Love Everlastin' Book 3 (3 page)

"Roan!" Laura
cried.

Winston tried to force an
image to his mind. Never had he experienced a connection so
powerful. But no image came. Again a first. He was beginning to
think his heart would burst in his chest when, unexpectedly, the
current came to an abrupt halt. He began to collapse, but Roan's
quick reaction spared him from hitting the stairs. The larger man
helped him to sit on one of the steps, and sat himself. His head
spinning, Winston cleared his vision enough to scan Laura's taut,
wan features. His heart was still thundering.

"Wha' the bloody hell?" Roan
gasped.

Wetting his lower lip with
the tip of his tongue, Winston allowed residual impressions to
settle in his mind. What was formulating stunned him.

"Sorry," he murmured.
Weakly, he brushed the back of a hand across his perspiring brow.
"It has never happened like this."

Warily eyeing Winston, Laura
asked, "What happened?"

"I'm no' sure how to explain
it."

"I'll make it easy for you,"
said Roan. "Did the house zap you, or you the bloody
house?"

"It's alive," Winston
breathed then released a brief burst of hysterical
laughter.

Laura and Roan exchanged
harried glances.

"As crazy as it sounds, it
is
alive!"

Roan grimaced. "I'm almaist
afraid to ask wha' this
'it'
is."

Feeling strangely euphoric,
Winston announced, "The house. It's alive."

"Damn me," Roan grumbled,
rising to his feet. He raked his large hands through his mane of
thick, light brown curly hair and released a breath through pursed
lips. "Just when things were quietin’ down."

"It was incredible," Winston
said. "I've never experienced such pure energy."

Winston's mind raced to
analyze the tingling sensations coursing through his body. It was
as if his every cell were being rejuvenated. Unconsciously, he
uncurled the fingers of his right hand. Upon his upturned palm were
the petals of the purple rose he'd plucked Christmas Eve. No longer
were they shriveled and dried out. Their renewed velvety texture
sparkled, as if winking up at him.

Feeling like a child
bestowed with his most wished-for gift, he looked up to find two
sets of inquisitive eyes watching him. Their gazes lowered to the
petals. Then again in unison, they looked at him. Winston knew they
couldn't understand the importance, the relevance, of the restored
rose petals. How could they when even he couldn't neatly put into
words what his mind and heart were trying to tell him?

He'd been so desperate to
find answers, to find himself and he'd placed so much hope on this
house. And now the structure welcomed him. At least, that's what he
deduced from the restoration of the petals. The house was telling
him that he'd come to the right place. If fate meant for him to
confront his mental demons, then it was surely at this place it
needed to be done. Because, and he wasn't sure why he was so
certain of this, the house would protect him from himself. It would
allow the emotional backwash of wounds he'd obtained throughout his
career, to finally heal.

"Are you...all right?" Roan
hesitantly asked Winston.

Winston nodded in response.
He felt an urge to vent his exhilaration, to shout his joy, but he
held back. When the new laird of Baird House gripped his arm and
drew him to his feet, Winston didn't protest. He reverently closed
his fingers over the petals then headed up the staircase alongside
Roan. He was dimly conscious of Laura following. Vaguely conscious
that he was taking each step without the slightest discomfort. When
he realized the three of them were going down a long hall, he
reined in his attention.

He, too, had taken the
Christmas Eve tour through the mansion, but there had been so many
rooms, he couldn't recall this part of the house. His system still
tingling, he watched Roan pick up his pace and open the last door
on the right. Winston paused at the threshold and gestured for
Laura to enter ahead of him. He followed closely at her heels. Roan
had lit the wall gas light by the door and was now crouched in
front of the fireplace, preparing the hearth. Despite the freezing
temperature outside, the spacious room was cozy. Or perhaps,
Winston reflected, his experience on the staircase still had his
blood afire.

Laura joined Roan at the
hearth. While they conversed in hushed tones, Winston curiously
surveyed his new surroundings. He told himself that he could wander
repeatedly through the house and never tire of its furnishings. Not
only was the decor of another century, but the air itself held an
ambiance of a more innocent age.

Directly across from the
fireplace was a massive seventeenth century, oak, four-poster bed
with a paneled canopy. From where he stood, he could make out
intricately carved foliage and grapes on the headboard, posts and
footboard. The quilt and matching covered pillows were done in
vibrant blue, grays, and varying shades of purple, the pattern
depicting Grecian urns and peacocks. To each side of the bed were
matching tall, chest of drawers. To his right was an oak show-wood
frame triple-back settee, undercut with foliate ornaments. The
upholstery was deep purple velvet. Above this was a George II oak
and gilt framed landscaped mirror, under an oil panel of a garden
scene with browsing peacocks. A Persian rug of royal blue and golds
was centered on the otherwise highly polished wood floor. Across
the room were two elongated windows that bore tied-back velvet
drapes of royal blue. And between these was a late Stuart chair,
the back of which contained panels of carved foliage.

Winston stepped further into
the room, then again stopped a short distance from the couple who
was watching him. His gaze swept over the red brick fireplace and
the brass knickknacks meticulously arranged on the foliage-carved
oak mantel. The walls were textured plaster, soft-gold in color.
Every four feet, vertical, decorative pale gray molding had been
installed.

"I take it you approve?"
Roan asked with a crooked grin.

Winston nodded. He told
himself that if anyone asked him to describe the room in a single
word, he would fail miserably. He couldn't express his awe in a
sentence—a paragraph! He only knew that if he could lock himself
away in this small corner of the mansion, he would never want for
anything else.

He was
home.

But he could no more fathom
why he felt this so strongly than he could even begin to understand
the too-often cruel twists of fate.

He'd never felt at home at
his family's estate. Yet here, in Baird House, it was as if he'd
been born within its walls.

"Winston, can I get you
anything else from the kitchen?" Laura asked.

"No. Thank you."

"Ma aunt put a toothbrush,
soap, shampoo, and shavin’ necessities in yer bathroom," said
Roan.

"Thank you."

Roan gave a single nod then
draped an arm across Laura's shoulders and urged her toward the
door. As he passed Winston, he added, "Make yerself at home. The
lads are asleep on the third floor. They shouldn't bother
you."

Winston dazedly
nodded.

At the threshold, Roan
stopped and looked at his guest. "I'll bring you clean clothes in
the morn. Get some sleep, mon."

Winston's head bobbed until
the door had closed behind the couple then he straightened his
shoulders and drew in a deep, cleansing breath.

Although night's curtain was
visible beyond the window panes, Winston was wide awake. Energy
sang through his veins. He'd never felt so alive, so wired without
an outside influence feeding his psychic channels.

Turning the gaslight key and
dousing the flame, he went to the fireplace mantel and placed the
rose petals on the polished surface. The fire in the hearth not
only spilled waves of warmth against his legs, but softened the
room's dimensions. Shadowed recesses surrounded him on three sides.
He felt snug and secure, as though in a nurturing womb. The misery
and despondency which had relentlessly stalked him since Rose's
death, was but a dim memory.

Swathed in sheer
contentment, he lowered himself onto the red brick hearth and sat
Indian-style. He stared into the dancing flames for a time, his
mind unburdened with thought and his spirit so at ease, he could
have endlessly drifted off to a faraway place and lost
himself.

He didn't care what the
morning brought.

There was only
now.

Only the moment.

Although he wasn't the least
bit sleepy, the peacefulness of the room beckoned him to surrender
to its influence. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until
gradually lowering. When he was deep within himself, he unwittingly
lowered his mind shields. Not since the age of eleven had he fully
lowered his protective barriers, not even when investigating a
case. It had always been too painful. Too traumatizing. Nature had
not given him a ready-made defense through which to filter psychic
static. He'd had to teach himself to shut out the unwanted and
unnecessary energy particles in order to save his
sanity.

An image formed in front of
his mind's eye. The scene was of a fantasy garden. Bright white and
deep purple roses in full bloom. Fan-tailed peacocks strutting
among the bushes. Birds with vibrantly-colored butterfly wings, and
butterflies with various bird wings. The sky was neither day nor
night. Like the air surrounding him, it was imbued with millions of
glittering specks. In the heart of the garden was a tall white
marble fountain. When his mind's eye zoomed in for a closer look at
the statue cresting it, he was stunned to see that it was a nude
rendition of himself. Water cascaded from a large golden unicorn
horn held out in the statue's right hand.

Then it struck him that he
was not just visualizing the surrealistic realm but he was actually
there.

For a long time he studied
his stone face. The features were at peace. Hopeful...although
hopeful of what, he didn't know. Gentle bird sounds caressed his
hearing. Floral scents filled his nostrils. It was springtime, or
something akin to spring. Again he wasn't sure.

From somewhere behind his
position, something distracted him. He turned his head and glimpsed
the outline of a figure. Horizontal contrails glimmered in its
wake, giving testimony to the movement. Although the translucent
form was comprised of the same sparkling particles, he managed to
get a clear impression before it melted into the
landscape.

Female.

He found himself straining
to see her again. Bewitching air stirred around him, the cocooning
contrails suggesting that she was circling him again and again. He
heard a soft, musical laugh, then, "Winston, catch me if ye
can."

He reached out this way and
that, hoping to locate her, hoping to prompt her to solidify. To no
avail. The air continued to frolic around him, whimsically eddying,
teasing him.

"I would if I could!" he
shouted merrily. "Come, lass. Give me a fair see!"

"Too soon, ma dour
Scotsmon," she said in a singsong manner.

A smile youthening his face,
he whirled about, his eyes feverishly scanning his surroundings.
"Wha' is this place?"

"Ma home. I've never let
anyone come afore. Why ye, ye ask?" Her trilling laugh lifted his
spirits even higher.
"Because,
tha' be why. Reason enough?"

He nodded. "Can I return
here when I choose?"

"Tis lonely here. Do come
again, Winston. I've been waitin’ for ye a verra long
time."

"Have you?" he asked, a
mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Aye. I knew when ye first
came a while ago ye would find yer way to this place."

"You mean when I was here
Christmas Eve?"

"If tha' be wha' is called
the night o' Lachlan's passin’, aye."

"Who are you?" he asked in
an aching whisper.

"I thought ye
knew."

He shook his
head.

"I be the house."

Stunned, Winston stiffened
out of reflex. "No. I saw an outline o' your physical shape. But
for a second, aye, but I know wha' I saw."

"Wha' ye wanted to see," she
whispered by his left ear.

He spun toward her voice and
desperately looked for another glimpse of her. But there was
nothing but the particles, glittering and pulsing with life, and
the contrails which now crisscrossed in a maddening mesh around
him.

"Your name!" he
cried.

"Listen and ye will hear it
on the wind."

"Then you have a name." His
temper surfaced and his black eyebrows rose in a suspicious,
accusatory manner. "The house has a name. Are you telling me you're
called Baird?"

"Why are ye angry wi' me,
Winston? I allowed ye here because I knew it would bring a moment
o' peace to yer soul."

Breathing heavily, Winston
replied, "I demand to know who's in ma head!"

"Yer head?" Again she
laughed and it swirled around him, caressing and taunting, further
testing his darkening mood. "How predictably human o' ye to assume
someone else be the trespasser."