by Sabrina York
Dunnet took him for a walk around the battlements, pointing out landmarks to the south and east, though it was too dark to see much of anything. They followed the flagstone path around the tower to the north side and inspected the view of the water as well. Then they sat by a crackling fire and enjoyed a dram or two of Lochlannach whisky.
Dunnet was a peaceful companion, because he didn’t speak much, which was nice; it gave Lachlan some time to process what had happened at dinner. Indeed, this day had been eventful. In one fell swoop, he’d met the woman of his dreams, learned his mother might not have killed herself, and discovered a piece of the elusive cross. One revelation after another, as though God had saved them up for this one day. It was almost more than he could fathom.
At the forefront of his mind, however, was Lana herself. Somehow she eclipsed all else. Her gift was astounding in and of itself, but there was much more to her that fascinated him. Her smile, her temerity, her courage.
Her lips, her breasts, her hair …
Her scent. Her taste.
He knew it was wrong of him to want her the way he did, to entertain thoughts of seduction. Hell, she was Dunnet’s ward and a maiden. And he was a duke with a curse that made said seduction inexcusable. But while he could never act on his desire, there was no harm in thinking about it. Imagining it. Playing it through in his head, over and over again.
No harm at all. Except that it made him hard. In Dunnet’s study.
Lachlan forced his thoughts away from the tantalizing images of Lana Dounreay splayed on his bed, and focused on the business he had with Dunnet, business he needed to address. It was almost a pity to ruin the peace between them with such an unpleasant subject, but Lachlan needed to know.
He sucked in a breath and bleated his question into the silence, then cringed at his lack of finesse. “So, Dunnet, have you made your decision? About clearing your land?”
The baron glanced at Lachlan and then sighed and scrubbed his face. “Aye. I have. My wife and I discussed it and, I am sorry to say, I canna comply with your order.”
Hell. Not what he’d wanted to hear, although Lachlan was hardly surprised. It was in keeping with Dunnet’s person. Now that he knew him, Lachlan heartily wished he hadn’t issued the ultimatum he had, because now he had no choice. He would have to strip Dunnet of his office. And evict him from his home.
From his expression, Dunnet understood this. Yet still, he clung to his principles.
One had to respect that, though it ignited a wave of regret within his breast. “I am sorry to hear that.”
Dunnet, unaccountably, flashed him a smile. “I have faith you will change your mind.”
Lachlan chuckled, though it was a halfhearted attempt. “I cannot.”
“You did promise Lana to reconsider.”
“Yes. I did.” He took another sip of the excellent whisky.
“Do you intend to keep that promise?”
“I do. I shall … reconsider.”
Dunnet studied him and then nodded his head. “I see.” Based on his expression he did. The disappointment in Dunnet’s eyes scoured him.
“I was thinking,” his host said gustily, as he refilled both their glasses. “Perhaps I could take you on a tour of my lands tomorrow.”
“I would like that.” He’d enjoyed his tour of the castle grounds. It had been a delight to see a well-run estate.
“I can show you some of the improvements we’ve made and those we are planning. Improvements that will increase revenues over time.” No doubt, that glimmer in his eye bespoke Dunnet’s confidence these “increased revenues” could be alternatives to the Clearances. Given Dunnet’s competence as a manager, no doubt they would. Pity Lachlan didn’t have the luxury of time.
“And then,” Dunnet continued, “I thought I could take you on a tour of Olrig’s borderlands. It should be interesting to compare the two.”
Lachlan lifted a brow. “You believe I will see a difference?”
“I know you will.” Dunnet’s expression darkened. “Olrig has been clearing his land. You will have the chance to see what that looks like. What all your lands will look like if you continue on this course. No doubt this will satisfy Lana.”
He nodded to Dunnet, thankful that he was willing to provide the opportunity to fulfill his promise. But that wasn’t all. Curiosity coiled through him. According to Campbell, the Clearances were a simple matter of legal evictions. Lachlan wasn’t sure why Dunnet’s tone was so grim, but it certainly made him want to see the effects of this policy with his own eyes. Maybe then he would understand why so many of his barons refused to comply with his orders. If he understood their reasons, he would have a better chance of changing their minds.
Aside from that, he had made a promise to Lana. The least he could do was honor it. The vision of her face, upturned to his, expectant, trusting, wove through his mind, and his gut tightened.
Yes. He would approach this with the honor she seemed so convinced he possessed. He would go on this tour with Dunnet on the morrow, and he would seriously reconsider his plans.
He would.
It was a shame the outcome would not be what she hoped. What they all hoped.
By mutual consent, they both dropped the topic of the Clearances and went on to speak of other things—Dunnet’s experiences growing up under his uncle’s thumb, the challenges of his barony, and his romance with Hannah—the latter of which had Lachlan chuckling more than once. Dunnet spoke of his brother, Andrew, as well, and he did so with more than a thread of affection. Lachlan had never had a brother, a fact he’d always lamented. It occurred to him that if he’d been lucky enough to have a sibling, he might want one like Andrew. Or Dunnet himself.
They were both fine men.
He listened with half an ear as Dunnet rambled on—quite garrulous for such a reserved man—describing with enthusiasm a proposal he and his wife had devised, the one he was certain would increase revenues over time. It was Dunnet’s assertion that if all the barons in Caithness County banded together and formed a guild, sharing their resources and supporting one another in the leaner times, they could create a powerful and profitable coalition.
It was a pity, really, that in Lachlan’s experience, Scotsmen didn’t work well together. They tended to bicker. Over pigs and cows even. But he listened and nodded and asked questions when he thought they were pertinent. He was careful not to be too encouraging. He wouldn’t want Dunnet to be even more disappointed when all came to naught.
Funny how that had happened. How he’d come to care what Dunnet thought. What they all thought. This entire day, especially this evening, Lachlan had experienced an odd sense of belonging. Of friendship. Of warmth.
He enjoyed it greatly, but he knew it was a fleeting illusion.
Dunnet, his wife, and his wife’s sister would hate him when he announced his decision and executed his plan.
Why that made him loath to do so was hardly a mystery.
He would have liked things to be different.
He would have liked to belong.
It was rather late before the conversation broke up and they headed down the winding stairs to the castle proper. Lachlan had a warm feeling in his chest—and not all of it was from the excellent whisky.
He’d been right about Dunnet. This was a man he could trust. A man he could count on. It was a damn shame he needed the money the Clearances would bring him as badly as he did. He would have liked very much to keep Dunnet as a baron.
His heart was heavy as he returned to his chambers. The suite Dunnet had allotted him was indeed fine, even nicer than his own suite in Caithness Castle.
The accommodations were lush, including a grand bedchamber with a sprawling four-postered bed, a parlor done up in velvet, and an enormous privy, complete with a claw-footed brass tub. These rooms had once been Dunnet’s uncle’s.
He must have hated his uncle indeed, to have eschewed them for less grand accommodations. But after what Dunnet had told him tonight, and after Lana
’s disdain for the man when they’d chatted in the library, it was understandable.
He and Dunnet had that in common, Lachlan reflected. Both of them had been orphaned at a young age and raised by uncaring relatives. But at least Colin hadn’t tormented Lachlan the way Dermid had tormented Dunnet. Though his baron hadn’t been explicit in their conversation, the vague inferences and the shadowed expressions as he’d talked of his childhood spoke volumes.
Dougal was waiting for Lachlan in the parlor, holding a toddy on a slaver and frowning mightily. “Where have you been?” he snapped, almost sounding like an outraged wife.
Lachlan dropped into the chair by the fire. “Dunnet and I had a drink.”
Dougal’s brows lowered. “I looked for you.” With something like a pout, he thrust out the toddy, and Lachlan took it, although he set it on the table as he unwound the plaid and unbuttoned his shirt. He thought about mentioning Lana’s revelation about his parents’ deaths to Dougal, but decided against it. The emotions were far too raw and he was too fatigued for the discussion it would, no doubt, incite.
“We were in Dunnet’s study.” He held out a leg; Dougal tugged off one boot and then the other.
“His study?”
“In the turret tower.”
“Bah.” Dougal’s expression soured even more. “How like a Scot.”
Something sizzled and spat in his gut; he did not care for Dougal’s tone in the least. “Have a care, Dougal. You are a Scot as well. As am I.”
“Never say it.” Dougal handed him his nightshirt and collected the discarded clothes. He held the kilt with two fingers as though it were infested with lice. “Having lived so long in London, I must say, I find it difficult to understand these savages.”
“Odd that.” Lachlan picked up the toddy and took a sip. His nose curled. Dougal’s toddies tended to be strong. “If things had been different, we would have spent all our lives here.”
Dougal fixed him with a queer gaze. “You almost sound wistful.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m glad your father took me away from that pile of stones after … the tragedy. I don’t think I would have wanted to grow up in the shadow of Caithness Castle.” He snorted something he hoped sounded like a laugh. “Especially now that I’ve seen it close up. I cannot imagine why anyone would choose to live there.”
“It’s the seat of the duke.”
In its current condition, it was hardly the seat of anything. Only a small portion of the rambling edifice was even habitable. The east wing was little but rubble, and the wings that were not ruined were drafty and … howled.
He didn’t feel like a duke there, more like a warden over a prison filled with angry spirits. He felt more like a duke here, with his people, wearing a kilt, than he ever had at Caithness Castle. Or, for that matter, in London.
Here, he felt comfortable in his own skin.
“You belong there,” Dougal said with a glare.
Lachlan flinched at the prospect. He hated that castle. “I belong among my loyal people.”
A snort. “They are no’ your people. They are your vassals. And they are no’ loyal.”
“Some of them are.”
Dougal’s glower darkened. “Dunnet? Bah. You shouldna let him fool you.”
“I do not believe Dunnet has been lying to me.”
“And what of Olrig’s claim that he is in league with Stafford?”
“Dunnet insists he is not. And frankly, I believe Dunnet more.” In fact, Lachlan suspected the portly baron was trying to stir up trouble for his own purposes. Though what those purposes were remained to be seen.
“You shouldna be so trusting. You need to take a firmer hand with them.”
“A firmer hand?”
“These are Scotsmen. Hardly educated souls.”
“They seem clever enough.” In fact, Dunnet’s plan had been quite brilliant. If Lachlan had the gift of more time, he would have been tempted to give it a try. It could, indeed, have ushered in a new era of prosperity for his people.
“Clever? Bah. They are bumbling barbarians. They require shepherding.”
“Like sheep?”
“If you will.” Dougal’s nose curled. “We should return to Ackergill. I doona like being here, among the enemy.”
“They are hardly the enemy.”
“Strangers then. We need to finish this business quickly and return to the castle.”
Lachlan set his teeth. This conversation was bothersome. But then, many conversations he’d had with Dougal were, of late. “The castle is dismal.” He would much rather stay here. Where he didn’t feel so … alone.
“It willna be. Once you refurbish it.”
“By the time I refurbish it, I will be dead.”
Dougal glanced away and muttered, “Aye.”
Lachlan stared at the fire, in something of a dismal mood himself, and sipped his toddy. Though he hadn’t wanted another drink, he was glad of it. It burned in his throat then floated into his veins. It had been a long day and he was ready for it to be over.
But there had been some amazing revelations, ones that imbued him with an inconvenient hope that there might be a way out of this mess, some escape. First of all, he had found her, the woman from his dream. That had stunned him to the core. The fact that she could speak to his mother—that she could perhaps communicate with the spirits who had been tormenting him—was exciting enough. And then, of course, there was the fact that she held a piece of the cursed cross. That had to be why he’d dreamed of her. Perhaps if ghosts did exist and could communicate with the living, maybe this was his mother’s way of pointing him in the right direction.
He must have been more exhausted than he thought. When his eyes began to droop and his vision went blurry, he stood, wobbling. In the end, Dougal had to help him to the bed.
“Sleep well, Your Grace,” he murmured as he put out the lamp. Lachlan heard it, but from far far away. He was already drifting. He welcomed the oblivion. Clutched close to his breast, the possibility that he might dream of her.
* * *
A familiar sound woke him. A chilling rattle. Lachlan’s heart stuttered and he shot up in his bed, eyes wide, darting from shadow to shadow. His vision was bleary and his head throbbed. His pulse rushed in his ears, but he forced himself to focus.
A moan. A wail.
Sweat prickled his brow and he hunkered lower in his covers.
Not again. Not again.
His soul howled in denial.
But yes. He was back. He had returned.
With dismay, he watched his father emerge from the shadows. As always, he was dressed in gray rags and draped in chains; he walked with shuffled, tortured steps. He said nothing at first, he never did, merely wheezing and groaning in agony.
Then he thrust out a bony finger, pointing it at Lachlan, goring him with its import.
“You must…” he hissed. The sound rippled in the darkness. A cold trickle danced down Lachlan’s spine. “You must…”
Must what?
Lachlan scrubbed at his eyes and then peered at him again, holding his breath, willing the pattering in his chest to cease.
“You must return hooome.”
The apparition spun about, stepped back into the shadows, and then disappeared.
Lachlan collapsed on his pillow gasping for breath. He hated these visits.
They always occurred deep in the night, waking him from a sound sleep, leaving Lachlan mentally exhausted and physically drained, as though the spirits had taken their energy from him and left him but an empty husk. He knew he would not fall asleep again. He rarely did.
He didn’t know why the spirit kept tormenting him. He’d come. He was in Scotland. Attempting to do what his father asked, even though it was probably an impossible task. He was determined to try, even with the little time he had left.
He threw back his covers and set his feet on the floor. He had to wait until he stopped shaking to stand, and even then his legs were limp. When he could, he
stumbled to the wardrobe and found a pair of breeches and a simple shirt. After a fright like this, he needed to walk, to clear his mind, his soul, of the terror.
He didn’t wake Dougal. He never did. It was unfair to ask his cousin to bear the onus of his curse. Lachlan made his way through the deserted halls of Lochlannach Castle, down the grand staircase, and headed for the terrace that overlooked the crashing sea below. There was a moon tonight. The view of Dunnet Bay would calm his soul. And if it did not, there was always the option of stepping over the edge and into oblivion.
But as he emerged into the cool velvet night, it wasn’t oblivion that awaited him.
It was Lana Dounreay.
She sat on the seawall staring out at his coveted view, dressed in a diaphanous froth that had to be her nightdress. Her hair, turned silver by the night, hung down over her shoulders, glimmering in the moonlight.
His heart pattered, but for a very different reason.
She was so lovely, so serene, it made his breath catch.
He came to stand beside her without a word, tucking his hands in his pockets and staring at the sea. She glanced up at him, but without surprise, as though she had expected him. Together they gazed out at the dark ripples of the water, the shards of light dancing over the surface of the blackness.
A gentle breeze wafted by, bringing with it her scent. It made him dizzy.
Ah, how he wished …
He wished he were another man. A man not cursed. A man not haunted. A man not doomed to an early death.
A man who could have kissed her once.
How wondrous would that have been?
He must have sighed because she put her hand on his arm. It was warm. Soft. Alluring.
“Can you no’ sleep?” she asked in a soothing timbre.
He glanced at her and his gaze was snared. Her eyes were so wide, so blue, so deep. He wanted to drown in them. “No. I … had a visitor.”
Her brow rumpled. “A visitor?”
“Yes.” He turned back to the sea. Though he was loath to discuss this with anyone, lest they think him mad, he knew she would understand. “My father.”
“Ah. I see. Does he visit you often?”
Lachlan snorted a laugh but it was really not one. “Too often.”
