Hannah and the Highlander

by Sabrina York

  “Please.” He marveled at how easy it was to speak to her. Perhaps because she had the aura of a child, innocent and pure. And peaceful. It was easier with some people than others, he found.

  “Well?” She glanced at the key in his hand. It was only a hunk of metal. Surely it didn’t mean anything more than a means of opening a lock.

  Ah, but somehow it did.

  Alexander drew in a deep breath and fit the key into the lock. As though she understood his apprehension, Lana set her hand on his arm, bolstering him as it turned.

  It had been a long time and the mechanism stuck. It issued a grating whine as it gave.

  He pushed open the door. A familiar musty scent surrounded him. His knees locked, his gut clenched. He stood at the entrance staring in; it was dark, though not nearly as dark as his thoughts.

  The room was long, running the length of the wing, with windows facing the east and west. It reached up two stories high and had a balcony ringing the second floor. With the exception of the hearth and the draped windows, shelves marched along the walls. A thick mahogany desk dominated the far corner. Alexander did not look in that direction.

  The chamber was littered with filth. Old plates covered with desiccated food, tipped-over whisky bottles, tumblers strewn here and there. It looked exactly as it had all those years ago. As though Dermid would storm in and begin railing at any moment. As though he would bend a boy over that desk and proceed to bloody his back with a cane until one of them collapsed.

  Alexander hovered on the threshold, but Lana was not so tentative. She marched into the room and over to the east wall and whipped the curtains open. Sunlight flooded in. Dust motes danced on the bright skeins. Like a miracle, the shadows shrank. “Where shall we begin?” she asked.

  Alexander sucked in a breath, focused on his mission—books for Hannah—and stepped inside. “I do believe the histories are over here.” He led Lana to the right, away from the desk.

  “Ah, aye.” She studied the spines, running her fingers along them, stopping every now and again and then shaking her head. At length, she pulled out a thick and dusty volume and opened it, reading the table of contents. “This one looks verra dull.” She thrust it at him. “Hannah will love it.”

  She continued on, pulling book after book from the shelves. Many of them ended up in the growing pile in his arms. Histories, dramas, Shakespeare, and several of the scientific volumes, although, Lana averred, they were far too old to be really interesting.

  “That should do,” she said when his arms were piled high with tomes. “What do you—?” Her gaze locked on something on the far side of the room. Her eyes narrowed and her chin firmed.

  Alexander looked over his shoulder. There was nothing there. “What is it?” he asked.

  Lana nibbled her lip. Her eyes flickered from the corner to Alexander and back again. “It’s … nothing.”

  It wasn’t nothing. “Miss Dounreay?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I doona … like that man in the corner,” she said.

  Alexander glanced at the corner. The empty corner. He blinked. “Ah … What man?”

  “Och, the angry one.”

  A shudder rolled through Alexander. For nearly two decades, this room had been Dermid’s haunt. Even now, years after his death, the very air seemed to seethe with his vitriol.

  Incongruously, Lana laughed, a melodic trill. “Why is he so angry? Does he no’ know no one can hear him shouting?”

  “He’s … shouting?” Alexander’s eyes narrowed. Dermid had shouted. A lot. “What … does he look like, this shouting man?”

  “He’s verra tall, though not as tall as you. He’s quite ugly, though it’s mostly his scowl. And he’s got a red bulb of a nose.” She tittered another laugh. “He doesna like that I said that at all.”

  Saints have mercy. She’d described Alexander’s uncle to a T. Right down to the bulging proboscis. He’d killed a man for making fun of his nose once, just gored him with a dirk over dinner.

  “You … see him?” Bile swirled in Alexander’s gut. He’d always sensed, felt, his uncle’s presence in the castle, but he’d convinced himself it was only the memories that haunted him, not the man himself. That Dermid could be here, now, sickened him. The sudden urge to run possessed him. But he didn’t. He was a grown man, not a frightened boy.

  “Of course I see him. And hear him. Although who could ignore that racket?” She leaned in and whispered, as though in confidence, “The weak ones are always the loudest.”

  Alexander blinked. “The weak ones?” Weak was not a word he would ever use to describe his uncle. He’d been vicious and brutal … and strong. Strong enough to knock a boy from one end of this room to the other.

  She smiled at him, and again her eyes took on that faraway look, the one that seemed to pierce through all shadows. “He has no power over you. Not anymore, you know.”

  His heart stalled. His breath locked. Thoughts whirled. He has no power over you. Not anymore.

  “No one has power over you unless you grant it. Especially ghosts. Och, he thinks he does, but he doesna. That’s why he’s so angry.” She gave a little sniff, as though in response to something a bellowing ghost said. She fixed her attention on Alexander. “We should just ignore him.”

  He has no power over you.

  He has no power over you. Not anymore.

  The thought gushed through him in a wash of exultation. The claws of the past loosed their hold on his soul. He felt it in a wild rush of relief, release, and an odd brand of vindication. His head went light with a sudden rush of euphoria.

  His worst experiences had occurred in this room at the hand of a truly malicious man, but somehow, now, it was just a room. The desk was just a desk.

  The monster was just a man.

  Alexander glanced around the chamber again, studying each and every corner, each and every mote. If Lana was not completely insane, if she did, in fact, see ghosts, his uncle’s spirit was here, apparently ranting and raving and raging. Yet Alexander felt nothing. Not even a dribble of fear.

  He blew out a deep breath and gloried in the moment; then he turned to Lana with a smile. “Do you … often see ghosts in libraries?” he asked.

  She gusted a weary sigh. “Oh, everywhere.”

  “Do they often bellow?”

  “On the contrary, most of them are verra pleasant. I rather enjoy them. That one, though.” She waggled her fingers in Dermid’s direction. “That one I shall ignore.”

  “Excellent idea,” Alexander said with a chuckle. If anyone deserved to be ignored throughout eternity, it was Dermid Lochlannach.

  Dermid would have hated being ignored.

  “Are you ready to go?” Lana asked, taking several of the books from the top of Alexander’s pile, as though she could lighten his load. Oddly enough, she had.

  He grinned at her and lifted the books. “Do you think this will do?”

  “Oh, aye,” she said with a nod. “This will do verra well.”

  And as she closed the door on the library, he had the distinct impression she was not referring to the books.

  That very day, he gave orders to have the library thoroughly cleaned. Windows thrown open. Doors unlocked.

  It wouldn’t scour away his uncle’s fetid spirit, but at the very least, it would irritate the bastard.

  * * *

  The knock on the door was an annoyance. Hannah was busy. Far too busy to answer a door. She was pouting. Oh, she realized she was pouting—which was odd, because she’d never been much of a pouter. And she realized it was childish and pointless and probably a waste of time, but she was enjoying her martyrdom.

  She’d received a letter from her father and one from Susana and Isobel as well, which had gone a long way in easing her worry for them, but her anger at Alexander had not waned.

  At some point, she would need to speak to him, educate him, perhaps, on how to handle her, but she wasn’t ready yet. She wasn’t ready for the world to intrude on her misery, so she d
idn’t answer the door.

  The knocking persisted.

  It was probably Fergus with another letter. While she wasn’t in the mood to speak to anyone, she was in the mood to shred something, so she plodded to the door and opened it.

  It wasn’t Fergus.

  It was Alexander … which surprised her, because usually when he knocked on her door it was the one from the sitting room, where he could plead with her in relative privacy. It occurred to her that he’d tricked her by coming straight at her, rather than from the side. As a tactician, she appreciated his finesse. Still, upon the sight of him, she closed the door.

  Or she tried.

  His foot blocked the slam.

  He winced. “Hannah—”

  “Go away, Dunnet.” She made it a point to spit his title, so he would know she was using it on purpose.

  “I brought you books.”

  She stilled, noticing the pile in his arms for the first time. For some reason, the glimpse of his face—weary and wan—had blurred out everything else. With a frown, she focused on the spines of the books. One of them caught her attention, and then another. A sprig of interest burst through her melancholy.

  “May … I … come in?”

  Regarding him askance, she sniffed and opened the door wider. It was the books that lured her. Surely not the deep lines around his mouth or the tight set of his jaw. Though the smudges beneath his eyes were particularly concerning.

  He blew out a sigh as she stepped back, allowing him entrance. “Thank you. “I … Lana helped me choose them. I hoped … they would serve as an olive branch.”

  He held out his offering. An armful of books?

  She raked them with a disdainful gaze. “A library would have been better.”

  “It-it is available to you. At … your convenience.” This he said with a small bow. “Once … it’s been cleaned.”

  “Cleaned?” Who on earth didn’t clean a library? It was the most important room in any home.

  He didn’t respond to her squawk. He set the books on a table by the hearth and raked his fingers through his hair. She tried not to be distracted from her pique. His hair was tantalizing. Long and silky and inky black. Her fingers curled into a fist.

  She’d missed him these past few days, more than she’d ever imagined possible. She’d even considered breaking down and storming into his room in the dark of night. It took every ort of discipline she had, but she’d managed to resist.

  Now, in the power of his presence, her resistance flagged. She wanted to toss herself into his arms and kiss him. Crawl up his body, feel his warmth.

  She turned away.

  “Hannah…” His voice was low, resonant. “I’m sorry.”

  “So you said.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  She whirled back. “You should have notified me immediately.”

  “I realize that now.”

  “You shouldna have kept things from me.”

  “I agree.”

  “And for God’s sake, you shouldna have ordered your people to shut me out.”

  He blanched. “What? I did no such thing.”

  “They won’t let me do anything. Anything! Help with laundry? ‘Oh, no, my lady. You’re a baroness, my lady.’ Plan the meals? One would think I had suggested sedition against the Crown. I’m not even welcome in the stables when the mares are foaling.”

  He turned an odd shade of green. “Of course not. You’re a baroness!”

  She growled. “If I hear that again, I may be incited to violence.”

  He blinked. “I, ah … What do you want?”

  Honestly. How could he be so obtuse? “I want to be happy here.”

  It was a shaft to her heart, the bleakness that settled on his features. His body seemed to shrink in on itself. “You’re no’ happy here?”

  Oh, bother. She hadn’t meant it that way. She softened and stepped closer, set her hand on his arm. “I am happy, Alexander. With many things. But I’m not the kind of woman who can simply loll around and be. Even if I am being a baroness. I must have things to do. I must have responsibilities and chores and a say in the matters of the estate.”

  “I willna work my wife like a servant.”

  She issued a dismissive snort. “I was raised for this, Alexander. Trained for this. My entire life has been a preparation for managing lands. Do you understand? I can read and analyze reports, make orders on crop rotation, manage stock, conciliate disputes. I can certainly plan a meal or oversee wash day.”

  A peculiar look flickered over his face. “You like those things?”

  Oh dear heavens. “I love those things. I thrive on those things. This … sitting around and baronessing is driving me mad.”

  “I suppose … I could find some things for you to do.” His smile held a tinge of relief. She had the suspicion it was not only because they were coming to a meeting of the minds.

  “Do … do you enjoy those things?” she asked.

  He made a face and said in a small voice, “Not really.”

  “Why do you do them?”

  “I’m the laird.”

  “A laird can hire people, Alexander.”

  “Aye, but the onus is on me.”

  His tone made his position clear. Though he disliked much of the work that gobbled up his day, he did it because he didn’t want to burden others. There was probably the desire to maintain control in there as well. He did seem like something of a controlling sort, when it came to his lands. She recognized the same proclivity in herself.

  She crossed her arms and fixed a resolute expression on her face. “Well, now the onus is on us.”

  He stared at her, a cascade of emotions flickering across his features. “Us?”

  “We are a team. We work together to make a go of it. On everything. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “We shall spend the morning tending to the business of Dunnet … together.” Oh, she liked this idea. She liked it very much. He appeared to like it as well. His smile broadened. And then he chuckled. “What?” she asked.

  “Together? In my office?”

  Where else? “Of course.”

  “We likely willna get … much work done.” He pulled her into his arms and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away.

  She wouldn’t give in so easily. Not yet. “We still have the issue of your keeping things from me to discuss.”

  He put out a lip. “I apologized.”

  “That isna enough.”

  He frowned.

  “I require a promise from you.”

  “A promise?” The way he said it, one would think he’d never heard the word before.

  “A promise to talk to me.”

  His horrified expression made her chest ache. He stared at her in silence for a long while; his lips worked. And then, at long last, he lowered his head. “I doona like to talk.”

  She smiled softly. “I’ve noticed. But Alexander, we have to talk sometime.”

  He frowned. “I have … trouble speaking sometimes.” Naught but a murmur.

  Ah, lord. She cupped his cheek and made him meet her gaze. “I know.”

  “I doona want you to … think less of me.”

  Ach. As though she could. She shook her head. “I wouldna. Not ever.”

  “Sometimes it … takes a while for … the words to come.”

  She smiled encouragingly, brushed the bristle of his beard with her thumb. “I’ll wait.”

  His cheek bunched. He swallowed heavily. A glimmer appeared in his eye. “Hannah…”

  “Alexander, I doona care about any of that.” She took his hands in his. “I just want to talk to you. Promise me. Promise me that you will never again keep something from me. Nothing. Not even the tiniest thing.”

  He didn’t respond right away, though she could see the thoughts sifting through his mind. She waited. At long last, he nodded. “I … All right.”

  “You promise?”

  “I do. But Hannah…”

&nb
sp; She frowned. “What?”

  “There are … many tiny things. Boring things.”

  No doubt there were, but they would forge through the sea of details together. The thought elated her. “We shall begin working together in the morning. Oh, and rule number one, when you awake, you willna sneak off—”

  He bristled. “I never sneak.”

  “You willna sneak off without waking me first. And you shall do so with a kiss.”

  He complied immediately. The kiss was soft and sweet and nearly impossible to resist. Nearly. She pushed him away again. “And no more letters.” Her brow wrinkled. “At least, not in the morning. I doona mind the poems, but waking to a barked missive on my pillow is—”

  “I doona bark.”

  “You rather do, darling.” She patted him on the chest, a consolation. Why he stilled, why his muscles locked, was a mystery.

  “Did … you … just … call me darling?”

  Oh dear. She had. “Perhaps.”

  “Does that mean … you forgive me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He whipped her into his arms again and kissed her, this time with a savage passion. It occurred to her that if she allowed this to continue she might lose ground. So when he lifted his head she added, “If you agree to my terms of surrender.”

  “Och, aye, I do.”

  She evaded his questing mouth, so he settled on kissing her neck. It was rather scintillating, but somehow she retained the wherewithal to add, just to underscore her point, “And tomorrow we begin working together. We shall spend the morning in your office. Together.”

  His smile was a slow quirk, but he said, “Nae.”

  Aggravation dribbled through her. “What do you mean, nae?”

  “I have a better idea.” His expression was mischievous and lighthearted. It sent a gust of elation through her soul, a ripple of delight. He pulled her closer and she nestled against him, allowing his warmth to soak in.

  She tipped her head to the side and said in a teasing tone, “Is this the same idea you always have? The one that invariably leads to tangled limbs?”

  His chuckle rumbled through her. “Nae, Wife, but we could do that tomorrow instead, if you like. I was thinking of taking you on something of a wedding journey.”

  “Hmm. Tangled limbs indeed,” she teased.