Lana and the Laird

by Sabrina York

  He didn’t know why the dream affected him like this every time—because he’d had it for years. He should be used to it by now.

  But each time was as powerful, as dreadful as the first.

  It took a moment for him to realize he wasn’t at home in his bed, but in the stable loft, surrounded by a handful of snoring compatriots. To his surprise, dawn was breaking.

  It was a rare thing that he slept the night through. And this night there had been no visitation. Perhaps being away from the castle had muted the ghost. If so, he might never return to the pile of stones on the Ackergill cliffs.

  But the dream still haunted him.

  It always did.

  He untangled himself from his blankets with care so as not to wake the others, and made his way down the ladder and into the stable yard. He took a moment to appreciate the glow of morning sunlight as it eased over the tor. The air was fresh and crisp and birds trilled in the trees. The countryside was sleepy and calming.

  Quite a departure from mornings in London, which were often dreary, chaotic, and cloaked in sooty fog. Lachlan found he quite liked it.

  Still staring at the bucolic scene, he shoved his hands into his pockets and meandered into the inn, where the smell of cooking bacon and eggs stirred his hunger. The innkeeper’s wife met him with a smile and a steaming cup of coffee, which was like ambrosia. And then she set a plate before him. She stood over him as he picked up his fork, watching with glimmering eyes. He made a point of moaning, although it was hardly a challenge. The food was delicious.

  “Do ye like it?” she asked, wringing her hands.

  “It is excellent.”

  “Och, I am so relieved, Your Grace. We’re so pleased to have you here. Not often we get a duke.”

  “I imagine.” There were not many floating about. At least, not in the wilds of Scotland.

  “’Twas a kind thing you did last night,” she said. “Giving up your rooms for that puir wee mam.”

  “And how is she this morning?”

  The woman’s eyes twinkled. “There’s three in yer room now, Your Grace.”

  “Ah. She had her child.”

  “Aye. I’m surprised you dinna hear the howling in the stables.”

  Lachlan chuckled. “Not a peep.” He’d heard nothing. No howling. No wailing. No clinking of chains. It had been wonderful. He should probably sleep in the stables more often.

  “Well,” she gusted. “They are naming him after you.”

  The cup stalled halfway to his lips as a shard of pain lanced him. Or maybe it wasn’t pain. Maybe it was something else. “After me?”

  “Aye.” Her expression faltered. “Ye doona mind, do ye?”

  “Ah, no. Of course not. That is lovely.”

  Lovelier than he could ever have imagined. He’d long ago accepted the fact that no child would be named after him. It was a gift he’d never expected.

  So when the new father came down the stairs—looking exhausted, but beaming from ear to ear—Lachlan couldn’t help but slip the man a handful of coins. A gift in return. But again, the man’s gratitude made him uncomfortable. Lachlan was a wealthy man by accident of birth, not because of anything he had done. It was painful to know such a small gesture on his part could make a huge difference for someone else. Because he very rarely made them.

  When Dougal joined him at the table, they ate and quickly left. Lachlan made up some excuse about needing to get on the road, but that was far from true. He simply needed to escape all the good wishes. They made him feel far too raw.

  The storm hit around midday of the second day, forcing Lachlan inside. As the carriage hied to the north, he remained silent, mulling over his experiences at the inn in Howe. It occurred to him, that as duke, he could do so much more for his vassals than he had. Indeed, he’d spent most of his life carousing in London, trying to pack as much pleasure into his days as he could, knowing they were numbered. Although, upon reflection, there hadn’t been much pleasure. Simply a string of overindulgences and a litany of things he thought a duke should do. Like balls and house parties and attempting to curry the favor of the British nobles—most of whom looked down their noses at a Scottish lord. He’d spent little time doing the things he actually enjoyed, like working with his horses.

  It was a shame he hadn’t made better choices. It was a shame he hadn’t had the sense to break free of the constraints of his station.

  It was a shame there wasn’t more time to make up for it.

  He certainly had enjoyed bringing a little pleasure into the life of a man and his wife. And it had been a simple thing to do.

  And they were naming their son after him—

  “Are you all right?”

  Dougal’s query startled him. Lachlan shifted his attention from the passing scenery onto his cousin. “I’m fine.”

  “You seem moody. Did you sleep all right?”

  “I slept fine.” He had. Odd that. Even the dream hadn’t bothered him as much as it usually did. In fact, it had left him feeling … excited. He didn’t know why.

  “We should be in Rester soon.” Dougal leveled him with a playful glower. “Do try not to give up your rooms.”

  Lachlan chuckled.

  “We will get a good night’s sleep there, and then it is a short ways to Lochlannach Castle.” Dougal’s expression firmed. “This way, you can have your meeting with Dunnet not having traveled all day.”

  A good plan. But Dougal’s mentioning of it re-woke the burn of Lachlan’s prickling irritation with his baron. It soured his pleasant mood.

  That Dunnet could be in league with Stafford—his mortal enemy—that he intended to incite treason among his loyal barons, ate at Lachlan’s soul. He’d been warned of the treasonous ways of the Scots, but truly, deep in his heart, he hadn’t thought Dunnet capable of stabbing him in the back. It rankled that he had.

  By the time he was through with him, Dunnet would be cowed. He would clear the land as his overlord commanded, or there would be hell to pay.

  Especially when Lachlan was in this mood.

  “It would be wise to finish this business quickly and return to Ackergill with all haste.”

  Lachlan frowned. “We shall stay as long as it takes.”

  “It shouldna take long. And you have much to do before…” Dougal finished with a shrug, but they both knew what he intended to say. Before the end. The reminder was grating. For a brief while, Lachlan had forgotten his curse and the weight of his burden.

  He turned back to the passing scenery and tried to recapture the glory of the morning. It was a sad thing that he could not.

  * * *

  Much to Lachlan’s consternation, his ghost returned that night, in the inn in Rester. He didn’t stay long, just long enough to reproach Lachlan for leaving Ackergill. But it was enough to keep Lachlan from sleeping anymore.

  By the time morning broke, he was in a foul mood. So much for his hopes that the ghost didn’t like to travel.

  His temper didn’t improve as Dougal dressed him for the day. For one thing, as he was to arrive at Lochlannach Castle, he had to be dressed in full ducal regalia, which Lachlan found annoying. He understood the reasoning for it—Dunnet must be made to see and accept the consequence. Dunnet must be made to understand that Lachlan wasn’t a man to be trifled with—or betrayed.

  But the coat and the vest and, for God’s sake, the cravat were annoying.

  Lachlan had always hated cravats, but he was a lord, and in London, if one wanted to be up to snuff, one wore a cravat. To fit in, one had to adhere to English conventions. And he had. Had for years. No matter how galling it had been.

  It hadn’t made a whit of difference.

  The harpies of the ton would always see him as a lowly Scottish duke. Despite the fact he’d spent nearly his entire life in London, despite the fact he had attended Eton and Cambridge, despite the fact that he owned a castle … he wasn’t considered worthy to as much as glance at their daughters. Although, to be fair to the harpies of the
ton, that might be more due to his reputation as the Doomed Duke than to his Highland roots.

  The irony was, it hardly mattered. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife on the marriage mart. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife at all.

  If there was anything in this whole debacle he regretted, it was that.

  Why she came to mind just then, his angel, he had no clue.

  She was nothing but a dream, a drug-induced hallucination. She wasn’t real.

  For the rest of the journey, Lachlan struggled to wipe all thoughts of her from his mind. He needed to focus on the coming confrontation. He needed to be on point. He ran through his arguments in his head, planning and replanning what he would say to Dunnet and in which particular tone.

  It didn’t help that all the while, Dougal incessantly peppered him with ominous warnings about dark betrayals, poisonings, and the propensity Scots had for tossing their enemies from the ramparts with impunity.

  When Lochlannach Castle appeared in the distance, Lachlan stared at it. It was enormous and grand, with stately silver spires reaching for the sky. Situated at the curve of the bay, as it was, it was an impressive sight. He tried to ignore the lance of displeasure that Dunnet’s castle wasn’t a pile of rubble.

  By the time they pulled into the bailey, Lachlan was ready. Ready to go to war.

  He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. It was irritating then that Dunnet had gone to the trouble to prepare a grand welcome. When he emerged from his carriage, he was greeted by the skirl of the pipes and the curious stares of Dunnet’s people—it seemed as though each one of his clansmen had turned out.

  The baron himself stood at the front of the crowd, looking lordly and proud in full formal kilt. For some reason, Lachlan found it irksome, this not-so-subtle reminder that Dunnet was a Scot, and Lachlan, to his mind, was not.

  The man was tall, taller than Lachlan, which was saying something, but he was brawnier and harsher by far. He exuded all the wildness of Scotland and then some. His hair was long and dark, his features sharp and craggy, and there was a savage scar tracking down one cheek. His brown eyes were solemn and steady.

  Lachlan reminded himself not to be taken in. It was those eyes that had made him want to trust Dunnet. It was that sincere and serious gaze that had fooled him before.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “Welcome to Dunnet.”

  When Dunnet introduced his wife, Hannah of Reay, Lachlan couldn’t help but feel a prick of envy. The delicate, dark-haired beauty was besotted with her husband. And Dunnet had her.

  All the things Lachlan wanted to the depths of his being—but couldn’t have—came so easily to this man, despite his treasonous heart.

  It hardly seemed fair. But then life never was.

  Although Lady Dunnet was adequately deferential, with a curtsy of the appropriate depth, Lachlan couldn’t miss the curl of her nose as she surveyed his person.

  Damn these Scots. He was sick unto death of their irreverence.

  Likely Dougal was right when he said he wouldn’t put it past them to murder him in his sleep or poison his food.

  “Won’t you please come in?” Lady Dunnet said with a thin smile. “I have arranged for some refreshments after your journey.”

  Ah yes. Poison indeed. Lachlan fixed his sharp gaze on Dunnet. “I need to speak with you immediately,” he said in a clipped voice. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

  Lady Dunnet’s lashes fluttered. Her lips worked. She was clearly put out at his refusal to be poisoned immediately upon his arrival. “Would you care to settle into your rooms first?” she asked.

  “No.” He frowned at Dunnet. “Is there somewhere we may speak? In private?”

  Dunnet swallowed heavily—apparently he’d correctly interpreted Lachlan’s tone. “Of course. The library.”

  They made their way through the bailey and into the castle in silence. Lachlan’s aggravation rose with every step. Thoughts of Dunnet’s perfidy coiled through his heart and soul, further souring an already sour mood. Lady Dunnet followed them, and it occurred to Lachlan she intended to join them in their discussion.

  This surprised him, because most of the women of his acquaintance would never consider such a thing. Business was for the men and the men alone. Most women would understand this and make themselves scarce. Hie off and sip tea or embroider something.

  Not Lady Dunnet.

  As they reached the library, Lachlan turned to her and proffered a small bow. “Lady Dunnet. If you don’t mind.”

  Her face flushed, but the baroness nodded and backed away, although Lachlan didn’t miss her scowl. But really, this was for the best. The conversation he was about to embark upon was not for tender ears.

  With Dougal at his back, he strode across the cavernous library and took a seat at the desk. Dunnet took the chair across from him. True to form, the man was silent, but he simmered with a cocky bravado, one that made Lachlan’s nerves thrum.

  Dunnet’s man, a dour Scot with a mangled visage, brought whisky for all of them and then left; with his retreat, silence blanketed the room. Lachlan glanced at his glass and his nose curled as Dougal’s dire warnings about the Scottish propensity for poisoning enemies wafted through his head. He didn’t touch the drink. Adjusting his cravat, he leaned forward and said, in the gravest tone he could manage, “I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you, Dunnet.”

  For some reason, Dunnet smiled. Smiled. It was an irreverent offering that made Lachlan’s left eye twitch. “Disappointed, Your Grace?”

  Fury rocked him at the man’s moue of innocence. He was not innocent. Not in the slightest. Not if what Olrig had told him was true. But they would come to that … “First, your failure to respond to my order for the Clearances of Dunnet.”

  Dunnet’s eyes narrowed. “I did respond. My answer was nae.”

  Lachlan’s fingers closed into a fist of their own accord. The gall of the man, to refuse a direct order. “It is your obligation to obey me.”

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

  Our ancestors? Lachlan gaped at him, unable to respond. Likely his ancestors did not visit him night after night, begging, pleading, commanding that he save their souls from an eternity of hellfire and damnation.

  It was a heavy load to bear, the eternal souls of those ancestors, but Lachlan would not fail them. He would restore the castle and give them peace … if it took him the rest of his days.

  Which were few.

  When Lachlan didn’t respond to his declaration, the impertinent baron felt the urge to add, “It is my position that these Improvements will destroy the county. As they are destroying Scotland.”

  The hair at Lachlan’s nape prickled. How dare Dunnet sermonize? Lachlan glowered at him. “It is my position that I need the funds.”

  “You … need the funds?”

  Not that it was any of Dunnet’s business, but perhaps explaining the logic for clearing the land of crofters would help him see reason. “It is my intention to renovate Caithness Castle before … Well, as soon as I can.”

  “How much do you need?”

  At his shoulder, Dougal growled. “This conversation is beside the point.”

  “True. True.” Leave it to Dougal to return him to task. Dougal was as outraged by Dunnet’s behavior as Lachlan was. “The point of this conversation is my disappointment with you, Dunnet.”

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

  Fury whipped through him. Enough nonsense. It was time to expose the rotting truth of his betrayal. “I refer to the other source of my disappointment, Dunnet.”

  The baron reared back, as though something in Lachlan’s expression shocked him. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of the beast in duke’s clothing. His nostrils flared. “Your Grace?”

  Lachlan lanced him with a sharp stare, a glacial tone. “Did you think
I wouldn’t hear of it?”

  “Hear of what, Your Grace?”

  “Your treason,” Dougal snapped.

  Lachlan sent his cousin a quelling glance. He neither wanted nor needed Dougal’s assistance. Not here. Not now. He turned back to Dunnet, his expression harsh. This was, in fact, the meat of his disgruntlement. “I really liked you, Dunnet.” He had, and the man’s betrayal had wedged in his craw. “Silly of me, but I thought, on some level we were cut from the same cloth. I thought you, of all my lairds, would be loyal.”

  “I am loyal.” A bellow.

  Lachlan set his teeth. “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.”

  Dunnet 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.” Ah, the plea of innocence. Lachlan almost believed him. Almost.

  He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “That’s not what Olrig said—”

  “Olrig?” The savage Scot emerged in Dunnet. His nostrils flared, his eyes burned.

  But Lachlan could play the savage, too. “Is it true or is it not,” he snarled, “that you called a meeting of my barons to plead with Olrig and Scrabster to side with Stafford?”

  “Nae. It most certainly is not.”

  It wasn’t the denial as much as Dunnet’s vehemence that gave Lachlan pause. Made him wonder if … perhaps he’d been given faulty information. Campbell had warned him about that, too. Even as the greater lords battled over huge swaths of land, the minor barons had their long-held grudges. Perhaps he’d been hasty in accepting Olrig’s word on the matter.

  “That’s not what Olrig said,” Dougal muttered. Lachlan shot him a silencing glare. He wasn’t helping.

  Dunnet leaped to his feet and planted his fists on the desk. “Olrig is a stinking pig.”

  “Is that why you beat him up? Or did you beat him to a pulp because he opposed your plot?”

  “It isna my plot—”

  “Ah, so you admit your involvement?” Really. Dougal needed to be silent.