neighbor had taken the boys the previous
night.

In the parlor, standing in
front of the cold hearth, Lachlan despondently stared at a framed
picture on the mantel. A much younger Agnes smiled back at him, her
arm about the shoulders of a sulky twelve-year-old boy.

Borgie.

Lachlan lowered his face
into his hands for a time. He'd given a lot of thought as to what
had happened last night, but he couldn't make sense out of most of
it.

Yes, he'd lost control, but
he didn't feel any more so than usual where Borgie was concerned.
He'd left the house abruptly upon realizing that pushing Beth into
the hall had been his biggest mistake to date. He dreaded another
confrontation with her, especially since she had every right to be
angry with him.

Roan and Agnes were another
matter. Damn him, but he liked the man! And the old woman. She
didn't deserve to lose her only child, even if that child was such
a useless corbie!

It would take more than
smooth talk to straighten out this mess. It would probably require
more of him than he believed he had to offer.

Unfinished
business.

He'd focused too long on
Tessa. He'd let down his guard and had abandoned his
self-restraint.

There had to be a way to
make it all right, but he was at a loss as to where to
begin.

A soft rap came at the front
door. He stared at it, wondering if he should answer. On the fourth
knock, he crossed to the door and swung it open. Surprise then
gratitude beamed on his face at the sight of Viola Cooke standing
demurely on the stoop.

"Mr. Baird," she said, her
voice trilling with her own surprise to find him there. A second
passed. Clearing her throat, she asked, "May I come in?"

Lachlan stepped aside and
gestured for her to enter. He closed the door, lifted an isolated
finger to his lips to hush her, and led her the short distance to
the couch. He remained standing while she unbuttoned her navy blue,
full-length wool cape, and seated herself.

"Ye're an answer to ma
prayers," he crooned, bowing to her.

"I just got the news about
Borgie Ingliss. I thought maybe I could offer to watch the
boys."

"They're no' here, right
now." Lachlan furtively glanced in the direction of the bedroom
that secreted Roan and Laura. "I need yer help, dear
lady."

"Whatever I can do," she
said kindly.

Lachlan moistened his lower
lip with the tip of his tongue. "I'm responsible for the mon's
fall."

"Oh, dear."

He bobbed his head. "Aye, oh
dear, oh...dear. I'm up to ma ears in trouble, and I havena a clue
as to how to explain wha' happened. No' tha' I understand wha'
happened."

"Word is, Mr. Ingliss was
thrown from a window on the second floor of Baird
House."

Lachlan gave an exasperated
roll of his eyes. "I didna throw the mon anywhere."

"Then how did he
fall?"

He shrugged then scowled.
"I'm no' sure. Tis all so muddled in ma mind. Too much happenin' at
once."

"You've been under a lot of
stress—"

His laugh cut off her
sentence.

"Stress? Dear lady,
I'm
dead!"

Viola's eyes mistily
regarded his strong features. "We all have our crosses to bear, Mr.
Baird."

A frown darkened the laird's
visage. "What's wrong?"

A tear slipped down one
wrinkled cheek. "I loved that house."

Withdrawing a lace-edged
handkerchief from her cape pocket, she daintily dabbed at her moist
nostrils. "It breaks my heart to see it so...ravaged."

Lachlan went down on a knee,
and took her hands into his own. "In the great scheme o' things it
was but a house. Ma concern lies wi' the livin'. Will you help
me?"

From the depths of her
heart, she replied, "I would give my life for you."

"Nothin' so drastic, dear
lady," he sighed with relief.

C
hapter 11

His head lowered, Roan
elbowed his way through the dart match players and observers at
Shortby's. The place was packed. No one seemed to notice his
arrival until he'd reached the bar and ordered his usual from the
young bartender, Jimmy MacDormick. Too numb to pay much heed to
what was going on around him, he settled on the only vacant stool,
oblivious to the hush that had fallen over the room. Oblivious to
Jimmy's scowl. No sooner was his mug of bitter placed in front of
him, he tipped the rim to his lips and drank down a third of the
brew. He wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. His stomach was
so empty he could almost swear he heard the tepid liquid bottoming
out.

A moment's lightheadedness
plagued him. His gaze became lost within the dark color of his ale,
his mind a million miles away.

Laura hadn't been happy
about him going out for a brew. Hell, she didn't understand that a
man sometimes had to get away, get rowdy, let off a little steam.
Not that he planned to do any-thing but enjoy one simple
pint.

Mostly, he just wanted a
little space to think.

During the past week, he'd
either been with Laura or his aunt. At the hospital or home. The
days had blurred together. He hadn't even been aware that it was
Friday, or he might have stayed at home to avoid making friendly
with his dart mates.

Sighing, he downed another
good portion of the bitter, closing his eyes while he reveled in
the feel of the liquid sliding down his throat. His skin tingled. A
comfortable dullness cushioned his brain against his attempts to
think too deeply.

"How's Borgie these days?"
asked a nasally voice.

Opening one eye, Roan set
his glass down and turned slightly to regard Arnold Markey. The
probing quality in the older man's dark eyes didn't settle well
with Roan. He was tired of answering the same questions, day after
day.

"Or have you seen him
lately?" Arnold queried with a mocking grin.

"Wha' makes you think I
wouldn't be visitin' ma cousin?"

"I never said no such thing.
A wee defensive aren't we? Is yer conscience botherin' you, or
wha'?"

My conscience?

Roan turned to face the man
completely, hardness creeping into his pale brown eyes. "If you've
somethin' to say, mon, spit it ou'."

Arnold Markey spat on the
front of Roan's coat.

One of the men, sitting at a
table in the front right corner of the bud, guffawed. Someone else
scolded him. Everyone kept their eyes on the two men at the bar.
It'd been a while since a brawl had blessed the establishment and
Silas had instigated that one when one of his regulars had stiffed
him on a long-running, sizeable tab.

One eyebrow arched, Roan
casually eyed the offensive matter.

"Matter-o'-fact, Roan, we
don't want you around here, anymair."

"Speak for yerself," Silas
said to Arnold, walking behind the bar from the direction of the
water closet. "Roan, let me buy you a pint. Turn around and chat
wi' me."