Time Everlastin' Book 5 (37 page)

"Tis true. Ma existence
caused her misery. Caused a rift atween her and ma
faither—"

"Guin wasna your da!" came a
sharp voice from the hall doorway.

Startled, Lachlan dropped
the journal. It bounced off the rim of his boot and landed in the
hearth. Reith dashed to rescue it, but the dry pages were too quick
to ignite, and he abandoned the attempt, stood and scanned the
stunned faces in the room.

An oppressive silence
thickened the air. Taryn was the first to move, Deliah and Winston
next, in unison, to retrieve their son. Her arms free, Taryn
staggered to a position between Broc and Lachlan, her glazed eyes
flitting between the statuesque men.

"Broc?" she
choked.

Roan stood with a twin in
each arm. Those sitting, rose, gawking, mouths opened in silent
denial. Reith stood to Blue's side, the only one not surprised by
Broc's appearance or his statement.

Broc advanced into the room,
his eyes locked with Lachlan's, his back inordinately straight. "In
the beginnin', yer mither wrote abou' her expectations wi' the mon
she was to marry, and later, how the adorin', gentle Guin who had
courted her, became the cruel mon she lay wi' each night. She wrote
o' her hopes for her sons, then o' her helplessness to teach them
there was mair to life than business. Than greed."

Broc took another step
toward Lachlan. "Abou' the middle o' her journal, she wrote o' one
fateful journey to visit kin on the Outer Hebrides. She didna go
into details abou' tha' two weeks she vanished at the standin'
stones. She didna have to for me to understand her reference to B
and K, and the magical world she claimed she dreamt abou' afore she
left the isle.

"She wrote abou' ye,
Lachlan, born eight an' a half months on, and her fear I would take
ye below wi' me, should I ken ye existed. Years later, she wrote
she brought ye to the inn, for her guilt at hidin' yer true
identity haunted her. When ye snuck ou' to the site on yer own, she
thought ye forever lost. But I didna ken ye were there. Karok, no
doubt, but I, no."

Another step brought Broc
two arm's-lengths away. "I always believed Ciarda despised me for
seducin' her, for seduce her, I did, so desperate was I to hold a
womon at tha' time. She happened on the site one night when I was
free to ride the land. Karok, sensing ma interest, carried her
below."

Broc swallowed convulsively.
"Tha' first week, we talked abou' everythin' imaginable...and some
things unimaginable. I didna touch her. No' in tha' way. But it did
happen. Several times. All these years...these years, I...couldna
justify havin' her, especially efter Karok snatched her from ma
arms while we slept thegither, and I never saw her again. I lived
wi' the belief I had ruined her. Had...dishonored her."

Broc abruptly stood before
the hearth, staring into the lapping flames. "She wrote in tha'
journal she often wondered how the ‘dream mon' was, but like all
dreams, he was best forgotten. Her life—however painful it be—was
her hope she could one day sway her ither sons from their da's
influence."

Closing his eyes and shaking
his head during on onslaught of memories, he went on, "So long ago,
yet so vivid in ma mind. Her last entry..." He looked up and met
Lachlan's brooding eyes. "...was tha' she regretted her silence,
her secret, but ye were best kept from me.

"When I finished readin' her
journal, I was angry. So bloody angry. I had a son wha' lived and
died afore I knew o' his existence. I thought the Lachlan Taryn
mentioned, a descendent, till just afore I left Karok's realm on
the night o' the intended sacrifice. Twas the reason for ma
animosity toward ye. I saw no recognition in yer eyes, whilst I
knew ye, felt ye in ma heart afore I came above and we first
met."

Broc flexed his fingers then
rested a palm over his heart. "There be no good time to reveal
maself afore now."

Lachlan half-circled Broc,
his gaze raking him over from his bare feet, clean kilt and linen
shirt, to the hair he had chopped shoulder-length, to his
clean-shaven face.

In size and build and
features, they were as identical as mirror images.

"Lachlan," Broc said in a
guttural plea, "say somethin'."

Lachlan staggered back, his
face the color of chalk, his mouth but a thin, compressed line.
Without warning, he ran from the room and down the hall, slamming
the outer doors as he escaped into the night.

Trembling, Broc looked to
Taryn for understanding. If possible, she was paler than Lachlan,
her eyes clouded with something he couldn't define.

She, too, ran from the room
and disappeared up the wide staircase.

Needing to break the
suffocating silence, Broc looked at the others and proudly
announced, "I dinna belong here. I'll find ma own way in this
world."

He was stalking toward the
door when a blur of motion stopped him. His vision zoomed in beyond
the angry features of the Faerie queen, to the blue and gold
iridescent wings flapping in agitation at her back. She slapped a
palm to his chest then none-too-gently tapped him on chin, drawing
his attention to her face.

"You can't ignite a bomb and
not expect an adverse reaction!" she snapped.

"Bomb?"

"A thing that goes
boom!"

Broc glanced at the hand
stuck fast to his chest. His gaze crept up slowly, warily,
questioning how far she would go to stop him from leaving the
house. "Mayhaps," he murmured, and scowled hang doggedly. "I didna
ken how to tell them any differently."

Her restricting hand lowered
and her wings relaxed. "I know, Broc, but running now isn't the
answer. Taryn and Lachlan need time to let your revelation sink
in."

"To wha' end?"

"Don't you think you should
wait and find out?"

"There be mair, and now tha'
this much has been revealed, I canna hope the rest will be accepted
any better."

"I know," Blue said, her
tone causing a chill to caress his skin.

"No, ye dinna—"

"Broc, I
know."

More than ever, he wanted to
run. To run and hide from these people of Baird House, the fairies,
and the last secret he had hoped was as dead as the kith and kin of
his village.

"Broc—"

"Twas never ma intention to
sire a child," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"I know who you are. Don't
you think it's time you knew the whole truth?"

Sickly, he shook his
head.

"You think Lachlan should be
denied his true heritage as well?"

"How can he accept wha' I
canna?"

Blue gave a low laugh.
"Well, hey, I'm only a three hundred-year-old fairy queen. Maybe I
don't know everything, but it's a safe bet I've been around long
enough to be considered a fair judge of character."

Despite his misgivings, a
smile cracked through his control. "Aye, Yer Grace."

Her attention riveted on his
hair and she chuckled as she slipped the fingers of one hand
through it. "Come with me."

"To where?"

"My world."

"No!"

"Broc," she chided, and
flicked a finger at his hair. "This is a hack job. Straight razor,
right?"

Crimson seeped into his
face. ‘Aye, but—"

"We'll fix your hair, then
you and I will have a nice talk."

Again, wariness crept into
his expression. "Talk?"

"Come along," she laughed,
and pulled him from the room.

Standing in front of the
fireplace, Reith sighed, "Poor mon."

Roan chuckled. "Nice talk?
He's likely to return wi' bells on his toes."

Chapter 19

A cold mist fell upon the
land, lending a surrealistic ambiance to the night. To brace
himself against the dampness trying to permeate his bones, Broc
folded his arms against his chest, and sat on the top step of the
gazebo. The eves protected him against the drizzle but not the
chill.

Karok's realm had been a
relatively quiet place. No so at Baird House. In the distance, dogs
barked and howled. Vehicles traveled the road, blocked from his
view by foliage. Peafowl crooned, now and then releasing a
horrendous screech, of which he was sure he would never become
accustomed. Yet, it was quieter here than inside the manor. It had
been over two hundred years since he'd heard the laughter and
shouts of children, and the rambunctious boys would take some
getting used to.

Everything in this existence
would take some getting used to.

Visiting Faerie would be a
memory he would treasure. Intimidating at first, what with flying
beings gathering to meet the "latest" addition to Baird House, and
his mind trying to grasp the fact that he and Blue had walked
inside the great oak near the carriage house. Walked in as if the
trunk were but an illusion.

True to her word, Blue
instructed one of her maidens to properly cut his hair, after
which, the "talk" ensued. To his immense relief, she had not
foisted imperial dictates, or scolded his actions in the parlor. To
his surprise, she not only understood what had motivated him, but
was compassionate and generous in her endeavors to help him
understand his true lineage. And knowing the truth explained much,
but also strengthened his belief his son would shun him all the
more.

Broc left Faerie with the
distinct impression Blue had lived through a harrowing experience
herself, something that, although he did hint at her revealing her
history, never came to pass. All he knew about the fairy queen was
that she loved bacon, refused to acknowledge her love for her
husband, and was grandly admired by her people.

"One day at a time," she had
told him.

He understood the concept.
Leaving Karok's realm had taken its toll, but he had left believing
he and Taryn and—eventually—his son, would have a bright future
together. Blue was confident they would come around. He wasn't so
sure. The thought of approaching them left a sour taste in his
mouth, and a nauseating tightening in his gut.

Time wasn't the problem.
Rejection was.

He could survive in this
century, but the prospect of doing so alone was not to his
liking.

A warbled coo wrenched him
from his reverie. His eyebrows lifted and a smile cracked through
the taut muscles at the sight of a peacock eyeing him from the
bottom step. The smile vanished, however, when the bird's beady
eyes struck him as being unnaturally intense in their scrutiny,
seeming to stare and dissect his soul.

"Ye must be Braussaw," he
mused aloud. "Ma Braussaw has four legs. Wha' do you think o'
tha'?"

Braussaw ruffled his
feathers then fanned his magnificent tail, cocked his head, and
strutted off into the mist, disappearing into shadowed pockets of
shrubbery.

Broc sighed, and shivered.
He should return inside. His frayed linen shirt, kilt and hide
boots, were not adequate covering. He should return inside, but he
wasn't yet prepared to face the others.

An image appeared in his
mind, startling him. He closed his eyes and brought the delicate
features into sharper focus, somehow comforted by her
presence.

"Ciarda. I thought I'd
forgotten yer face."

She smiled and his chill
lessened.

"Ye wouldna be proud o' how
I handled our son. He's a fine mon. The best o' us, I believe. But,
och, I didna think before I leapt into proclaimin' ma
parentage."

Her image melted away and he
found himself staring into the night, his shoulders burdened with
sorrow.

He was grateful Blue had
stopped him from leaving the estate. Pride was seldom a reliable
referee. How much time should he wait for Taryn and Lachlan to
adjust? Lachlan's reaction he understood. Taryn's, he did
not.

Did her disappointment lie
in learning he was a father, or specifically in that he was
Lachlan's father?

What difference did it
make?

Or was she using it as an
excuse to get out of a relationship that, now at the Baird estate,
she realized wasn't for her?

Bone weary of juggling
thoughts, Broc lowered his head and raked his fingers through his
hair, capping the back of his skull.

He recalled the look of
shock on Reith's face when he entered Taryn's room and saw the
beardless Broc for the first time. That should have been a strong
indication of how the others would respond.

"Bloody foolish," he
muttered, roughly kneading his scalp. "If I could go back a day.
Start this acquaintin' anew. Think afore I shocked the bowels ou'
o' everyone."

"That's a gross image,"
chuckled a soft voice.

Broc's head shot around.
Standing midway across the gazebo was Taryn, her hands clasped
behind her.

"The bowel bit," she added
nervously, and approached. "Mind if I join you?"

Swallowing the effusion of
spit that gathered in his mouth, he nodded and watched her sit next
to him, her gaze trained on her lap.