Love Everlastin' Book 3 (4 page)

She sighed and he could
almost swear he felt her perfumed breath fan his face. "Ye wanted
in, Winston. I could have stopped ye. Should have, I'm beginnin’ to
think. But tis been a long time since I've had the chance to talk.
I'm now regrettin’ ma rash decision to trust ye."

"Trust me?" A mirthless
laugh boomed from him. "That's bloody rich coming from a
house."
Irritably
shuffling his shoulders, he added, "I've little tolerance for a
liar."

Moments of silence passed.
Winston sensed a crackling, electrical disturbance in the air. It
was on the tip of his tongue to apologize for his ill mood, but he
wasn't a man who liked to be unnerved by anything or anyone. And
she did unnerve him.

"Tell me, Winston, do ye
wish me to be a womon for you?"

Before he could reply, he
noticed the peacocks had surrounded him. Their beady dark eyes were
riveted on him and their heads were cocked as if they were
anxiously awaiting his answer.

"Winston."

Her voice startled him.
Casting a group of the birds a dirty look, he lifted his gaze and
searched the nonexistent sky. "Why did you bring me
here?"

Another long moment of
silence followed, during which his heart began to hammer within his
chest. Somewhere in the far distance, he could hear ominous rolls
of thunder.

"I didna bring ye here," she
said at last. "Ye sought me. Aye, and found me, ye did."

"You're no' the house," he
challenged.

Again a long stretch of
silence, then, "Tis all I can be," she said softly, forlornly, her
voice omnipresent. "But I be grateful to have this much. Ye must go
now, Winston. There are people who need me. I canna waste ma time
on someone as mistrustin’ as ye. All I have ever wanted was to be
needed."

While she spoke, Winston
picked up on a wash of emotional particles. "How have I hurt you?"
he asked, scowling as his gaze searched his
surroundings.

She gasped then fell silent
for what seemed an eternity. When he could no longer bear the
tension building up inside him, he demanded, "Tell me!"

When still she remained
silent, his temper fully surfaced. "You expect me to believe you're
the house, and you're capable o' feeling human emotion? You're just
another spirit, aren't you? Trapped here in this house. Perhaps
picking up where Lachlan Baird left off?"

"I gave him his power," she
said softly.

"I don't believe you. I saw
a womon!"

"It is cruel o' ye to remind
me o' a time long past. O' who I was afore the darkness
came."

"You were once human!" he
challenged.

"No. Wha' I was is o' no
importance, now." She sighed, its sound burdened with despair. "We
are too different, I know now, and it saddens me. I can be content,
for I must to survive. Ye, Winston, like Lachlan once was, are too
bitter and too hardened by wha' life has brought ye. But he was no’
one to hide from his emotions, so I helped him to remain. And Beth.
She brought me much joy. But ye are no' ready to embrace the magic.
May never be, I think. Ye have lived so long wi’in yerself, ye have
no' learned to accept wha' is truly needed o' ye."

"Needed of me? You don't
know anything abou' me!"

"Alas, I know it
all."

"Quite an accomplishment for
a...
house."

"Sarcasm. Ye brandish it
weel, Winston. But can ye love?"

The question took him aback.
"O' course I can."

"No. Who be the liar now?
Love terrifies ye. We are wha' we are. In ma maist secret dreams, I
yearn to be human. Like ye, Winston, I can only experience
psychical love through ithers. Tis sadder for ye, though, I think,
for ye are in their world. Tis sadder because ye choose to stay
apart. Choose to deny yerself.

"Lachlan and Beth taught me
so much. Roan and Laura are still strugglin’ to find themselves,
but they will because they love life and each ither so
deeply."

"I'm ready to
puke."

"Sarcasm again." A moment's
silence, then, "Tell me yer fondest wish, and I will grant
it."

"Why?"

"Because I can," she said
with an enigmatic lilt to her tone.

One corner of Winston's
mouth twisted in a skeptical grin. "Genies give three
wishes."

"I be no' a genie. Weel,
Winston., yer wish?"

"To see you."

Silence, and he cockily
folded his arms against his middle. "Too tough for you,
Baird?"

"Too simple," she said
finally, forlornly. "Since ye have used Rose to remove yerself from
the human race, I'll grant yer wish, but wi' this wee
challenge."

"Wha' abou' Rose?" he asked
harshly.

"Ye will see me when you
find a way to touch me."

"What abou'
Rose!"

"Ye canna hide from me,
Winston. Ye didna love her. Twas her time to leave her world and ye
took it personally."

"Damn you!"

"Too late, ma hot-tempered
Scotsmon. I was damned long ago, and by somethin’ far mightier, far
sorrier than ye."

His chest rising and falling
with each furious breath, Winston accused, "You're a coward,
Baird!"

"Just wiser than ye," she
laughed softly. Then somberly, "Goodbye, Winston. Just remember
tha' ye canna hide yer thoughts or feelin’s from me. If naught
else, it may teach ye humility."

"Wait! Wait!"

Realizing that he was fading
from the garden, he sucked in a great breath. He experienced a
whoosh of sensation, then opened his eyes and found himself staring
into the dwindling flames on the iron grate in front of him.
Profound sadness yawned inside him, opening a void so stark and
desolate, he nearly succumbed to tears. But then the old Winston
resurfaced. He clamped down on the fragmented emotions he believed
had been transferred from the mysterious woman to him, and stiffly
rose to his feet.

The room was chilled, the
shadows looming like grim sentinels. He suddenly felt lonelier than
he ever had, but he refused to waste even a moment trying to
analyze the cause.

She couldn't have been
anything more than a figment of his imagination, a necessary
diversion for his stressed psyche!

He was about to turn in the
direction of the bed when something caught his eye. With a
trembling hand, he reached for the object on the mantel.

Instead of the loose petals
he had placed there earlier, there lay an intact rose. Despite the
lessening light, he knew it was purple, and he knew it was the same
rose, only fully restored now. As he drew it to his chest, a tiny
invisible thorn pricked his finger. Liquid warmth entered the wound
and rapidly passed into his veins.

"Ye are no' ready to embrace
the magic," she had accused him.

Lifting the rose to his
lips, he murmured, "You're wrong, Baird."

Chapter 2

A dark and sinister eel-like
mass slithered along the boundaries of Winston's psychically
protected subconscious, awakening him minutes before dawn peeked
over the horizon. He bolted upright, his eyelids rapidly blinking,
his heart seeming to throb wildly in his throat. He was first
alarmed by the grayness in the room, then the silence, the latter
so thick he thought it an intruder hovering over him. When he tried
to recall what had frightened him during his dream state, he met
with a mental blank wall. The void was something he'd never before
encountered. There had always been unsolicited images and
impressions crowding the multiple realms of his psychic fields. Now
there was nothing but emptiness.

By the time his heartbeat
returned to normal, he had to softly chuckle at himself. Why was he
afraid of the peacefulness inside his skull? Hadn't that been
something he'd longed for since childhood? He ran his fingers
through his disheveled black hair and worked his dry mouth. His
stomach grumbled. Blinking hard to erase the remnants of sleep
weighing his eyelids, he peered out the window.

It was a new day.

Yawning, he flexed the
muscles in his back and shoulders then threw back the covers and
climbed out of bed. He relieved himself in the bathroom, then went
to the fireplace and prepared the hearth. The chill in the room
attached itself to every part of his exposed skin. He'd worn only
his boxer shorts to bed. Once he had the fire on the andiron going,
he hastily donned his dark gray slacks. In lieu of his shirt, which
he couldn't see anywhere, he pulled the top quilt off the bed,
draped it over his shoulders, and held the material closed with one
hand. He returned to the hearth and crouched, shivering against the
cold still nipping at him.

The absence of dreaming
continued to perplex him. For as long as he could remember, his
dream world had always been so vivid and consistent, there had been
times he wasn't sure which world had been the reality. He had never
experienced a personal nightmare, a manifestation of his own
subconscious. Even his dreams belonged to outsiders. Their fears.
Their insecurities. Their hopelessness.

Baird.

The woman's facetious name
murmured in his skull.

If only he could grasp the
foundation of his certainty that the purveyor of
his...magical...journey into that other world, had not been the
house. Perhaps it was because the absurdity of a house arguing with
him was more than he could accept. A spirit, yes. He'd had his
share of conversing with the departed.

And what had she meant when
she'd accused him of using Rose to withdraw from the
world?

He was in the process of
releasing a long sigh when an extraneous ripple of sorrow passed
through his awareness. His spine stiffened as his psychic radar
instinctively activated. Before he could withdraw its probe and
abandon further knowledge of the unwitting sender, he knew the
source and location.

"Damn," he
grumbled.

Standing, he irritably
flexed his broad shoulders. He considered ignoring the psychic
pull, then, begrudgingly, he stalked from his room. Halfway down
the hall, he stopped at a door to his right, and lightly rapped on
the dark wood. When no answer came, he opened the door just enough
to peer inside. Across the room, a young boy was sitting
crosslegged atop the bedcovers, and sobbing.

"May I come in?"

The boy glanced up, swiped
his arm beneath his nose then adamantly shook his head.

Winston lightly frowned.
"I'm afraid I'm lost in this big house. Can you tell me where to
find the kitchen?"

For several seconds the boy
watched him through an unreadable expression. Then he lifted his
right arm and pointed, a gesture that brought a genuine smile to
Winston's mouth. Stepping beyond the threshold, Winston secured the
quilt about his shoulders and approached the foot of the
bed.

"A point isn't much help,
lad."

"Alby," the boy
sniffed.

"Alby, is it? That's a fine
name. I'm Winston."

The boy cocked his head and
it struck Winston that Alby's eyes held wisdom far beyond his age.
To pass the awkward moment, Winston glanced at the fireplace. A low
fire burned in the hearth, sufficiently warming the room. He
cleared his throat and swung his gaze back to Alby, who was still
watching him, only now there was blatant curiosity behind his blue
eyes.

"Mind if I sit?" Winston
asked, pointing to the foot of the bed.

"Go ahead."

Winston seated himself to
the left of the boy, but he found himself at a loss for words until
he noticed a carved wooden horse, about two inches tall, on its
side on the quilt between them. Picking it up, he studied the
intricate workmanship then arched a brow in the boy's direction. "A
fine piece," he casually remarked.

"Lachlan made it for
me."

Alby's despondent tone
brought a frown to Winston's brow. "He did a fine job."

Reaching beneath his pillow,
Alby removed three other carvings. A rearing bear, a lion and a
monkey. He passed them to Winston, who carefully studied each one
before setting them on the bed. "Is it Lachlan you're crying
for?"

Alby's lower lip jutted out.
"'Cause I cry, don't mean I'm a baby!"

"O' course no', Alby. But it
is a wee early to be so sad, don't you think?"

"Not sad."

"No?" Winston chuckled. "Ma
mistake, then."

"You're forgiven," the
three-year-old quipped, and Winston laughed outright. "What's so
funny?"

Winston had to think through
his words before replying, "I wasn't laughing at you."

"Nobody here but us," Alby
said sagely, his eyes narrowed on Winston.

"When you're right, you're
right. So tell me, did you have a nightmare?"

"Don't be silly."

The reply further unnerved
Winston and he thoughtfully stroked his stubbled chin. "So you were
just having yourself a wee cry, then?"

"My toys stopped playing,"
Alby informed, poking them with the tip of an isolated finger. "I
don't like it when they stop being fun."