Hope Everlastin' Book 4 (28 page)

"See you in the morning,"
she murmured and went into the hall.

At the second floor
landing, she realized she was developing a headache. She entered
her room, closed the door, and massaged her temples with growing
impatience as she walked toward the bed.

"Tomorrow morning can't
come soon enough."

Something struck the back
of her head with such force that lights burst in front of her eyes
as she pitched forward. She struck the edge of the mattress,
bounced off and hit the floor, oblivious to the man whose fist
remained in the air where her head had been a moment
ago.

C
hapter 10

A brief vibrating movement
lifted Deliah through layers of sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open.
Her mind disoriented from exhaustion, she peered into semi-darkness
and wondered where she was and why the mattress beneath her felt so
strange. As seconds ticked by, her recall gradually came into
focus, mostly due to the odors lingering in the room. They had been
unfamiliar scents—man-made florals—prior to her entering their
hotel room. The bathroom reeked of disinfectants and she'd had
trouble keeping her stomach calmed until she'd gotten used to the
nasal invasion.

She did like the fragrance
of the soap and shampoo the hotel provided.

She lay on her side with
her head pillowed by the hollow in Winston's left shoulder. The
mattress beneath them was harder than the one they had at the
estate, and it had taken her some time to settle into a comfortable
position and fall asleep.

What a day it had
been.

The sometimes blur of
scenery and the jarring motion of the car on rougher areas of the
road had made her a little anxious during the half hour drive to
Ayr, where they stopped to refuel and eat in a small diner. Winston
ordered hamburgers with lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, and a
large side platter of deep fried chips. Not only had she eaten her
food to the last crumb, but she had helped him to polish off
his.

The less than two hour
drive to Edinburgh proved less stressful for her. Rolling hills of
green and meandering roads held her interest and made the time pass
quickly. When they reached the outskirts of the city, though, she
was ravenous again. They ate in the hotel where Winston had booked
their room from a pay phone in Crossmichael. Then they toured the
city, took care of Winston's business with the gemologist, and
shopped until Deliah laughingly pleaded to go to their room. Amidst
the packages containing her new wardrobe, they ordered room service
and ate their fill. They made love on the bed and, later, in the
shower. No sooner had his damp head hit the pillow he fell asleep,
while she sat staring at his face, falling deeper in love with him
with every minute that passed.

Deliah snuggled closer to
his warmth. Hunger pains nipped at her stomach, but she was too
tired to do anything about it. She closed her eyes and laid her
hand atop his bare abdomen. It was then she realized his skin was
feverish, clammy, and that what she'd thought a vibration was in
fact his shuddering and twisting.

He moaned a piteous sound.
Reaching for the light switch on the nightstand lamp, she engaged
it and sat up. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the
brightness.

Winston lay on his back,
his arms and legs rigidly angled out from his sides. The sheet,
which was the only cover they were using, covered his legs and
lower hips. His exposed skin was shiny with perspiration. He
twitched again and again, and his eyes moved spastically behind the
closed lids. His features were taut, as if he were caught up in a
nightmare from which he couldn't escape.

She didn't need to touch
him to feel the hammering of his heart.

"Winston," she said,
shaking him.

He remained locked in his
realm of sleep.

"Winston, ye be frightenin’
me!"

Still, he didn't
respond.

Deliah pushed out with her
mind until she was able to enter his thoughts. Images flashed
across his mindscreen. Two consecutively blinked in and out so
rapidly that she couldn't formulate a clear picture of what he was
seeing. What was readily available was the terror he was
experiencing. Its cold, shadowy tentacles reached out from his body
and sinuously wrapped around her tighter and tighter. When she
could no longer bear her own magnifying terror, she broke the link
and climbed off the bed.

She padded into the
bathroom, to the sink. Her hand trembled as she filled a glass with
cold water. She was lightheaded and queasy, but more worried about
Winston than fainting again. Returning to the bed, she threw the
water into his face. It should have rescued him from the
nightmare's clutches, but he only shuddered and twitched. Shuddered
and twitched.

His breathing became
louder, faster, and hoarse. Deliah made a graceful swirl of her
right hand then blew from the palm the golden dust her skin had
produced. It should have gently awakened him. Instead the
glittering particle turned black before touching his skin.
Breathless with dread, she willed herself to view his aura. It was
black, lifeless, and reeked of death and decay.

Kneeling on the bed and
gripping him by the shoulders, she shook him until her arms ached
and her heart had risen into her throat. Then, not knowing what
else to do, she struck him hard in the face. The sound of flesh
hitting flesh sickened her. She dashed into the bathroom and knelt
in front of the toilet.

Winston awakened to the
sounds of her retching. Groggily, he swung his legs off the
mattress and got to his feet. Dizziness gave him a moment's pause.
He blew air out the side of his mouth and stretched the kinks in
his legs and the small of his back. By the time he reached her side
the spasms had waned and she sat dazedly on the floor, looking up
at him as if he was solely responsible for her
condition.

He crouched and tenderly
cupped her chin. "Can I get you anything?"

"An explanation, if ye
please."

A wry grin masked his face.
"O' wha'?"

"When did ye start
influxin’ again, Winston?" She wiped the back of a hand across her
mouth and released a shuddering sigh. "I thought ye had learned to
shut off yer mind from extraneous brainwaves."

Winston touched her brow.
"You don't have a fever," he said humorously.

"Neither do
ye...
now."

"Meaning wha'?"

She heaved a sigh of
impatience and cocked her head to one side. "Meanin’ ye were
twitchin’ like a fly caught on a spider's web. Winston, wha' be the
nightmare wha' had ye so fiercely in its hold?"

A denial that he'd had one
at all was about to spring past his lips when the two images Deliah
had seen returned. He shot to his feet, oblivious that she also
rose to hers. At first the images came and went too swiftly for him
to grasp, but then they slowed, little by little, and he strained
to understand their meaning and more closely focus on the
features.

It was the burglar's face
behind the ski mask he kept seeing over and over again.
Alternately, the black knitted piece changed. Sometimes the man's
mouth was visible, other times it wasn't. Sometimes the man's pale
eyes were fearful, and other times so evil in their deadness that
his gut muscles clenched.

"Winston?"

He lifted a hand to silence
her.

Flick in, flick
out.

Mouth visible, mouth not.
In and out, slower and slower and slower until finally the two
faces were side by side on his mindscreen, and the reality of what
had been trying to fully escape his subconscious slammed to the
fore of his brain.

His legs buckled beneath
him and he sat hard on the white tiled floor. The small bathroom
went into a tailspin. From far away he heard Deliah calling to him,
and he forced himself to concentrate on her in order to find his
way back to reality.

Coldness pressed to his
face and helped to revive him. Once Deliah lowered the dripping wet
face cloth, he braced his back against the tub base and nodded that
he was all right.

"Can I fetch ye anythin’?"
she asked.

"We have to get back to
Baird House."

"Now?"

He nodded and heaved a
ragged breath. "He's there. The Phantom. God Almighty, he's been
there all along."

"Tis no'
possible."

"Deliah," he said weakly,
"he is. The mon who attacked Alby and then me wi' the knife, his
ski mask didn't cover his eyes or mouth, and his eyes were almost
colorless. The mon who broke into the house the same night wore
similar dark clothes, but his mask covered his mouth, and his eyes
were light blue, but definitely blue. And he was right handed, no'
left like the Phantom."

"But I would know if this
mon be in the house!"

A choked sound rattled in
Winston's throat. "I've finally figured ou' how he's managed to
elude us all these years. He's psychic, Deliah, and a telepath.
Tha's why."

Deliah's expression turned
to one of stark bleakness. "So he be blockin’ our reception o'
him?"

"And manipulating us.
Deliah, he's after Laura and Beth, and there's no telephone at
Baird House to warn them."

* * *

Lachlan looked up and
smiled from the island counter in the kitchen. "Dinna tell me ye're
hungry again?" he asked teasingly, and placed the tenderized steak
into the frying pan he had heating on the stove.

"No," said Roan. "I
remembered I hadna fixed anythin’ for Reith."

"It willna take me
long."

Roan nodded then grinned
pensively. "I was checkin’ on the laddies, and Kahl asked me why I
talk more like you now."

Looking up from the stove,
Lachlan asked, "Do you?"

"It seems so."

Lachlan placed two large
potatoes in the oven to reheat then faced Roan. "You sound normal
to me."

"Accordin’ to young Master
Kahl, I've 'fallen into the Scottish lingo'. Then I remembered you
tellin’ me some months ago tha' I talked mair like an Englishmon.
Remember?"

After a moment, Lachlan
nodded. "Aye, I do, now. Tis true. You barely use 'can't' and
'don't' no mair."

"You were raised speaking
Gaelic, though. Right?"

"Aye, but many a lowland
Scot worked for ma faither. When I moved here, I adapted to their
language." Lachlan flipped the steak over and deeply inhaled the
aroma before adding, "No' many Lowlanders speak Gaelic. Tis a pity,
for sure, for Gaelic comes from the heart."

"Maybe I'll get around to
learnin’ it one o' these days."

Lachlan's eyes held an
internal light of amusement as he regarded his friend. "You should.
Efter all, mon, you have a Highlander's blood in yer
veins."

Several seconds passed in
silence. Lachlan was aware that Roan was a little unsettled by his
remark. He hadn't said it to belittle Robert. Robert Ingliss Baird
was no more responsible for his parentage than was
Lachlan.

Roan sighed, then asked,
"Now tha' Robbie's fragmented soul has passed over, does it mean
you and me...weel, tha' half-brither business no longer exists,
does it?"

"Did you fancy the
idea?"

Roan glanced downward for a
moment. "Actually, I think I did. Itherwise, I'll have to think o'
you as a verra distant uncle."

Lachlan laughed and faked a
shudder. "How many greats would tha' make me?"

"Too bloody many to
count."

Lachlan nodded. He turned
off the gas burner beneath the steak and reached for the paring
knife in the oak rack on the island counter. Walking up to Roan, he
jabbed the point into his right palm, just enough to draw a bead of
blood. Roan was hesitant at first. He stared at Lachlan's palm for
a time, frowning before he finally held out his own. He winced when
the knife point pricked his skin. Lachlan clasped his palm against
the inside of Roan's right wrist. Roan did likewise, and
experienced an inexplicable warmth building up inside his chest.
The men stood with their hands and gazes locked.

"We're brithers," said
Lachlan, his voice husky with emotion. "There is no' anither mon in
all the world I trust mair'n you. So from this day forward, our
blood to one anither's wrists, I claim you as ma brither and ma
only livin’ clansmon."

Roan lowered his head in a
bid to hold back the tears pressing behind his eyes. He felt as
though he had just been bestowed the greatest honor of his life,
and he was too choked up to speak right away. When he did, his tone
was soft with reverence.

"And I claim you as mine."
He looked into Lachlan's eyes and smiled a bit tremulously. "Ye're
too generous wi' yer heart...
old
mon."

With a laugh, Lachlan
embraced Roan, clapping him soundly on the back. "Are we a pair o'
sentimental fools, or wha'?"

"Brithers."

They separated and stared
at each other, both lost to the emotional moment, both
straight-backed with pride.