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Hannah and the Highlander

Page 24

by Sabrina York


  Caithness seemed disinclined to speak. He spent long moments rearranging the lace at his cuffs. Alexander saw this for what it was. A ploy to make him nervous. It didn’t work.

  Though his gut churned, he leaned back in his chair and set his features in a deferential arrangement. When Fergus scratched at the door with a tray of whisky, he accepted a tumbler and sipped it. Long after his factor left, the duke remained silent, his drink ignored. Alexander tried not to let his annoyance simmer. He focused on the burn of his whisky and the sunlight shafting through the window. He glanced at the shelves and pondered which book his wife might read next.

  If Caithness wanted a war of no words, so be it. Alexander was a past master at that game.

  When the duke finally spoke, it was almost a surprise. His voice, with that cold British accent, snaked through the room on a sibilant whisper. “I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you, Dunnet.”

  Though the words hit him and hit him hard, Alexander forced a blasé smile and quirked a brow. “Disappointed, Your Grace?”

  “First, your failure to respond to my order for the Clearances of Dunnet.”

  “I did respond. My answer was nae.”

  “It is your obligation to obey me.”

  “My obligation is to my people. They depend on us—on you and me—to protect them.” He leaned forward. “It is our sacred oath, passed to us by our ancestors.”

  This seemed to befuddle the duke. He stared at Alexander without reply. So he continued.

  “It is my position that these Improvements will destroy the county. As they are destroying Scotland.”

  The duke fluffed his lace and offered a petulant frown. “It is my position that I need the funds.”

  Hope flared. This was the opening Alexander needed. “You … need the funds?” There was money in the Dunnet treasury. It was for emergencies, but if there ever was one this was it. If it proved necessary, Alexander was willing to use the money, every penny, to buy them some time.

  “It is my intention to renovate Caithness Castle before … Well, as soon as I can.”

  Alexander’s hope deflated. The Dunnet treasury was healthy but not healthy enough to renovate that pile of stones. Still, he asked, “How much do you need?”

  “This conversation is beside the point.”

  Alexander could have planted one in Dougal’s face. At his interruption Caithness seemed to recall himself. His resolution firmed. “True. True. The point of this conversation is my disappointment with you, Dunnet.”

  “Your Grace, surely you see that the Clearances—”

  “I refer to the other source of my disappointment, Dunnet.” Judging from Caithness’ tone, it was a greater source of disappointment, although Alexander couldn’t fathom what it might be.

  “Your Grace?”

  Caithness lanced him with a sharp blue stare. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear of it?”

  “Hear of what, Your Grace?”

  “Your treason,” the duke’s man snapped.

  A lead weight settled in Alexander’s belly. Hell.

  Caithness sent his minion a quelling glance, and then he turned back to Alexander, his expression harsh. “I really liked you, Dunnet. Silly of me, but I thought on some level we were cut from the same cloth.”

  Where on earth had he gotten that impression?

  “I thought you, of all my lairds, would be loyal.”

  “I am loyal.”

  Dougal snorted.

  “I’m not a fool. I know Stafford has been courting my barons. When I heard about your meeting with his son, I was wounded. Wounded to the core.” He set his hand to his heart. Where his lace cascaded in a snowy waterfall over his coat.

  Alexander swallowed heavily. “That was a chance meeting at an inn. There was no discussion of politics. And it doesna signify. I have no intention of joining with Stafford.”

  “That’s not what Olrig said—”

  “Olrig?” Alexander nearly came out of his skin. Fury lashed him.

  “Is it true or is it not that you called a meeting of my barons to plead with Olrig and Scrabster to side with Stafford?”

  “Nae. It most certainly is not.”

  Caithness seemed surprised by Alexander’s denial. His eyes widened.

  “That’s not what Olrig said.” Dougal again.

  Ah, fury. Alexander had always been wary of his temper, wary of becoming like his uncle, but at the moment he had no control. It raked him with scorching claws. He leaped to his feet and planted his fists on the desk. “Olrig is a stinking pig.”

  Though Dougal leaped back, Caithness was undaunted. He studied his nails. “Is that why you beat him up? Or did you beat him to a pulp because he opposed your plot?”

  Oh. Holy. God. Olrig was worse than a stinking pig. He was a lying stinking pig. “It isna my plot—”

  “Ah, so you admit your involvement?”

  Really. Dougal needed to be silenced. For his own safety.

  “Nae. I doona.” Alexander’s growl rumbled on the skeins of air. Even Caithness was taken aback by his vehemence. “Regardless of what you have been told, I have never even considered siding with Stafford. Olrig is another matter entirely. In fact, he is the one who approached me.”

  The duke sat back and considered this information. Alexander was hopeful that his vehemence had convinced Caithness, but there was a hint of doubt in his eye. As he thought, he drummed his fingers on the desk. It was oddly reminiscent of the way Dermid would drum his fingers on the desk. Alexander attempted to ignore the similarities. “You say you are my loyal man.”

  “Aye. I am.” And the duke had few left, it seemed.

  “Well then, my loyal man, surely you will have no difficulty acceding to my wishes.”

  “Your … wishes?”

  His gaze hardened. “Consider it an ultimatum, if you will.”

  Alexander’s blood went cold. A slither of unease snaked through his veins. “And that is?”

  “You shall clear your land, or I will strip you of your title and your property. It is as simple as that.”

  Alexander’s gut clenched and clenched hard. His breath froze in his lungs. His pulse rushed in his ears.

  Clearly, he’d misheard the duke.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Caithness’ features tightened, his chin jutted forward. “Clear your land or I shall have the new baron clear it for you.”

  Ach, aye. That was what he thought he’d heard.

  Alexander collapsed in his seat and stared at the duke through burning eyes. Never in his life had he been so stunned. So devastated. So speechless.

  He was Dunnet. He always had been, and he’d assumed he would be until the day he died.

  And now this.

  Now he was forced to make an unimaginable decision. Destroy everything he loved or lose everything he was.

  Either way, he would no longer be Laird of Dunnet. Because if he cleared the land he would be naught but the laird of a herd of sheep.

  Either way, his people were lost. He had failed them utterly.

  But beyond his horror, beyond his shock, one thought winged through his mind.

  How on earth was he going to tell Hannah? How could he survive losing her respect? Her love?

  Her?

  She had married a baron, a powerful warrior who could protect her and her people. How could he hope to keep her if he was a nothing more than a shell of that man?

  * * *

  Hannah shook. With fury, of a certainty, but with outrage as well. Perched in the gallery overlooking the library, she’d heard every word of Alexander’s interview with the revolting Duke of Caithness and decided that she really didn’t like him very much at all. He was a cold, stubborn, stupid man. And a popinjay to boot.

  But as odious as the duke was, his minion was worse. It had taken everything in her not to reel out of her hiding place and rain hell down upon the man as he battered Alexander with accusation after accusation.

  Her husband, she decided,
was a saint. He’d only bellowed once. Or maybe twice. He hadn’t pummeled anyone. Through it all, he’d managed to retain his composure.

  Hannah, not so much.

  Even now she wanted to find the duke and smack some sense into him. But she feared it was too late. For sense.

  After Caithness’ proclamation, Alexander had spun from the library without a word. Hannah had directed Fergus to show the visitors to their rooms, because she couldn’t bear to face them and she suspected her husband was far too overwrought to think of it. Indeed, he’d disappeared. Hannah had searched for him everywhere and could find neither hide nor hair of him. He hadn’t been in the tower or his bedroom or in the stables. His horse was gone, though, so she assumed Alexander had gone for a ride to clear his head.

  She wanted, needed, to speak with him. Worry for him wracked her.

  She couldn’t imagine what he was going through, being commanded to give up everything he believed in—or lose everything that mattered.

  Och, just thinking of it again made her furious. She stormed through the bailey and headed for the terrace overlooking the sea, to the one view that always calmed her.

  How naïve they’d been, she’d been, to think they could reach such an obdurate man. Nothing could reach him. She was certain of it.

  She passed through the arbor and turned onto the terrace and stopped short.

  Oh, bother.

  He was there. Leaning against the balustrade and staring out at the bay. Wreathed in lace. Perhaps if she backed away quietly—

  But no. He saw her and straightened.

  Hannah blew out a breath and stepped forward, ignoring his little bow. She saw it for what it was, a pointless gesture.

  “Lady Dunnet.”

  “Your Grace.” She tried not to spit the words. Really, she did. She was still shaking with ire over the conversation she’d witnessed. “Have you … settled in?”

  “Ah. Yes.”

  “And your accommodations are to your liking?” They had housed the duke’s party in the east wing. His Grace’s rooms were opulent and grand, indeed fit for a king. Though they were, by far, the finest in the castle, Hannah understood why Alexander had not taken them as his own, as they had once belonged to his uncle. Her and Alexander’s suite was situated in the west wing, far away from old ghosts.

  “The rooms are comfortable. Thank you.”

  “Excellent.” She wound her fingers together. It was a challenge holding a civil conversation with a person one wanted to throttle. With all her heart, she wished he would return to England and never come back. “Well,” she gusted. “I suppose I should see about dinner—”

  “Lady Dunnet. A moment if I may?”

  She fought back a grimace. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to this man.

  “Certainly.”

  “I, ah, have a question about your husband.”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. She didn’t like the duke’s tone in the slightest.

  Was there a capital punishment for smacking one’s overlord? Probably.

  Pity, that.

  When he seemed disinclined to continue, she prompted him with a cold, “Aye?” Although encouraging the conversation was probably unwise.

  “Something has been perplexing me.”

  “Aye?”

  “When I met your husband in Ackergill, he seemed like a reasonable man.”

  “He is a reasonable man.”

  “Yes. Of course he is.” The man’s crisp English accent was starting to grate on her nerves. Hannah tried very hard not to grit her teeth. “He didn’t seem like a man who was prone to disloyalty—”

  “Alexander is the most loyal man you will ever have the good fortune to meet.”

  “Or violence—”

  “He is as gentle as a lamb.”

  The duke ignored her interjections. She was not surprised. When one was exceedingly stubborn, one recognized the same in others.

  “Yet he battered Olrig—”

  “Olrig deserved it.”

  “And he met with Stafford’s son to foment insurrection.”

  “Nonsense. Dunnet explained that was a chance meeting.”

  The duke’s sharp gaze landed on her. “How do you know this?”

  Hannah gulped, realizing her mistake at once—she’d been excluded from the discussion. She should have no knowledge of what had transpired. She decided to be truthful because she didn’t want Caithness to labor under the misapprehension that Alexander had scurried back to her telling tales. Aside from which, she no longer cared much what this man thought of her. She tipped up her chin. “I was eavesdropping.”

  For some reason this made him smile. She disliked his smile. It was far too charming and she wasn’t in the mood to be charmed. “Do you eavesdrop often, Lady Dunnet?”

  “As often as I need to.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. His smile widened and irritation trickled through her. She tried to hold her tongue, but the urge to take him down a peg overwhelmed her. Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “And frankly, you werena fair in the least.”

  Caithness’ eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You dinna give Alexander a chance to explain his side. For heaven’s sake, you have a handful of loyal barons left, Dunnet and my father to name two, and this is how you treat them? Given that and this”—she waved disdainfully at his person—“it is no wonder your lairds are turning to Stafford.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean … this?”

  “Your costume.”

  He tugged on his waistcoat. “Whatever is wrong with my costume?”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. “You are wearing lace.”

  “It is the fashion in London.”

  “Aye,” she snarled. “But ye are no’ in London. This is Scotland, where men dress like men.”

  “This is perfectly manly.” He fluttered a frilly cuff.

  She nearly snorted. “Ye should try wearing a kilt when you meet with your lairds.”

  “How on earth would that help?”

  “They would see you as one of them, a Scottish laird, rather than as an English lord.”

  He frowned. “I am an English lord.”

  “Aye. And therein lies the problem. You’ve spent your life in another country, another world. You know nothing of Scotland, of our way of life. What we value, what we deplore. How can you lead men you doona understand? How can you expect them to follow? How can you demand their loyalty?”

  “I’m … the duke.” A simple statement, one wreathed in his hubris and naivety. But there was, threaded in it, a hint of contemplation. Then the glimmer flitted away and his expression darkened. “You say your husband remains loyal to me?”

  “Aye. He is.”

  “Yet he has refused my order to clear the land.”

  “Aye.”

  He barked a laugh; it held little humor. “In the face of that evidence, how on earth can you insist he is a loyal man?”

  “Because he is loyal. To his people. To his home. To his title. As baron he is responsible for making sure the clachans doona starve in the winter. He’s responsible for making sure the clans doona fight. He’s responsible for keeping his people safe from all threats. And this, Your Grace, is a threat. If you had any idea what horror and desolation the Clearances have wrought, you would never command them. No man with a heart and a soul would.”

  A muscle in his cheek bunched and Hannah wondered if she’d gone too far. But she hardly cared. There was nothing left to lose.

  “You realize every lord in London has ordered them. Are you implying the House of Lords is soulless?” Infuriatingly, his eyes danced with humor. Humor.

  “Aye,” she snapped. “It is easy for English lords to clear the land. They doona care. They doona see the impact this policy has on people. On families. On children. Why, there are twenty Clearance orphans living here—”

  “Clearance orphans?”

  “Children. Babies. Orphaned when their crofts were cleared.” When the confusio
n still clung to his features, she added, “The children of the people killed in the course of these Improvements.”

  The duke shook his head, a refusal of the cold, hard facts.

  Anger and frustration swelled. Hannah forced it down. If she was to be the voice of reason here, if she had any chance of convincing him of the sheer immorality of his plans, she needed to remain calm and rational. It cost her, but she drew in a deep breath and said, “For example, Fiona’s mother was evicted from her home in the winter. She and her newborn and the wee lass of five. When she refused to leave, they set her home on fire. Destitute and starving, she brought her family here. She died at the gates, and her baby with her.”

  The duke made a slash of denial with his hand. “A woman with small children tossed out in the snow? That could not have happened.”

  “It did happen.”

  “Her tale must have been embroidered. No man in good conscience would burn a woman out of her home.”

  Hannah snorted. “Yet there are hundreds of like stories. Hundreds.”

  His chin firmed. “Those were brutal men. Our Clearances will be orderly. No one will be harmed. I promise. On my honor.”

  “Still, even if they are not harmed, where will they go?”

  He shrugged. “To the cities, I suppose.”

  “To live in filth and squalor? Having left everything they know behind? With nothing to sustain them? Only imagine how devastating that would be to one person. One family. Much less an entire parish. The county. How many souls are you willing to sacrifice for your profit?”

  This question made him visibly uncomfortable. Hannah didn’t care. She pressed on.

  “Your Grace. You are a powerful man. You have the ability to make a difference. Your decision will affect thousands of lives—”

  “Surely not thousands.”

  “Thousands. Because you are creating a legacy here. One that will ring through the ages long after you and I are gone.” He paled. His fingers clenched. She thought she might be reaching him, but whether she was or not, she had to continue. “Your one decision can save your homeland, or destroy it. Please.” She set her hand on his arm. “Please think about it.”

  Hannah’s heart lifted as a flurry of emotions flicked over his face. She thought he might be softening, thought he might be willing to relent, just a little. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a harsh voice rang out from the garden.

 

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