by Sabrina York
“Nonsense. They are dogs.”
It was difficult not to sigh. Hannah didn’t understand her sensitivity. No one did. But Hannah had known her for her entire life. She should know that Lana saw things others were oblivious to. She decided it would be easier to turn the topic than to explain. Again. “So that is the great Duke of Caithness?”
Hannah snorted. “Aye.”
“He’s … not what I expected.” In oh so many ways.
“You doona know the half of it.”
Lana glanced at her sister, taking in the roiling energy. She knew at once that something awful had happened. She set her hand on Hannah’s arm. “What is it?”
Hannah leaned closer, her brow puckered. “Immediately upon his arrival, His Grace insisted on a meeting with Alexander.”
“About the Clearances?”
She didn’t know why Hannah looked surprised that she’d guessed. It was only logical. Why else would the duke have come?
“Aye. Afterward, Alexander was verra upset.”
“I can imagine.”
“And now he’s gone off and I canna find him.”
“Doona fash yerself, Hannah. He will turn up.”
Hannah wrung her hands. “Aye. But I canna help thinking he needs me. I should go search for him. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Her sister surveyed her with a steady eye. “Go get something to eat, would you? I doona want you wasting away.”
As though she would. But she was hungry. “I shall. And I shall think on how we should handle this.”
“Handle this?” Hannah gaped at her. “The duke has issued an ultimatum.”
“Aye.” Lana nodded. Though it looked as though all was lost, Lana was not convinced in the least.
There had to be a reason the duke had come into her life, just now, at precisely this juncture. There had to be some reason she’d dreamed of him. Had met his mother. Had touched his soul.
There had to be some greater purpose here.
Though she couldn’t see what it was at the moment, she knew she would figure it out.
Perhaps his mother, Lileas, could help …
* * *
Lana took her lunch out to her favorite retreat, on the seawall, overlooking the bay. It was such a lovely spot, with the terns wheeling overhead and the scent of the sea in her nostrils. She found it was a good place to think when one needed to think.
And she did.
This situation with the duke had her bewildered. And Lileas was being no help whatsoever. Whenever Lana asked her about her son or his destiny or her purpose, the bothersome woman simply faded away. Ghosts could be so vexing at times.
The message was clear, though. Lana was meant to figure it out for herself. Which was annoying. Hence her retreat to the seawall where the stiff salty breeze could help clear her mind, and the sight of the dancing blue waters of the bay could soothe her soul.
It was a pity she was disturbed there.
She felt his energy before she saw him; it made her shiver, and not in a good way.
Steeling her spine, she peeped over her shoulder. A large man in British kit with a dour expression approached. Lana knew he must have come with the duke, because no one here dressed like that. She didn’t care for the glimmer in his eyes as he looked her over.
“Well, what have we here?” he murmured in a gritty voice. “A little pigeon?”
Lana’s brow wrinkled. Though he was dressed like the duke, this man didn’t have his crisp intonation; he spoke with a brogue. On top of that, his tone had a slither she could not like. As though he had the tongue of a snake. She also didn’t care for his energy. The colors swirling around him were dark and clouded. She frowned at him. “Who are you?”
He grinned, although it wasn’t a friendly offering. “Who are you?”
Och, he leaned far too near. So close she could smell his breath. Lana suppressed the urge to skitter away. She wasn’t a skitterer. Rather, she stood her ground and stared him down.
He did not care for her impertinence. His eyes narrowed and he took one of her curls between his fingers, rubbing it with blatant intent. It was a disturbingly intimate thing to do to a person one had not yet met. She yanked her hair from his hold and he chuckled. “Yer a pretty thing,” he purred. “Housemaid?”
Lana glowered at him. She knew the type. Powerful men who felt they could take what they wanted from any woman within their aegis. She drew herself up and met his eye. “I am Lana Dounreay, daughter of Magnus Dounreay, Baron of Reay, and sister to the Baroness of Dunnet.”
As impressive as this pedigree was, this man was not impressed. In fact, he snorted. “Well, Lana Dounreay, daughter of Magnus Dounreay, Baron of Reay, and sister to the Baroness of Dunnet, what are ye doing out here all by yourself?”
She glanced meaningfully at her plate.
“’Tis a shame for a wee dove like you to be alone.” He edged closer. His energy darkened.
Lana had no doubt where this was heading and she didn’t want to go there. So she stood to head back to the kitchens, where it was safe.
As she did, he grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Doona go.” Not a suggestion. More of a command. She didn’t like being commanded so she pulled her arm free and headed toward the portico leading to the castle. He followed.
Mercy. She did not want to stab him with her fork—she deplored violence above all things—but she would, if he didn’t leave off.
But before she could make her escape, he grabbed her again and whipped her around, into his arms. Her plate went flying, but she had the presence of mind to keep hold of the fork. As she hit his chest, she poked him. To her consternation, he glanced at the inadequate weapon and laughed. “Yer a wild one, are you no’?”
“Let me go,” she snarled, pushing away.
“I think not, my dove.” His tone made her belly roil, made the blood in her veins go icy. He pushed her back until she hit the stone walls of Lochlannach Castle, and then he closed in on her, pressing against her. His body was hard and gouged her uncomfortably, but that was nothing compared with the discomfort that shot through her at his expression.
His breath washed over her face. She turned away as he came in for a kiss. He growled his displeasure and captured her chin in his hard hand, forcing her to face him. His hold was so brutal, she worried there would be bruises in the morning. “It would behoove you to be nice to me,” he said. “I am an important man.”
“Release me at once,” she demanded.
His chuckle rippled through her. “Or what, pretty dove? Will you gore me again with your fork?”
She did just that. It amused him. Or maybe not. His hold on her tightened. “Little lady, the world is changing. Your father, your brother-in-law, every man who has kept you safe will no’ be able to do so in the future. ’Tis men like me you will turn to.”
Good lord. Never.
He narrowed his gaze and came in again, holding her still as he prepared to kiss her. Lord in heaven above, she’d never wanted so much not to be kissed. It was a pity she couldn’t wriggle free.
“Dougal!” An incisive voice rang off the walls, and the man blocking her in leaned back and glared over his shoulder. Lana peeped, too, and relief gushed through her as the duke stepped into view, a stern frown on his countenance.
Ah, but it was more than a stern frown, wasn’t it? It was a hint, a whiff of him. Of the Scottish warrior from her dream. His expression, the fire in his eyes, the savage jut of his chin. It sent a resonance, a shudder through her.
The duke set his fists to his hips and pinned this Dougal person with a glower. “What the hell are you doing?”
Lana took the chance to wriggle free. It was a relief to escape the beast’s hold.
Dougal grinned cockily. “Stealing a kiss, is all.”
The duke glanced at her, at the fork held tight in her grip, and a muscle bunched in his cheek. “We are guests here,” he said in something of a snarl.
Do
ugal forced a laugh, though Lana could hear the tension in it. “’Twasn’t nothing,” he said, but his glance at Lana was sharp, and in it, a warning. Keep silent.
Bluidy hell. She would not be warned. She would not be silent.
“Keep yer distance,” she barked at him, and then, while she had the chance, she whirled away and fled into the kitchens. And she made a vow to herself that while the duke and his man were here, she would make it a point never to be alone with either of them.
At least, not without her dirk at hand.
* * *
It was all Lachlan could do to control his temper. He didn’t know why the sight of Lady Lana in Dougal’s arms had incensed him so … and that was before he’d realized she wasn’t a willing participant. Once he caught a glimpse of her expression, twisted with anger and fear, his blood had gone cold. He’d wanted to rip Dougal’s head from his shoulders.
Something about the vision had enraged him. Acid had surged in his veins. The thought had flashed through his mind, She’s mine. Which was ridiculous. She was not.
And she never could be.
Still and all, he knew Dougal. Knew his cousin had a taste for the ladies. He knew how crude and intemperate he could be. Even if Lana was not for Lachlan, she most certainly could not be Dougal’s. He was far too brutal for such a tender soul.
“Stay away from Lana Dounreay,” Lachlan said. He didn’t intend the words to come out so sharply. Or perhaps he did.
Dougal shot a look at him. A hint of resentment flickered over his features and then he forced a stiff smile. “Never say you want her for yourself?”
“That is hardly the point.” It wasn’t. It was not. “We are guests here. I will not have another … incident.”
Dougal’s expression went sour, most likely as he recalled the debacle at Lord Wintersly’s house party. Dougal had sworn the woman had been willing, though she tearfully insisted she had not been. Lachlan had wanted to believe his cousin, though he’d still paid the girl off. To this day, the incident pricked his conscience.
In other circumstances, with any other person, Lachlan would have turned the man out with no references after such an unseemly episode, but Dougal was his cousin. His only family. Lachlan had assumed a dire warning would suffice to rein him in.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
Regardless, he couldn’t tolerate such a thing happening here, certainly not with Dunnet’s sister-in-law. Here, there wouldn’t be paying anyone off. There would be blood. “I won’t stand for such a thing.” He scowled at Dougal to make his point, but it only served to make his cousin more recalcitrant.
“I doona understand why you are so put out.”
“Do you not? I am here to try to gain Dunnet’s support.”
Dougal snorted. “He’s already refused you.”
Yes. He had. Lachlan did not appreciate the reminder, but he had faith that Dunnet would come around and see reason. The man really had no other choice. He had too much to lose.
Aside from all that, Dougal’s derision provoked him. That and his blatant lack of deference to Lachlan’s station. This probably accounted for the bite in his tone. “Whether he cooperates or not does not signify. I am the duke. As such, it is my responsibility to protect these people. I cannot have you badgering the womenfolk.”
“I wasna badgering her.” He quirked a grin. “She wanted it.”
Lachlan’s gut went cold. That had not been the case. Not by a long shot. It horrified him that Dougal could look him in the eye and lie. Even worse was the likelihood that his cousin believed it was the truth. How he could have reached that conclusion with her fork in his breastplate, Lachlan could not fathom. “That’s not how it appeared. The woman was not interested in your advances.”
“Bah.”
Something like rage washed through him and his temper snapped. “I will not have you undermining my authority.”
Dougal’s eyes narrowed and he studied Lachlan’s face, which, he was sure, was red as a well-cooked lobster, judging from the heat on his cheeks. Then his glance flicked to Lachlan’s hands, which were curled into fists. His expression softened into one of deferential concern. “Are you feeling well, Your Grace?”
“No I am bloody not feeling well.” He felt like hell. His temples throbbed, his stomach churned, and he was damn angry …
“Maybe we should repair to your rooms.”
“My rooms?”
“You look tired. Perhaps you need your medicine.”
Lachlan glared at his cousin. He was sick unto death of that medicine, and Dougal’s insistence that he take it. It wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping. In fact, the only peace he’d had in as long as he could remember were the few, serene moments when he stared into Lana Dounreay’s bluer-than-blue eyes—
But no. He wouldn’t think on her.
He wouldn’t think on her at all.
“I do not need any medicine. And I do not appreciate your trying to change the topic. Keep your distance from her, or I shall have your guts for garters,” he barked, which was unlike him. He didn’t know from where this foul temper came and he didn’t care.
He spun on his heel and stormed away to find a spot where his cousin could not beleaguer him.
CHAPTER FIVE
He decided on the library, because he knew there would be whisky there, and because he knew Dougal eschewed libraries as a general rule. He wasn’t much of a reader.
What Lachlan didn’t expect was to find Lana Dounreay already in residence. She was curled up in a chair in the far corner, reading a book. Oddly enough, she had a dirk in her hand. When she spotted him, her eyes narrowed and her grip on the weapon tightened. A pain, a deep regret, slithered through him. He didn’t want her fearing him. Not this woman.
Something about her moved him in ways he hadn’t ever been moved.
Yes, part of it was, undeniably, attraction—lust perhaps—but he attempted to ignore that. There was simply no point. However, curiosity swirled within him, too. Who was she … to him? Why had she appeared in his dream night after night? And why had she appeared in his life now? So close to the end?
It hardly seemed fair.
Had he met her sooner, he might still have had the hubris, hope enough, to believe they could have a future together. He would have liked that. A future with her. Hell, a night. A tryst. A kiss. A … something.
Bah. What a foolish fancy.
He thrust it away and focused on what should be a more pressing issue. Specifically, the fact that she claimed to know his dead mother.
There had been a time in his life when he would have considered a woman who insisted she could speak to the dead a deranged lunatic who needed locking up in Bedlam. But now, after suffering too many visitations of his own, such a possibility gave him pause.
He had questions for his mother, questions that had tormented him his entire life. The possibility of finally getting those answers made his pulse thrum. Beyond that, if Lana Dounreay could really speak to his dead mother—and if she was not, in fact, a deranged lunatic—he couldn’t help wondering if she could speak to other spirits. Perhaps the ones who visited him, tormented him, at night. Maybe she could help him understand what they wanted. Or, more important, how to make them go away.
How wonderful would it be to have some semblance of serenity in his final days?
Therefore, upon spotting her, he did not quit the room. Rather, he affected a bow. “Miss Dounreay.”
She peered up at him, her blue eyes staring straight through to his soul. They clouded, and her brow flickered, as though she didn’t like what she saw. He attempted not to flinch. “Your Grace.” She turned back to her book.
Ah. How that gored him.
He should have left. He should have taken her hint, unsubtle as it was, and walked away. But he couldn’t. For one thing, he wanted to discover more about her gift—or her madness. And for another, he didn’t want to leave her presence. There was something so peaceful about her, it almost made him feel at peace as well
. He settled in the chair by her side and fixed his attention on her. She pretended not to notice, but she did. He saw it in the annoyed flicker of her lashes.
It was pleasant, just sitting next to her in the quiet library, staring at her countenance as she pretended to read. Her face was exquisite, familiar and fragile, her features delicate with a thread of intriguing intransigence. He quite liked it.
A woman should not be a timid mouse, he decided. She should be fierce and roar and match her man in all things. The ladies of London had not been fierce in the slightest. Perhaps that was why he’d never been tempted to break his vow.
Or perhaps he really was a Scotsman at heart—
“Your Grace.” Lana huffed a sigh and dropped her book onto her lap. He found it delightful that she glared at him.
“Yes?” Suave. Urbane. Slick.
His tone did not please her. Her nose wrinkled quite ferociously. “Did you want something?”
He wanted something. He wanted something very much. And suddenly, certainly, it wasn’t information about his mother.
He wanted to kiss her nose—it was rather adorable. And also, to kiss something else—
“You’ve been staring at me for quite some time.”
“Was I staring? My apologies,” he said in an unrepentant tone.
“You were.” She frowned. “I find it unnerving. Did you want something?”
“I, ah, did, actually.”
She arched a winged brow, and when he didn’t elaborate, she snapped, “What?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but an unaccustomed diffidence washed over him. Now that the time was upon him, he didn’t know how to ask. Had no idea how to formulate his query. Or perhaps his reluctance stemmed from that prickling apprehension when he considered what the answers might be. He’d never been a cowardly man, but he’d never had the opportunity to boldly face the most terrifying truth of his life.
Did she leave because I was unworthy? Did she never love me, never want me at all?
Making the—cowardly—decision to dissemble, if only for a moment, he cleared his throat and tugged on his waistcoat. “I should like to apologize for Dougal.”
Her cheeks pinkened. She blinked. “Dougal?”
