Love Everlastin' Book 3 (8 page)

Stepping beyond the doorway
and several paces further, he spied a figure sitting on the floor
at the far end. He not only recognized Roan, but also the mood in
the air as being undeniably morose. Approaching in slow steps, he
made mental notes of the boxes and objects he passed, and of the
lit lantern sitting to the laird's left. Roan was slouched against
a stack of crates, mindlessly staring at a portrait propped atop a
trunk. Winston identified the man in the portrait right away.
Lachlan Baird. A blond woman with chilling blue eyes stared beyond
the canvass, through Winston. Still staring into her beautiful but
cold features, he crouched next to the lantern.

Although Roan's gaze did not
leave the portrait, he spoke calmly and steadily. "You’re lookin’
at ma Laura in anither time. She was Tessa then." He wagged a
finger at the portrait. "Can't say I miss this one
much."

"She has a cruel look abou'
her," Winston said.

"Aye. She was a cruel,
desperately wanton womon. And so needy." Roan deeply sighed and
closed his eyes for a moment. "Sometimes I come up here and stare
at her, and try to understand how I could have loved her so
blindly."

"It happens."

Roan's troubled gaze briefly
swung to Winston then returned to the portrait. "I suppose it does.
Laura is verra different from Tessa. They're the same, but
Laura...Laura has courage and heart. Tessa never had
either."

Sitting on the floor,
Winston bent his right leg and braced his forearm atop the knee. He
noticed an emptied bottle of Scotch on its side by Roan's right
foot, but chose to ignore its implications. Rather, he sought to
console the fires burning within the laird's heart.

"You amaze me, Roan,"
Winston said in earnest. "No' many men could cope wi' the memories
o' two lives, decades apart."

"I don't think abou'
it...much. The sameness, I mean." He glanced at Winston and forced
a lopsided grin. "Truth is, it feels natural now. A part o'
me."

"It still takes a helluva
mon to cope as you do."

"I don't know abou' tha'. We
do wha' we must."

Winston chuckled. "I'll have
to remember tha' the next time I feel like a miserable
failure."

Roan's grin deepened. "I
can't imagine you a failure at anythin’. What's it like to be
psychic?"

"Busy," Winston said
dryly.

Roan nodded. "I bet you are.
You get to see the dark side o' people they think is locked
away."

"Also the good. There's
usually a balance."

"Tha's good to hear." Again
Roan sighed then frowned at the portrait. "Lachlan was a mon like
none ither. I wish you could have known him."

"You were fond o' him, were
you?"

Startled, Roan stared at his
guest. "Fond? Och! Believe me, it is mightier than tha'!
Generations o' ma family despised him. I came to banish him." He
released a low, tremulous laugh. "I remember the first day
he
poofed
in front
o' me. I could hardly believe the mon wasn't alive and
breathin’—breathin’ fire, for he was in a foul mood tha' day. And
Beth. Such a fine lady, and to die so young!" He exhaled a ragged
breath and shook his head.

"Damn me, Winston, wha's
wrong wi' me? It's all passed, but I can't seem to let it
go!"

Reaching out, Winston took
the whiskey bottle in hand. "Maybe you should lay off this stuff
for a while."

Roan shrugged his massive
shoulders. "There wasn't much in it. In truth, ma friend, I'm as
sober as a church mouse. Perhaps that's ma problem,
aye?"

With a shake of his head,
Winston set the bottle down. "I watched you and Laura build the
snowmon wi' the boys."

A genuine smile flashed
across Roan's rugged face. "Aye. They're great lads. They never
cease to amaze me wi' their cunnin’ and energy."

"I thought the peacock a
fitting crown," Winston chuckled.

"Ahhh." Roan grew solemn.
"Braussaw. He was one o' Lannie's favorites. I accidentally ran the
bloody thing over wi' ma van. Had him stuffed in hopes Lannie
wouldn't notice him missin’."

"Did he?"

Roan nodded almost
wistfully. "One thing abou' Lannie Baird, Winston, nothin’ ever got
past him! He took it pretty good though, he did. Surprisingly good.
But by then he considered me a friend. In spite o' everythin’, he
found it wi’in himself to be ma friend. I guess tha' sums up the
kind o' mon he was. Damn me, but I wish they were still
here."

Roan cleared his throat and
deliberately stared at the portrait to keep Winston from seeing the
tears in his eyes. But Winston did see them, and he ached to
firsthand understand the kind of bond, friendship, the ghost and
man had shared.

"It's no' like they passed
on o' their free will," Roan went on. "Beth left to spare us Viola
Cooke's further wrath, and Lannie...weel, he couldn't stay wi’ou'
his love, could he? There was so much mair I wanted to learn from
him. All lost. If only I knew they were happy."

"They are."

Roan's watery gaze cut to
Winston's face. "Are you just sayin’ tha' to please me?"

"A lie has never passed ma
lips," Winston confessed. "I'm no' saying I'm incapable o' lying,
but I guess I've never encountered anything I felt was worthy o'
one. They are indeed happy, although...."

Roan arched an inquiring
eyebrow.

"Restless," Winston
murmured, staring off into space. "They are restless, but I don't
know why." He focused on Roan's strained features. "Perhaps they
sense your distress."

"Is tha'
possible?"

Winston nodded.

Releasing a soft whistle,
Roan started to get up. "Then I guess I should work on changin’ ma
mood."

When both men were on their
feet, Roan took the lantern in hand. "Winston, how abou' joinin’ me
for a Scotch before supper?"

"Best offer I've had today,"
Winston grinned, and followed the laird out of the
attic.

The house struck Winston as
being overly quiet and still as he descended the last staircase
alongside Roan. It was as if the place were sealed in a vacuum.
Motionless. Soundless. Far removed from the world and its
problems.

"Laura's nappin’ wi' the
lads," Roan explained, as if having read Winston's thoughts. "It's
the only way the little boogers will go down durin’ the
day."

A hint of a smile was on
Winston's mouth as he followed the laird onto the first landing,
down a hall, and into a room on the right. He was delighted to see
a bar, two tables, and an antique spooning chair. He strayed in the
direction of the latter while Roan went behind the counter and
placed the still-lit lantern atop the polished surface of the
wood.

After a moment, Roan
muttered, "Damn me, I forgot to bring up a case. I'll—"

He stopped short when Agnes
came into the room. "Roan, dear, I'm afraid one o' the gas burners
is blocked up. Could you give me a hand wi' it?"

"Sure."

Winston offered the woman a
pleasant smile, then said to Roan, "I'll get the Scotch, if you
want."

Stopping in front of his
aunt, Roan absently raked a hand through his thick hair. "If you
don't mind. The cellar door's at the side o' the staircase. Take
the lantern. The steps are steep and the rooms down there are pitch
dark. And watch yer footfalls, mon. There's a few roots tha’ came
up through the concrete. I keep meanin’ to tend to them. Anyway, at
the bottom o' the stairs, you'll see a large door on the left.
That's the Scotch room. Bring up one o' the cases."

Winston took the lantern and
held it out in front of him. Agnes and Roan turned right in the
direction of the kitchen. After a moment's pause in the hall,
Winston went to the door at the side of the staircase and opened
it. Cold air brushed against him.

He chided himself for
wishing he hadn't volunteered to enter the lower realm of the
house, but he had, and forced himself to take the first step down.
Holding out the lantern, he tried to penetrate the inky blackness
lurking beyond the scope of the light. He'd always hated the
darkness. Especially darkness encased in a confining area. Like in
a coffin or a cellar. But down he went. One labored step at a time.
When he finally reached the bottom, he released a hollow chuff in
praise of his winning out over his phobia.

Confined spaces.

He'd spent a good portion of
life suffering confinement along with the victims he'd psychically
interfaced with. Closets. Coffins. Dark cellars. Attic rooms.
Graves.

Heat rushed beneath his skin
and into his head. It was a too familiar sensation, one that told
him his phobia was making a strong bid to overpower him. To further
combat his rising panic, he began to hum the theme music of the
Wicked Witch of the West from The Wizard Of Oz movie. The tune came
out faster and faster with each step he took. His darting gaze
sliced into the darkness. Internal heat singed his face. Humming
louder, he forced his pace to quicken. Finally, at the edge of the
light across from him, he saw the door Roan had
mentioned.

"All this for a Scotch," he
said in an off-key, singsong tone. "Ah, but wha' right-minded
Scotsmon wouldn't brave the monsters o' the dark for a wee
libation? But it had better be damn good Sco—

A scurrying sound caused his
taut nerves to go spastic. The accompanying squeak was his undoing.
He whirled then staggered backward, the hand holding the lantern
swinging out. The lamplight danced off the stone walls around him.
Shadows and golden-orange light leapt into one another, totally
disorienting him. To stop the dizzying effect, he unsteadily placed
the lantern on the floor and backed away. He lifted a hand to block
out the light's glow from his eyes. Deep, regulated breaths
eventually eased his racing heartbeat back to normal. By the time
he'd gotten his fears under control, the dark recesses no longer
threatened him. The calm, cool Winston emerged, and he reflected on
his childish reaction with disdain.

"Get a grip on yourself.
It's a bloody cellar, you fool!"

He squared his shoulders
determinedly. Flexing his fingers, he reached for the door and
pulled on the metal handle. It opened smoothly without a
sound.

His body blocking a good
portion of the lamplight, he peered into the seemingly infinite
darkness of the room beyond.

"The scotch room. Quaint.
Scotch...room. There's probably a wine room. Sherry room. Rrrum
room. And all as dark as this here one."

He gulped and the sound
seemed to echo around him.

Trepidation shriveled the
borders of his courage, enough so that he rocked from side to side
for a few moments.

"A case o’ Scotch,
Winston-you-coward, and you'll be on your merry way upstairs. Where
there's light and people. Food cooking on the stove...."

Deciding the best thing to
do was to just get it over with he retrieved the lantern and
entered the room. He was shocked at the vastness that greeted him.
Holding out the lantern, he ambled down the fifteen-foot wide
walkway, his gaze scanning the tall racks of Scotch that lined both
sides. Dates stared back at him, neatly carved into fastened panels
on the racks. When he reached bottles dating back to the early
seventeen hundreds, he felt as giddy as a schoolboy.

Of course the actual cases
the laird had referred to had to be near the door, but he couldn't
stop himself from exploring the room to the end. His fingers
touched the grooved numbers with deepening reverence. To the left
and right of him, the racks went on and on, until he was beginning
to wonder if there was no end to the room. His elation didn't stem
from the fact that he was an avid Scotch drinker. Actually, he
seldom imbibed. But the value of the collection staggered his mind.
And the care and meticulous order in which the bottles had been
displayed....

"Lachlan, you have ma
undying respect," he murmured.

He was about to cross to the
right side again when his left foot snagged on something. He
pitched forward. A wail rang out, so shrill he thought his eardrums
had ruptured. But even more disconcerting was knowing that the wail
had not come from him. Somehow he struck the cement floor on his
side, the lantern held up and out of harm's way. The impact jarred
his bones and made his teeth clack together. Searing pain razored
through him, robbing him of breath. After several moments, he
managed to place the lantern down and gingerly sit up.

Suddenly the excruciating
pain in his head and the fact that every bone in his body felt
broken and fractured, didn't matter. He stared at what had tripped
him. The back of his left foot sat atop a section of a thick oak
root which wove in and out of the cement floor. It wasn't the root
itself leaving him numb and confounded, but the eerie green glow
emanating from it. The luminance pulsed with the rhythm of a
heartbeat. Faster and faster. Brighter and brighter. As if
compelled, he reached out to touch it.

No!
boomed inside his head, staying his hand in midair.

In the distance somewhere
above, he heard rolls of thunder and the repeated crack of
lightning. Then cries.