Dawns Everlastin' (former title: Dusk Before Dawn) Book 2 (8 page)

"You didn't have to take my
head off because I didn't know what you meant by a
'dyke'."

He smiled mockingly. "And
here I thought I was bein' civil—especially in light o' the fact
I'm half frozen and as frustrated as hell."

"You're forgiven," she said
airily, refusing to let him goad her. "Actually, I do have a
question." She waited while he obtained two mugs from a cupboard
and placed them next to the stove. "You used a word this morning
that I can't get out of my head."

He slanted her a look while
lowering tea bags into the cups. "Wha' word?"

"This morning you said
'pree'd'. I was asking to be pree'd."

Edging two paces closer, her
hands still clasped at the small of her back, she tilted her head
to one side. "What does the word mean?"

Warmth spread across Roan's
chest as he struggled not to crack another grin. Feigning a pensive
frown, he breached the short distance between them.

"Define it? Hmmm. I guess
showin' beats the bloody hell ou' o' tellin'."

Laura had no idea what was
coming. Swiftly, as if to completely take her unawares, he lowered
his head and lightly kissed her. A spasm of shock first rooted her
then she jumped back and stared at his amused expression as if he'd
lost his mind.

"That's a verra wee pree,"
he winked. "When a Scotsmon puts his blood's worth into it, lass,
the word takes on all kinds o' definitions." He arched an eyebrow.
“So slap me and get it ou’ o’ yer system.”

Dumbfounded, she could only
stare at him.

Roan released a thready
breath. Gripping her arms, he hesitantly drew her against him.
Immediately, he felt the warmth of her body radiate through the
blanket.

"There's somethin' better
than tea to take the chill ou' o' a mon."

Mesmerized by his closeness,
the mischievous glow in his alluring pale brown eyes, she breathed,
"Is there?"

Releasing her, he quipped,
"Scotch. Would you mind fetchin' me a bottle?"

With the deliverance of the
dead, Laura bid, "Good night, Mr. Ingliss," and left the kitchen by
way of the dining room.

Roan laughed. Then laughed
again.

"Good night, lass," he
beamed, feeling more lighthearted than he had in years. But then he
sobered and brushed the back of a hand across his tingling
lips.

A fey ache thrummed in his
heart. An ache akin to excitement.

The whistle of the tea
kettle gave him a start.

Without thinking, he poured
steaming water into both cups then grinned wryly at his
absentmindedness.

He looked to the door she'd
passed through moments ago. One wee kiss and the chill had
completely left him. He was almost afraid to imagine what making
love to the woman could do for him.

C
hapter 3

Bitter cold winds buffeted
the exterior walls of the warm, toasty kitchen. Roan could not
block out the mournful sibilations as he forced down the bland
brose he'd earlier concocted. He also could not shut down his
awareness of Laura's silence, or her laden disappointment with his
failure that morning to locate a working telephone in
town.

She'd awakened at the crack
of dawn in a foul mood. Not coffee or breakfast, or his attempts to
cheer her up, had made the slightest difference. He'd even donned
one of Lachlan's ridiculous full-sleeved shirts to appease her
indignant airs over his state of undress. The woman simply expected
more of him than he could deliver.

And it irked him.

So the brose was lumpy. He'd
never professed to be much of a cook, although how he could have
screwed up something as simple as oatmeal mixed with boiling water,
butter and salt, was beyond him. Regardless, a thank you from the
woman would have been appreciated.

Peering at her from his
lowered head, he found himself counting the number of times she
lifted her spoon to her mouth. Deliberate small portions, as if to
prolong the agony of finishing the meal. And her gaze never left
the bowl.

Too bad. Whatever her mood,
her green eyes always fascinated him. Clear. Vibrant.
Sexy—

Clearing his throat, he
straightened in the wooden chair and pushed his bowl aside. The
next time—if there was a next time—he decided they would eat at the
long dining room table, and not crowd five around a table built
comfortably for two. The other table would also place them farther
apart, which, during his intermittent urges to throttle her, would
require him to leave his chair and hopefully regain his reasoning
by the time he got to her.

To dispel his mental
wanderings, he asked, "Can I get anyone anythin' else?"

Shaking his head, Kahl
reached for another oatcake.

"Naw," Kevin said through a
mouthful of food.

"No, thank you," Laura
corrected him then looked coolly at Roan and repeated the
words.

Roan's gaze clashed with
hers. Rising from his chair, he refilled his cup with dark, strong
coffee, and sat again.

Kahl giggled, his impish
blue eyes staring askance at Roan.

"What's so
funny?"

"You look like a girl," Kahl
grinned, staring at the ruffled cuff of the shirt Roan
wore.

A flush worked its way into
Roan's cheeks, and he grinned. "Aye, so I do. Hard to believe grown
men willingly wore these things, aye?"

His gaze cut to the woman
across the table from him. She stared through him before looking
down at her bowl once again. "It’s the owner's shirt. I braved
damnation to enter his grand suite and take a loan o' one o' his
possessions."

Scrinching up his face,
Kevin grunted, "Huh?"

Taking a sip of coffee, Roan
winked at the boy. "Lannie's verra possessive o' his
belongin’s."

"That's enough," Laura
warned, her eyes flashing at Roan through a darkening
expression.

Roan arched a brow. "Beg yer
pardon, but wha'
can
I talk abou' wi'ou' insultin' yer sensibilities?" Pushing an
ear forward with an isolated finger, he probed, "Eh?"

"Knock it off."

A look of spleen brought
ruddy color to Roan's face. "I tell you wha', Miss Bennett, make me
a bloody list. And don't be shy abou' sparin' ma
feelin’s."

"Here we go again," Kahl
sighed, his gaze pinging between the adults.

Laura cast the boy a heated
glance, then rose from her chair and carried her bowl and cup to
the sink across the room. Roan watched her, her every stiff
movement further fueling his temper.

"I'm neither responsible for
yer predicament nor the storm."

"I never said you were," she
responded, standing at the deep porcelain sink, her back to
him.

Turning sideways in his
chair, Roan began to drum the fingertips of his right hand atop the
table. "Then spare me the dirty looks. I'm doin' the best I can.
Ye're simply expectin' miracles where there's none to be
found."

"Naw," Kevin piped in,
popping a chunk of oatcake into his mouth. "She's pissed, all
right."

"Kevin!" Laura gasped,
issuing him a visual scolding.

"Pissed?" Roan rose to his
feet, his brow drawn down in a scowl. "Wha' have you been dippin'
into?"

"What?"

"Whiskey?"

"What are you talking
about?" Laura asked, visibly rattled.

"Pissed. Drunk."

After a moment, her
confusion fled. "No, Mr. Ingliss, I do not drink. The pissed Kevin
referred to, means...upset."

"Angry," Kevin
lightheartedly corrected.

"I think we've heard enough
from you," Laura told the boy.

"We're outta bog rolls,"
Kahl said to Roan.

"Out of what?" Laura asked
him.

With a grin, Roan explained,
"Toilet paper."

Laura grimaced.
Bog roll?
Once she got
them back to the States, she was going to have to work with the
boys on their language.

She was about to turn back
to the sink when her gaze happened on Alby, whose brow lay on the
table. Frowning, she walked up behind him and leaned over. "Alby?
Hon, are you asleep?"

Roan quickly went to Laura's
side and placed a hand on the back of the boy's neck. "He's burnin'
up," he gritted out. In a swift, parental movement, he lifted
Alby's unconscious form into his arms and carried him to the
sink.

"There's a clean cloth under
the sink," he instructed Laura. He turned on the cold water tap.
"Soak it good and lay it across his brow."

"He seemed fine this
morning," Laura murmured tremulously, doing as Roan had instructed.
Her face as white as a sheet, she inspected the boy's parched lips
then glanced at the brothers at the table. "Did you notice anything
wrong with Alby?"

"He puked next to my side of
the bed last night," Kevin said.

"Why didn't you tell
me?"

Kevin shrugged. "Carrie
never wanted to hear that kind of stuff."

"I'm not Carrie, am
I?"

"Laura." Roan's soft tone
brought her gaze to meet his. "Calm down."

Tears instantly sprang to
her eyes. "I don't know what to do," she admitted in a small voice
choked with emotion.

Roan re-wetted the cloth and
gently dabbed it over Alby's red face. "Ma son had his share o'
fevers."

"You have a son?"

Pain radiated from Roan's
eyes when he glanced at her. "He died a few years ago."

"From a fever?"

Looking down into Alby's
face, Roan gave a solemn shake of his head. "Boys, help yer aunt to
draw a cool bath in yer room," he said over his
shoulder.

Kahl and Kevin sprang from
their chairs, but only the younger of the two approached the
adults.

"I'll clean up the kitchen,"
Kevin said as he started to gather the bowls.

"No' on yer life!" Roan
snapped.

"I did dishes all the time,"
the boy protested, suddenly seeming far older than his seven
years.

Laura caught Roan's glance
and nodded.

"All right. We'll be
upstairs," Roan said to Kevin as he turned toward the dining room
door. "Join us when ye're done."

"Yeah, yeah."

* * *

The day drew on with
excruciating slowness. For the most part, Laura felt completely
helpless as she shadowed Roan, until at one point he told her to
try to relax and keep Kahl and Kevin entertained. She read to them
in the library until they could no longer sit quietly. She took
them to the tower, absently listening to the gruesome stories the
place visited upon Kevin's fertile imagination.

Hours later, at Roan's
request, she heated a can of chicken soup for Alby, who refused to
take even a sip of the broth. She could barely stand to hear the
child's moaning and sobs, while Roan, to her utter bewilderment,
seemed quite naturally in his element taking care of the
boy.

Between baths in cool water,
Roan rocked him in an antique chair by the window, humming
lullabies to ease his delirium. Laura's tolerance lasted but a
matter of minutes before she herded the older boys out of the room
to look for something else to keep them occupied.

Late that night, after
hacking a smoked ham into uneven slices, she made sandwiches for
all but Alby. Roan devoured his while cradling Alby on the rocking
chair. Laura and the boys ate theirs in silence in the
kitchen.

After prodding them to wash
their faces and hands at the kitchen sink, she led them back to the
bedroom. Uncharacteristically cooperative for once, they climbed
atop the feather mattress, removed their shoes and socks, and lay
quietly while their aunt covered them with the quilts.

"Don't wake Alby or Mr.
Ingliss," she cautioned, planting a kiss on each of their
brows.

"Alby still
sick?"

"I don't know, Kevin. He
needs his rest." She tucked the quilts beneath their chins. "So do
both of you. Now close your eyes."

She wasn't sure how long it
took the boys to fall asleep. Her body was numb, her mind burdened
with recriminations. Glancing in Roan's direction, tears misted her
eyes. How easily he slept holding Alby in his arms, as though he'd
done it countless times. He was proving to be the kind of guardian
her nephews needed. Firm, yet attentive. Not like a certain aunt
who panicked at the sight of a runny nose.

Caught up in a mantle of
self-pity, she rose from the bed and walked into the
hall.

* * *

Roan's eyelids lifted when
Laura left the room, and he stared at the empty doorway for a long
time. Then his gaze lowered to the moonlit-kissed face of the boy
in his arms.

A smile of immeasurable
warmth played across his mouth.

How many times had he rocked
Jamey during those three years of his life?