Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (36 page)

"How can you be
sure?"

"Your aura."

"My what?"

"Your aura. No two are
alike."

"I-I don't understand all
this hocus-pocus stuff. I'm just an ordinary woman, with ordinary
hopes for the future. If...if I had been someone else in another
life, someone as cold and calculating as this Tessa, wouldn't I be
the same now?"

"Are you?"

"No!" Laura cried, appalled
that Beth would even ask such a question.

Beth morosely regarded the
facade of the house. "You were once the mistress of this house.
Coming from poverty, I can almost imagine how you must have felt."
Her unsettling gaze searched Laura's pale features. "Almost
imagine, but I'm still having trouble understanding how you could
have—"

"I didn't! I couldn't kill
anyone!" Laura cupped her head with her gloved hands. "How can I
convince you of something that bears no evidence!"

"Denial has always been your
weakness, Laura. And Roan's, until he finally opened his mind to
the truth."

Tears escaped down Laura's
cheeks. "This is insane!"

"Is it?" Beth folded her
arms against her. "I'm not trying to cause you more
pain."

Laura hesitantly made a turn
toward her car then faced the ghost again. "If you find Lachlan,
please tell him I must talk to him."

"You've seen what he's like
when he's...upset."

Laura numbly nodded. "I'm
more afraid of not knowing the truth. Beth...? Where were you the
night of the fire?"

Beth stiffened defensively.
"Why are you asking?"

"Did you know there was
someone else in the house? Someone dressed in a dark cloak with a
hood?"

Beth frowned. "Are you
sure?"

"Absolutely. He was in the
servant stairwell, and reared up. I was so startled, I fell down
the steps. Then he hit me on the back of the head with something,
kicked me, and dragged me outside. When I came to, the house was in
flames."

For a long moment, Beth
remained thoughtfully quiet. "Lachlan and I were playing with the
boys. They wore us out. By the time they'd finally gone to sleep,
we were forced to retreat into the grayness. We barely gathered
enough energy to return during the fire."

"The boys claim someone
grabbed them. I don't know how it could have slipped my mind, but
Kahl swears that he was deliberately locked in one of the bedrooms.
Kevin mentioned something about being locked in a closet, but I
couldn't get him to elaborate. Beth, what's going on? Why would
someone drag me out of the house, and try to trap the boys inside
during a fire?"

Beth looked in the direction
of the main road. "Did you or Roan report this to the
police?"

"I didn't. I'm not sure if
Roan knows anything about it. Why?"

"Earlier, I materialized in
time to see several police cars, and a black van, pulling out of
the driveway. It's hard to see in the dark, but there's a section
of Rhododendrons that have been cordoned off with yellow
bands."

Shivering, Laura turned in
the direction Beth was pointing.

"Two men were searching the
ground. I couldn't catch anything they were saying."

"Roan said the fire
investigation had been completed," Laura said tightly, looking at
Beth. "Do you know what was determined?"

Beth gave a solemn shake of
her head.

Laura shivered again. "Maybe
it was arson, and maybe something was found to point the finger at
the culprit."

"I don't know. All I could
see was a deep depression in the ground."

Laura sighed through her
nostrils, and winced. "What's that odor?"

In lieu of answering, Beth
snapped her head around and glared in the direction of the
rhododendron hedges lining most of the driveway. Laura's gaze
rapidly swept the area, detecting nothing unusual. But her inner
sense warned that something was about to happen.

"What is it?"

"Trouble," Beth
rasped.

Within seconds, a widespread
series of lights started up the driveway. A symphony of engine
sounds disturbed the peace and stillness of the night.

"Beth?"

"Get out of here, Laura,"
the specter ordered, pointing to the red car. "Don't try to
interfere with these people."

"People? What's going on—
Oh, God!"

Laura stared at the
procession of cars rolling to a stop a hundred feet from where her
rental was parked. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Angry voices
fell on her ears.

"Oh my God," Laura croaked,
backing up until the house supported her back. A crowd of men and
women cautiously approached. She tried to focus on their faces, but
her gaze was morbidly drawn to the axes, sledge hammers, shovels
and rifles they carried.

"Laura!" Beth hissed,
floating to her side. "There's been enough bloodshed on these
grounds! Don't try to stop them!"

Laura cried out when Lachlan
unexpectedly appeared, standing seven feet away, his back to her.
Her gaze cut to Beth's stricken face, who obviously also feared
what the laird would do to anyone who threatened his
home.

"Return to yer families and
homes!" Lachlan boomed, his hands curling into fists at his
sides.

"We'll send you to hell,
this night," one man bellowed. Many with him cheered his words,
boosting his bravado. "We've enough o' this cursed
place!"

Beth melted into the rock
and mortar of the house.

"And I've enough o' yer
bloody superstitions!" Lachlan roared.

Laura's eyes widened. One
man in the crowd raised his arm. She couldn't see what he held up,
but she sensed what was about to happen.

Without forethought, she
cried, "No!" and lunged forward.

She could hear an
object
whoosh
through the air, saw it gleam but a moment before she dashed
in front of the laird, placing herself in the projectile's
path.

Something embedded in her
chest, the impact reeling her backward into the ghost's arms. She
looked down, her trembling hand slowly lifting toward the jeweled
handle protruding from the front of her coat.

Cries rang out.

Her world grew darker. She
felt herself being lowered to the ground, Lachlan's arm supporting
the back of her shoulders. Bewilderment filled his dark eyes.
Bewilderment and misery.

The deepest darkest recesses
of her subconscious opened. She recalled the very same expression
on his face the night she'd driven the dagger into his heart—that
fateful night in 1844.

Suddenly, she was terrified
of dying before she could cleanse herself of her guilt. But her
life was slipping away, seeping out of her body with the steady
flow of blood the dagger had undammed.

Where are you, Roan? Take
care of my nephews! Love them enough for the both of us.

* * *

Roan languidly tipped the
third flute of scotch to his lips and gulped down the contents. The
liquid burned his throat on its way to his queasy stomach. He was
nearly on the verge of the oblivion he craved, the absolute
numbness he needed to get through another night.

Only one other patron was in
the pub, an old timer perched on the farthest stool from him. He'd
noticed the man glaring his way, grimacing a grimace that puckered
his near-toothless mouth. He didn't care. Silas had been
uncharacteristically quiet and avoiding Roan, but Roan didn't care
about that, either. The roof could fall in on his head right now,
and it wouldn't faze him.

Robert Ingliss.

Had his ex-wife and son paid
for the sins he'd committed in another life?

The mere notion haunted his
sleep and waking hours.

God, how I love
Laura!

No wonder.

A century and a half ago,
for the sake of their love, they'd taken a man's life and had
stolen his house and fortune.

He remembered first meeting
the laird. He remembered his kindness before and after he and Tessa
had arrived at his home. And he remembered, foremost, admiring the
man who had been smitten with the only woman Robert had ever
loved.

"Damn you, Tessa," he
slurred, his head bobbing as he drunkenly peered into the empty
flute.

"Mr. Ingliss?"

The authoritative tone came
from behind him. Slowly cranking himself around on the stool, he
squinted at a man dressed in a gray trench coat. Short black hair
and piercing grey-green eyes were visible beneath the rim of his
matching gray hat. Although drunker than he had been in years, Roan
got the distinct impression that the man was one of
importance.

That...or a thug.

"Mr. Ingliss," the man
repeated, removing a wallet from an inside pocket of his coat. He
flipped it open to reveal a gold badge with the engraved lettering,
Shields Agency, and the numbers, 116, which Roan had to squint to
focus on. "I'm Detective Connery o’ the Shields'
Agency."

"How bloody terrific for
you," Roan grumbled, facing the counter once again. "Silas! A
bitter if you please!"

"Mr. Ingliss, I'm afraid I
must ask you a few questions."

Roan grimaced, then grinned
lopsidedly at the old man several stools away and lifted his empty
flute in a mocking salute.

Behind him, the detective's
expression remained deadpan, except for a hardening glint in his
eyes. "Mr. Ingliss, a frozen body was found on the Baird Estate
this efternoon. Wha’ can you tell me abou’ it?"

Roan eyed Silas as the man
edged his way back behind the bar, his wary gaze remaining glued on
the stranger.

"A body, he says," Roan
chuckled, pushing the flute toward Silas. "Don't spare the scotch,
ma mon."

The detective locked eyes
with Silas and gave an adamant shake of his head.

Silas made a poor attempt to
smile at Roan. "Ye're already in yer cups, lad."

"Mr. Ingliss."

Sighing petulantly, Roan
swiveled around and leveled an impatient look on the man. "Tis ma
name, but I'm gettin' bloody sick o' hearin' it."

"Then answer ma question,
Mr. Ingliss."

Roan winced. "I forgot the
question...whoever the bloody hell you say you are."

"At three fifteen this
efternoon, Jacob McCoy discovered a body in a shallow grave on the
Baird estate. Wha' can you tell me abou' the corpse?"

"Damn me, I can't think,"
Roan muttered, striking his brow several times with the heel of his
hand. "A corpse?" He chuckled then slowly stiffened atop the stool.
"A corpse." His eyes cleared of their dullness. "Jacob McCoy
discovered a corpse. Wha' the bloody hell was Jacob doin' on
Lannie's property!"

"Mr. Ingliss—"

The detective stepped back a
pace when Roan unexpectedly slid off the stool and wobblingly
straightened.

"Silas," Roan growled, his
gaze repeatedly scanning the room, "where is everyone? Where the
bloody hell are the regulars?"

The detective steeled a
questioning look on the nervous man behind the counter.

"Silas!" Roan boomed,
turning so quickly in the direction of the man, he nearly lost his
balance.

"They went to Kist House,
lad."

All color drained from
Roan's face. He swayed. "Wha'?"

"I tried to talk sense into
them, but they were too fired up to tear the place
down."

"Lannie," Roan breathed,
bending over to fight back a wave of dizziness.

"I did ma best to stop
them," Silas said anxiously.

"Aye, aye I'm sure you did."
Forcing himself to straighten, Roan turned to face the detective.
"You've got to take me to the estate. I'm in no shape to
drive."

"It's wi'in ma rights to
haul you to the nearest station for questionin', Mr.
Ingliss."

"You bloody fool! Wha' abou'
the rights o' those idiots plannin' to storm the estate?" Roan
hissed. "Lannie's ou' o' control! He'll no' hesitate to protect
wha's his!"

A look of skepticism marred
the detective's face. "You're referrin' to the infamous Lachlan
Baird?"

Roan's face grew dark with
anger. "Don't mock me, you bloody arse!"

"You're drunk, Mr.
Ingliss."

Roan released a boom of a
laugh. "No' drunk enough! Lannie's as real as you or me. And if you
find tha' too much for yer poor mind to grasp, listen
up!

"I'm the reincarnation o'
Robert Ingliss, the mon who walled up the poor bastard efter his
wife plunged his dagger into his heart!" He staggered toward the
exit, flinging over his shoulder, "And tha's why it’s
ma
responsibility to stop
ma mates before it’s too late!"

Winston Ian Connery
exchanged a harried look with the pub owner then headed out of the
building after Roan.

C
hapter 13