Everlastin' Book 1 by Mickee Madden Page B

the napkin then placed it on the table. “Is your
husband a descendant of Tessa and Robert Ingliss?”
    The old woman let the
question simmer in her mind while she took several sips of her tea.
When she looked up, Beth was startled to see something darkly akin
to anguish in the faded blue eyes staring at her.
    “Ma boy's faither never
married me.”
    “Forgive me. I didn't mean
to pry.”
    Agnes shrugged it
off.
    “Are you a
descendant?”
    “Aye. I'm one o’ the cursed
clan. And how would you know abou' we Inglisses?”
    “A cabbie told me the
history of this house.”
    The old woman remained
silent for several long seconds, her attention on the contents of
her cup. One gnarled finger absently dipped in and out of the hot
liquid. When she looked up again, a pang of unease churned in
Beth's stomach.
    There was a strange
lambency in the ancient eyes watching her. Beth tried to attribute
it to the woman's age, but some deep inner sense told her there was
something very odd—almost haunting —about the cook.
    “Miss Carlene talked mair o’
you than much else. I understand, now. You've a good soul, but
that'll change if you stay here too long.”
    A chill curled up a Beth's
spine. She tried to smile, but her facial muscles were too tight.
It didn't help matters when a cold shriveled hand shot out and
clamped about her wrist. All of her willpower was necessary to not
pull away from the old woman.
    “Has Lannie molested
you?”
    A comical expression seized
Beth's features. “The ghost?”
    “Aye.”
    “I think...he-umm...looked
in on me the first night. All I could see was a green
mist.”
    “He'll come to you, as
pretty as you are. He's vile.”
    Beth tried not to appear
amused by the old woman's strangeness. “The ghost...he's going to
come and molest me?”
    “Listen to this old womon,
silly girl. Leave while you can. This house is cursed!” Her voice a
hoarse whisper, Agnes went on, “Lannie's the devil, himself. Get
ou' and don’t look back!”
    “Enough!”
    The deep voice boomed from
behind Beth, nearly causing her to jump out of her skin. She jerked
around to see Lachlan standing in front of a massive
fireplace.
    Agnes' hand turned to ice
before the coarse skin slipped over Beth's wrist and away. Beth
watched as the woman awkwardly rose from her chair and stepped away
from the table, her watery gaze riveted on Lachlan.
    Inexplicably, Beth's stomach
knotted.
    “Tis rude to fill the lass's
head wi' nonsense, you old corbie!” he scolded Agnes as he crossed
the room and came to stand at Beth's left elbow. “Tis late morn.
Return to yer family and be mindin' yer own affairs.”
    Beth couldn't take her eyes
off of Agnes's deathly pale face. There was fear there but also a
hatred so fierce, Beth felt it to the core of her being. Anger
erupted in Beth, overwhelming and so wretchedly vile, she could do
nothing but quake in its throes.
    Agnes snorted contemptuously
at Lachlan. “I've the kitch—”
    “It'll wait.”
    Agnes looked down at Beth
with a silent plea. But the laird's piercing dark eyes could be
felt on her soul. Releasing a raspy sigh, she patted Beth on the
shoulder and shuffled off in the direction of the
kitchen.
    “You must forgive the
meddlin' old fool, Beth.”
    Fighting down the threat of
nausea, Beth weakly rose to her feet. Every nerve in her body
seemed to be on fire. Her face flushed, her eyes as bright as
sapphires, she forced back her shoulders in a gesture of
defiance.
    “How dare you talk to her
like that,” she managed, glaring at Lachlan.
    A look of scolding darkened
his countenance. “The bletherin' womon was abou' to fill yer head
wi'—”
    “Who are you to interfere
with what is said around here?”
    A mocking smile touched the
chiseled mouth. Beth became immediately disoriented. It was as if
something had vacuumed her anger and replaced it with an
intoxicating consciousness of his virile configuration. Standing so
close to him now, she couldn't help but notice how