heartstrings.
Briefly, on more than one occasion that day, he wished he could
just once feel her solidity, but he'd been forced to abandon such
thoughts when he surprisingly found himself aroused. Not exactly a
pleasant condition for a man who only had sex with a woman twice in
his life. And that had been with the same woman—one of his
teachers—the night before and the day of his twentieth birthday.
Although the physical experience had been enlightening and pleasant
enough, the mental assault of her too-vivid fantasies during the
exchange had shocked him.
Sex with apes? She'd imagined him to be three of the massive
beasts, all lusty and ravishing her repeatedly.
The memory not only elicited
a soft grimace, but caused his mouth to go dry.
He longingly eyed the empty
teapot on the mantelpiece.
Something stronger was
definitely in order.
He glanced at the
gold-rimmed face of his black, leather-band wristwatch. Four
forty-seven.
Late enough for a
nightcap.
Leaving his room, he
casually ambled down the hall. The gas wall lamps were already lit,
the orange glow softening the contours of the passageway. He made a
left toward the staircase then found himself opening a door. The
change in placement left him disoriented. Seemingly of its own
volition, his hand pushed the door inward. Before really looking
beyond the threshold, he glanced behind him at the steep, narrow,
descending stairwell. Heaving a breath, he narrowed his gaze at
what was before him.
His brief fear that he'd
been displaced back in the past was dispelled when he viewed an
attic. Soft flickering light graced the room.
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.
Briefly, on more than one occasion that day, he wished he could
just once feel her solidity, but he'd been forced to abandon such
thoughts when he surprisingly found himself aroused. Not exactly a
pleasant condition for a man who only had sex with a woman twice in
his life. And that had been with the same woman—one of his
teachers—the night before and the day of his twentieth birthday.
Although the physical experience had been enlightening and pleasant
enough, the mental assault of her too-vivid fantasies during the
exchange had shocked him.
Sex with apes? She'd imagined him to be three of the massive
beasts, all lusty and ravishing her repeatedly.
The memory not only elicited
a soft grimace, but caused his mouth to go dry.
He longingly eyed the empty
teapot on the mantelpiece.
Something stronger was
definitely in order.
He glanced at the
gold-rimmed face of his black, leather-band wristwatch. Four
forty-seven.
Late enough for a
nightcap.
Leaving his room, he
casually ambled down the hall. The gas wall lamps were already lit,
the orange glow softening the contours of the passageway. He made a
left toward the staircase then found himself opening a door. The
change in placement left him disoriented. Seemingly of its own
volition, his hand pushed the door inward. Before really looking
beyond the threshold, he glanced behind him at the steep, narrow,
descending stairwell. Heaving a breath, he narrowed his gaze at
what was before him.
His brief fear that he'd
been displaced back in the past was dispelled when he viewed an
attic. Soft flickering light graced the room.
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.
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