by Sabrina York
He stared at it for a moment, and then he covered her hands with his and gazed into her eyes. His mouth went dry. “Thank you,” he said.
The spark in her eye made him want to thank her … properly. Perhaps somewhere private. Perhaps with a kiss.
It wasn’t a wise thing to contemplate, nor a wise thing to allow, but he felt a need, a clamoring, to hold her again. To touch his lips to hers. To taste her.
It was just a kiss, after all.
Only a kiss.
Nothing more.
“Would you…” The words caught in his throat, the words he’d never dared utter. “Would you care to walk with me? In the garden?”
She drew in a breath. A pink tinge drifted up her cheeks. “I would like that verra much,” she said softly.
Lachlan didn’t miss the concerned frown Lady Dunnet sent him. He shot her a reassuring smile, one that bespoke his honorable intentions.
Or it may have been a wolfish grin.
One could never be sure.
* * *
The garden had always been one of Lana’s favorite places, but now, in this moment, it was magical. It might have been the elation that Lachlan had changed his mind about the Clearances—that certainly made her feel wonderful, as though she might have played a small part in the salvation of her people. Or it might have been the excitement singing in her veins at the warmth of his hand on her back. Or it might have been his scent, wafting to her as he leaned closer to duck beneath the trestle. Or simply the fact that they were here, together. Alone.
He was going to kiss her.
She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.
She led him to the gazebo at the center of the sprawling gardens. This time of year, it was covered with leafy vines and blooming flowers, which made it doubly delightful. Not only was it a fragrant bower, it was private.
She peeped up at Lachlan as he stepped inside, and she was struck again with how very tall he was. Tall and broad and, dressed as he was in the Sinclair plaid, beguiling beyond belief.
His face was that of a fallen angel, all harsh planes and rigid angles, but perfectly carved and symmetrical. It was a hard beauty, but undeniable. His harshness was softened by his eyes, deep welling blue fringed with thick lashes. His hair was so long and soft, she wanted to sink her fingers into it.
He was beyond attractive. He was irresistible.
Oh, hell, she would not wait for him to kiss her. She could not.
She would kiss him first.
She took him by surprise. She was certain of it, because as she leaned up and covered his lips with hers, he gasped. It was fortuitous, because he opened his mouth, and she tasted him.
He was delicious.
As her mouth moved over his, he stilled and grasped her arms, holding her tight, as though at any moment he might wrench away. She despaired that he might stop her, but she didn’t cease her assault. If this was the only kiss she would get, she would make it count.
But he did not. He did not wrench away. With a great groan, he pulled her against him—and ah, it was heavenly there in his arms—and he deepened the kiss. Glory and passion and a bubbling arousal raced through her, unlike anything she’d ever known. It was savage and wild, unrestrained. He was savage and wild and unrestrained.
And that incited the same in her.
He muttered something as he held her tighter and nibbled his way over her cheek, down to her neck, causing her to shudder. She nested her fingers in his hair, as she’d longed to do, and held him there, huffing and moaning as he worked some arcane magic on her skin.
His hands roved as he consumed her, over her back, her shoulders, her sides, and then, finally, to her breast. It was a shock when he scraped over a nipple. She’d never realized her body could sing the way it did to his touch. She leaned back and stared at him. “Lachlan.” A whisper.
His eyes glowed. His nostrils flared. His gaze locked on her lips. “Lana,” he said, and he kissed her again.
It was as crazed as the kiss before, as hungry, as desperate. As though neither of them could get enough.
He walked her backward until her legs hit the bench and then he sat, tugging her onto his lap. He was hard, and she wiggled to find a more comfortable spot. She had no idea why his eyes crossed and he groaned. Or she did. Surely it wasn’t wicked to wiggle a little more? She found a comfortable position, fisted his hair, and pulled him back to her.
He came, a willing servant to her desires.
They kissed for a long while, exploring each other, creating a heat between them.
But then he eased away and stared at her. “Lana…”
She heard it in his tone, his reluctance, his regret, his retreat.
Something within her howled.
He dropped his forehead on her shoulder and sighed. “We can’t do this.”
“Can we no’?” She thought they were doing quite well.
He lifted his gaze to hers. In it she saw a wealth of pain and loneliness and remorse. “I have made a vow.”
She blinked. “A vow?”
“How can I? How could I? How could I take the chance?”
She had no clue what he was nattering on about, but she didn’t like it. “Lachlan…”
“I should not be kissing you.”
Aye. He rather should.
“Because if I kiss you … I will want more. I … do want more.”
Excellent. She nestled deeper.
It was irritating that he pushed her away, albeit gently, and settled her on the bench at his side. “It’s my curse, Lana. The curse. I cannot take the chance that I … that we…” He raked his fingers through his hair, releasing his queue and creating a tantalizing fall of curls. “I cannot take the chance of making a child.”
Everything within her froze. “Do you no’ want children, Lachlan?”
His laugh was harsh. “More than I could ever say.” He stroked her cheek. “More than I could ever say. But I cannot take the chance. It would be a sin to bring a child into this world, knowing he would be doomed, as I am.”
“You are no’ doomed.”
He frowned at her. “I am. I am, Lana.”
What nonsense. The man was so convinced he was cursed, he’d created a prison for himself, wherein he was. He was cursed.
“Oh, Lana.” He drew his fingers through her hair, then tucked it behind her ear. “It’s more than that. I fear…” His throat worked.
“What, Lachlan? What do you fear?”
“I fear that any woman I was … with…” A pained expression crossed his face.
“Aye?”
“Any woman I was with would become cursed as well.”
She shot to her feet. She had to. “Ballocks.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ballocks. Utter ballocks. First of all, there are no such things as curses—”
“How can you say that? Each of my ancestors died—”
“Aye. Right on cue. Has it ever occurred to you that they were clumsy?”
“Clumsy?”
“Or foolish? Or that they simply believed they should die on their thirtieth birthday and ever so obligingly did?”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Och. And a curse is a more logical explanation?”
“You of all people should believe in curses.”
“I of all people should know they are ballocks.” She crossed her arms. “Do you know what I think?”
His brow rippled, as though he in fact did not.
“I think you are afraid of commitment.”
He reared up, outrage on every line of his face. “I most certainly am not.”
“And you are using this curse to protect yourself from the nuisance of vulnerability.”
A red tide crept up his ears. He averted his gaze. “Ridiculous.”
She studied him for a moment as frustration pummeled her, and she realized she was not managing him properly. Sometimes in battle a full frontal charge was not wise. She decided to change he
r tack. “Either that or…” She let her comment drift on the breeze.
“Or what?” He whipped around to stare at her.
“Or you doona want to kiss me.” It was quite clever the way she thrust out a lip. It brought his attention back to her mouth.
“Good God, Lana!”
“’Tis all right, Lachlan.” She patted his hand and shifted farther away. Even affected a sniff. “I understand. I am no’ as pretty as Hannah.”
“You are gorgeous.”
“And I am no’ as clever as other girls. And I do have my … curse to contend with.” A sigh. “I understand why you would wouldna want to kiss me.”
“I bloody well do.”
She met his gaze and patted his shoulder. “I understand. You doona have to pretend.”
His nostrils flared. “I’m not pretending. Damn it, Lana…”
She walked away, leaning on the post to stare out at the garden. She knew when he came up behind her. She felt his heat.
“Lana, you are the most beautiful, tantalizing, aggravating creature I have ever met.”
“Well, that’s romantic—”
Before the words escaped, he whipped her around and pulled her against him and set his mouth on hers. Showing her, proving to her, his ardor.
It was a long time before he lifted his head, and when he did, there were no more conversations about his curse or hers. And no more protestations.
CHAPTER NINE
He had to stop doing that, Lachlan thought as he made his way back to his chambers. He had to stop kissing Lana Dounreay. For one thing, it made his trousers far too tight.
But ah, it had been marvelous. He’d loved every nibble, every nip, every velvet touch. And he yearned for more. Ached for more.
And yes. That was why he had to stop kissing her. It made him hopeful, it gave him ideas. It incited mischief.
Aside from that, if he were caught kissing Dunnet’s sister-in-law, it would be a disaster. Dunnet would no doubt demand Lachlan marry her. Lady Dunnet, on the other hand, might demand a duel.
The trouble was, the more he kissed her the less he cared if they were caught. Even with the curse hanging over his head like a sword.
Dougal was waiting in his rooms when he returned. “How was your ride?” he asked.
Lachlan tossed himself into the chair by the fire. “Very illustrative.”
“How so?” His cousin poured him a drink, although Lachlan didn’t want it. He’d just had one with Dunnet and that small dram had eroded his good sense enough to make him think taking a walk with Lana in the garden was a good idea.
And oh, it had been, but now he was paying for it.
Lachlan shrugged. “It has become clear to me that the Clearances are not the orderly evictions I thought they were. I saw a woman nearly burned to death today.”
Dougal’s expression went blank. “That’s terrible.”
“And fields scorched, for no other reason than to drive out the tenants.”
“Ah. Well.” His cousin nodded, his features a moue of remorse. “That is the purpose of the Clearances. To remove the unprofitable crofters.”
“Yes, but at what cost?”
Dougal frowned. “At what gain? You need that money. Now. You doona have a choice.”
“Ah, but I do.” There was always a choice. Always. “Dougal, I want you to send out letters to all my barons.”
His lips worked. “Letters?”
“Direct them all to cease and desist all Clearances on Caithness properties at once.”
“What?” A bellow.
Lachlan didn’t understand his cousin’s distress over this pronouncement, or why his face went pale, but he didn’t care. His mind was made up. “Send the letters.”
“But, Your Grace … The castle … The restoration…”
“It will have to wait.”
“It canna wait!”
“It will have to. If I cannot get it done, well…” A shrug. Who would care, really? When he was gone, there would be no more Dukes of Caithness to live there.
Dougal’s eyes narrowed. “Have you gone mad?”
“Mad?” Perhaps he had. Finally. But if he had, he liked the way it felt. It was somehow freeing to release his hold on a rotting pile of stones, to allow his obligation to his long-dead ancestors to dry up and flutter away on the wind. To let all the Caithness dukes carry the weight of their own damnation for once.
“I think you need your medicine.” Dougal stormed for the door.
Before he reached it, Lachlan stopped him with a sharp, “No.” There would be no more laudanum. Not in this lifetime. Not so much as a sip. “I am quite resolved, Dougal. And I do not need more medicine. Send the missives at once.”
“Your Grace.” A hiss, slithering across the room. Lachlan didn’t like his tone in the least. “Don’t you see what has happened here? Because I see it. Clear as day.”
“Do you? And what is it you see?”
“You’re being led by your cock.”
Lachlan reared back and stared at his cousin. What a foul thing to say.
“You arrive here and within a day of meeting her, your resolve has crumbled.”
“Nonsense. I went with Dunnet to Olrigshire. I saw the devastation. That is what convinced me I need to—”
“Do you no’ think I know she has been seducing you?”
“What?”
“I saw you kiss her.”
Lachlan stilled. A fist clenched his gut. “You saw…?”
“Aye. Last night. I followed you.”
The little hairs on the back of his neck rose. “You followed me?”
At his snarl, Dougal lowered his eyes and threaded his fingers together. He adopted a conciliatory tone. “I was worried about you. I heard you call out. Suspected you’d had … that dream again.”
It wasn’t a dream, it was a haunting, but Lachlan didn’t bother to state the difference. He was still reeling with the knowledge that Dougal had followed him last night. He’d seen …
“I was worried about you, Your Grace. I know how you get after…” A shrug. “I know how dark your thoughts become. I worry that you might attempt…”
“Attempt what?”
Dougal flicked a look at him. Lachlan wasn’t sure if it was a pitying glance or an assessing one. “The ultimate solution.”
Revulsion rocked him. Yes, he had, more than once, considered it, just stepping off the cliff as his father had. But he had not done it. That Dougal thought him capable of such an act was lowering. “You thought I was going to kill myself?”
“The possibility occurred to me.”
“So you followed me.”
“Aye.”
“Have you followed me before?”
Again, Dougal looked away. “Every night.”
Lachlan wasn’t sure what disturbed him the most, the fact that Dougal had crept about Caithness Castle, prepared to keep him from flinging himself from the battlements, or the fact that Dougal had been so successful in his creeping, Lachlan had never noticed.
Regardless, he didn’t like the prospect of being shadowed.
“Well, don’t do it again.”
“Your Grace. This conversation is beside the point.”
“Is it?” He was the fucking duke. He decided what the fucking point was.
“You mustna allow her to lure you from your convictions.”
“Ah. My convictions.” And they were his. No one else’s. He bore the onus of each and every choice. Not Dougal. Not anyone.
“To rebuild the castle,” Dougal said in a peevish tone, as though annoyed Lachlan needed reminding.
“The castle can rot.”
Dougal’s nostrils flared. “But the Clearances … The money…”
He understood Dougal’s chagrin. For so long Lachlan had been obsessed with restoring the castle, with acceding to the ghost’s demands. But now things had changed.
Now everything had changed.
“Dougal, I cannot be the agent of death and destruction
to Caithness County. No matter what happens, no matter what eternity holds for me. I am not clearing the land.” He turned away and headed for the door, possessed of a sudden urge to be free of his cousin’s overbearing presence. But he stopped with his hand on the knob. “Oh, and Dougal?”
“Aye?”
“Doona follow me again.”
* * *
Lana sighed as she stared out the window at the velvet night with Nerid on her lap. Her mind was awhirl with thoughts of him. Lachlan.
Dinner that night had been something of a celebration. All the denizens of Lochlannach Castle—living and dead—were delighted the duke had changed his mind about clearing the county. Crofters from all over the shire had brought in gifts of fowl, eggs, and grain in thanks. Morag and Una even resolved to work together on the meal, so it was splendid indeed.
The only one who hadn’t seemed pleased by the turn of events was Dougal, but then Lana expected as much from Lachlan’s dour cousin.
Throughout the meal, Lachlan shared tales of growing up in England with his uncle as his guardian. It had been sad to watch him speak about his time at Eton and Cambridge, where the other boys had treated him as an outcast. Though he glossed over some of the stories, she was sure there was more, judging from the shadows in his eyes.
Ah, but when he spoke of his passion—breeding and training horses—his face lit up. This was a topic that enlivened the entire table. Even Dunnet had joined in, and he and Lachlan had become embroiled in a discussion of ways they could crossbreed Dunnet’s stock with Lachlan’s and create a stable that would be all the rage at Tattersall’s. After that, they went on to talk about other ideas Dunnet had for making the clachans more profitable. Lana had felt Lachlan’s spirits rise as his excitement swirled. Perhaps there were ways other than sheep farming to raise the funds he needed.
Lana didn’t contribute much to the conversation, and she tried not to glance at him so often, sitting there at the head of the table with a new, self-assured glow about him. When she did look at him, all she could think about was the kisses they’d shared, his touch, his whispers … and how she wanted more.
Glory, he was a magnificent man.
Not only did the sight of him in a kilt send shivers through her—not only was he strong and brave and beautiful—he’d been willing to see reason and change his mind about clearing the land. He’d given up his dream of restoring his castle in the bargain. She understood what a sacrifice that was for him, understood the depth of his despair at the decision, but he’d chosen the right course and he knew it. He was, indeed, a man of great moral fortitude, the noblest man she’d ever known and by far, the most handsome. She’d never met a man who moved her the way he did, and she doubted she ever would again.
