Love Everlastin' Book 3 (16 page)

"Aye, I know wha' you mean,"
Roan sighed. "Join me for a Scotch?"

"Are the boys in
bed?"

Roan gave an exaggerated
roll of his eyes. "I'll no' say for how long. C'mon, Winston, a
good Scotch chases away the chill in the bones."

Winston sat next to his host
on the sofa. Two glasses and a crystal decanter were set upon a
sterling silver tray on the coffee table.

"I saw you come in here,"
Roan explained, holding out a half-filled glass to
Winston.

"I didn't think the tray was
on the table when I came in."

Roan took a long swallow of
the Scotch and waited until the fiery liquid hit his stomach. He
smacked his lips, grinned at Winston, then reclined against the
back of the sofa and crossed his left ankle over his right knee.
"We haven't had much chance to talk. Your room comfortable
enough?"

"Better than I deserve. You
know—" Winston took a sip of his Scotch, then cradled the glass
between his hands. "—it was very generous o' you to let me stay. I
know this isn't an open invitation—"

Winston quieted when Roan
lifted a hand in protest. "Och, mon, it is opened, all right. Stay
as long as you like. The house is far too large for us.
Sometimes...weel, sometimes I find it bloody lonely
here."

"Even with the boys?"
Winston grinned.

Roan made a rueful face.
"Ah, the lads. I know I bluster too much abou' them. But the truth
is, I can't imagine ma life withou' them being underfoot. Now...is
tha' bloody bonkers or wha'?"

"Actually, I envy you your
life," Winston said softly, staring into the fireplace.

"Do you, now? Weel, I'm no'
crazy, or ungrateful. Laura and the lads are mair than I ever hoped
for. But wha' abou' you? Ever been in love?"

A dry chuckle escaped
Winston. "No."

Roan nodded and said sagely,
"I guess a mon has to love himself before he can love
anither."

"Never thought o' it tha'
way," Winston murmured. He stared into the amber depths of his
Scotch, a slight frown visible across his otherwise smooth
brow.

"No' even a near hit?" Roan
laughed low.

Winston looked up and
smiled. "Infatuation a couple o' times. I guess I haven't met ma
significant other, yet."

Taking a long swig of his
drink, Roan again nodded. "Maybe you have. I couldn't help but
noticed the way you were watchin’ the lass at the dinner
table."

"Deliah?"

"So we have a name now. Have
you learned anythin’ mair abou' her?"

"Zilch," Winston sighed. He
thought about taking another sip of the Scotch, but his head was
already getting fuzzy. "She has an impenetrable wall surrounding
her mind."

"Do you come across tha'
often?"

A sour burst of laughter
ejected from Winston's throat. "Never! And I don't mind telling you
it frustrates the bloody hell ou' o' me."

"Are you attracted to
her?"

Winston's eyes narrowed upon
the laird. "Wha' are you digging for, Roan Ingliss?"

With a chuckle, Roan
finished off his Scotch and placed the glass on the table. He sat
back, placed his right ankle atop his left knee again, and
stretched out his left arm along the back of the sofa. Amusement
danced in his eyes, and a grin pulled at one corner of his
mouth.

"I'll tell you, Winston,
ye're lookin’ a damn sight better than when I brought you into this
house. You've got life back in yer eyes. And although I don't claim
to be psychic, I know when a mon has his fair measure o'
happiness."

A denial nearly escaped
Winston, but he managed to suppress it. He was happy. Happier than
in all his adult life. "You're observant."

"Sometimes," Roan grinned
then he sighed. "Ither times I'm a bonafide idiot."

Winston chuckled. "You're no
idiot. Remember the first night we met?"

"At Shortby's?
Aye."

"You were in your cups,
babbling abou' being the reincarnation o' Robert Ingliss." Winston
set his glass on the table and ran his hands down his face. "I
thought you were one crazy drunk. Little did I know then how much
you would change ma life. You're a generous mon, Roan. There aren’t
many people who would open up their home to a virtual
stranger."

"The credit's no' mine to
take."

Despair carved its way into
Roan's expression. Lowering his right foot to the floor, he leaned
forward and braced his forearms atop his knees. "I was a bitter,
unforgivin’ mon no' tha' long ago. I guess, like you, Winston, I
was lookin’ to see ma way through each day and no' carin’ a fig
abou' anythin’. The first couple o' days you were here, I saw a lot
o' ma old self in you, and I didn't like it much. I wanted to shake
you till yer teeth rattled in yer head, but I knew you needed
space."

Abruptly standing, Roan went
to the fireplace. He gripped the mantel and peered solemnly into
the flames, conscious of Winston's troubled gaze on his back.
"There is magic in the house. In this land. Many have seen it. Felt
it melt the wintery corners o' our hearts."

He turned just enough to
regard his guest, his left hand remaining on the mantel. "But the
true magic for me was—
is
—Lannie, the mon. You think me
generous?" He chuckled low and shook his head. "I'm no', really.
When I discovered who you were the ither night, ma first thought
was you could tell me how Lannie and Beth are farin’."

"Roan—"

"Let me finish," Roan said
huskily. "Guilt is a mighty heavy burden, ma friend, and I've never
been good at carryin’ it on ma shoulders."

Winston nodded, and Roan
sighed deeply before continuing, "This isn't ma house. It was
handed over to me by a mon who rightfully should have incarcerated
ma sorry arse in the wall in the tower. The same wall I entombed
him in—alive—mair'n a century ago! Aye, aye, I know tha’ wasn't
this me, but Robert and I share the same soul, we do, and I
remember every pathetic wrong he—
we
—did."

He sighed again, obviously
agitated. He chuffed a bitter laugh and gestured his wariness with
a wave of his right hand. "I tend to run off at the mouth when I'm
drinkin’, in case you haven't noticed."

Winston grinned in
understanding.

"Winston, can I ask you
somethin’?"

"O' course."

Roan took several seconds to
mull over his words. "How is it a mon can feel so blessed, and yet
so empty?"

Winton didn't need to scan
Roan's psyche. He already knew the answer. "You're still connected
to Lachlan Baird."

"Through this house, our
history, or wha'?" Roan asked, perplexed.

"Do you know wha’ a contrail
looks like?"

Roan's bafflement deepened.
"You mean the vapor trail that's seen in the wake o' a
plane?"

Nodding, Winston went on,
"Wha' I'm talking abou' now is a psychic contrail. It's a
phenomenon I've witnessed when someone loses someone they love—a
link tha' remains between the living and the departed during the
grieving period. As time passes, it fades away."

"You see a vapor trail
between this world and the ither?" Roan asked
incredulously.

"It's morer o' a filament o'
light connected to each mourner, linking them to the heavens. The
hotter white it is, the stronger the love."

"Do I have a psychic
contrail?"

Winston nodded. "But I've
never encountered one like yours. It's blue."

"Meaning wha'?"

"I'm no' sure."

"Wha' abou' Laura? Does she
have one?"

"She has come to terms wi'
Lachlan and Beth's departure."

"Psychic contrails," Roan
murmured, staring off into space. Then he looked at Winston through
an expression of desperation. "If you ventured a guess, wha' would
you say the blue means?"

"I generally work wi' facts,
no' conjectures."

"Dammit, right now I'd be
happy wi' even a
bad
guess!" Roan reseated himself sideways, facing Winston, his
left forearm braced on the back of the sofa. "Lannie forgave
us."

To Winston's amazement, Roan
switched to fluent Gaelic. For a time, too stunned to react, he
listened to the man's passionate voice and observed the myriad of
expressions flitting over his features. Finally, he said, cutting
Roan off, "I don't understand Gaelic enough to follow wha' you're
saying."

Roan jerked back, shocked.
"Gaelic?"

"You were just speaking
it."

Paling, Roan swallowed. "Was
I? Ah. Tha' was Robert. I never learned the language, maself. He
comes ou' now and then, Robert does."

"How often?"

"No' verra." Roan shrugged.
"Sometimes I think I'm trapped between the past and the present.
Verra disconcertin’, to say the least."

"Do you remember wha' you
were saying?"

"Aye. I said I know I
shouldn't be feeling guilty, but I do. It interferes wi' how I
respond to Laura and the lads. And I said I keep gettin’ this
notion there's too much unfinished business in ma life, but wha'
tha' is, I don't know."

Roan cast his guest a deeply
penetrating, measuring look. "So, will you tell me wha' you believe
the blue contrail suggests?"

Winston frowned then nodded.
"In ma opinion, it's no' a natural link between you and
Lachlan."

"No' natural?" Roan made a
crude sound that should have been a laugh. "Nothin’ between us has
ever been exactly normal."

"Wha' I mean is, I believe
the link was thrust upon the two o' you."

A skeptical, wary expression
masked Roan's face. He arched an eyebrow and asked in a raspy
voice, "So...
somethin’
...is keepin’ us linked togither?"

"I believe so."

Roan grimaced. "Any idea
wha'?"

"No' a clue."

"Damn me," Roan muttered,
glancing off in the direction of the fireplace.

"I've never dealt wi' an
actual ghost," said Winston humorously. "It could be, wha' exists
between you and Lachlan is perfectly normal under the
circumstances."

"Perfectly normal?" Roan
parroted, his gaze cutting to Winston.

"Possibly."

"Wha' abou’ ma Aunt Aggie?
Does she have a psychic contrail connectin’ her to her son,
Borgie?"

"She does." Winston pondered
hers for a short time. "Her's is bright white. It hasn't dimmed
since I first saw her Christmas Eve."

"White, no' blue. She's a
ghost."

"An unusually alive ghost,"
Winston corrected.

"Normal for Baird
House."

Winston agreed, although a
bit in awe of it all, himself.

Roan thoughtfully rubbed his
chin. "So, even from yer standpoint, things here are a wee
different. Aye?"

"Definitely
different."

"And this blue psychic
contrail which could have been possibly thrust upon me and old
Lannie, isn't anythin’ I should worry abou'?"

Winston offered a look of
uncertainty.

"Wha' would you say if I
told you I've been dreamin’ Mary Blossom Ingliss was comin’
home?"

"Who is she?"

"Robert and Tessa's
daughter," Roan said solemnly. "She vanished shortly efter her
sixteenth birthday."

"She's dead?"

Roan laughed. "Tha'
or
verra
old! In
the dreams she's young, though. Abou' the age when she
disappeared."

Winston sighed. "Lack o’
disclosure?"

A sly gleam brightened
Roan's eyes. "Are you tellin’ or askin’?"

"Suggesting."

"Ah." Roan grinned then did
a brief drum roll on his chest with the undersides of his hands.
"Weel, I'm so glad we had this chat, Winston. But why do I now have
this notion to throw maself off the tower?"

Winston laughed and clapped
Roan on the shoulder. Roan settled back against the sofa and stared
whimsically up at the ceiling. "I think it's time I stop thinkin’
in retrospect and get on wi' ma life. All I really need to do is
no' think abou' Lannie and Beth, Robert, psychic contrails
and—"

"Roan!"

Both men jumped up from the
sofa when Laura burst into the room. She ran directly to Roan and
gripped the front of his shirt. Gulping in air, her widened eyes
cast Winston a brief glance. "It's the...."

Roan gripped her upper arms
and worriedly searched her flushed face. "Calm down,
Laura."

"She's on the tower...."
Laura sucked in a great breath and forced the rest of the words
out. "She took her clothes off and is dancing in the
snow!"

"Deliah?" Winston asked
sharply.

Laura gave a rapid nod. "I
couldn't get her to come back down."

"I'll handle it," Winston
bit out, and lit into a run.