by Sabrina York
Wee Fiona had spent the better part of the day on his lap and then, when she’d worked up the courage to speak to him, he’d been so gentle with her. Watching him patiently wait for the mite to work through the words had nearly brought tears to Lana’s eyes.
She’d seen the longing in his face as Fiona cuddled closer. Seen the way he’d tightened his hold on her when she fell asleep. Witnessed the glint in his eye as he watched her play.
He was, indeed, a man meant to be a father.
She knew this day had been only a small skirmish in the battle to destroy the curse’s hold on him, but it had been an important one.
As she headed down the stairs in the cloak of night, after the castle had fallen silent, she prepared for her next assault. It was probably wrong of her to think of seduction in terms of a military campaign, but to her mind, the two were very much alike. One studied the field of battle, surveyed one’s opponent for weaknesses, and carefully plotted each move. Lana had spent countless hours perfecting her chess game, so she felt completely prepared for this.
Although the first step in any campaign was assuring your opponent showed up.
When she arrived at the seawall, he wasn’t there and her heart took a dip. They’d made no agreement to meet each night—they had certainly not discussed meeting tonight—but the warmth in his gaze over dinner, the fact that his foot “accidentally” brushed hers more than once, had made her certain he would come.
She was about to give up and head back to her room when the scrape of gravel captured her attention and she whirled around. A cloaked form emerged from the shadows. Her heart gave a flutter at the thought that it might not be him—that it might be his awful cousin instead—but then he stepped into the light and his hard handsome features were revealed.
It was impossible to stop the smile that curled on her lips. It was impossible to silence the joy in her soul. “You came,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have.” He held out his arms and she stepped into his embrace. He kissed her gently. Far too gently in her estimation.
“I knew you would.” When he tried to pull away, she wound her fingers into the silky locks of his hair and pulled him back for another kiss. Though he allowed this, she sensed his reserve. It made ripples of impatience, annoyance, and frustration slide through her.
“Lana, we should talk.”
Oh, dear. She didn’t like his tone. Not in the slightest.
“About what?”
“About us.”
She did like the sound of that, although trepidation curled in her belly at his expression. She had no doubts he was, once again, going to suggest they stop meeting like this. Stop kissing. Stop us-ing.
That, of course, could not happen. It would not.
“All right.” She gestured to the path into the garden. “Shall we walk?”
Relief washed over his features. “Yes. Please.”
No doubt he assumed if they were walking and talking, he was safe from her advances. He did not realize she was a woman at war.
She hooked her arm in his and let him take the lead onto the fragrant garden path. The flowers were silvered by moonlight and a blanket of silence hung over the serene scene. “Did you enjoy the day?” she asked, but only to belay the conversation he wanted to have.
“Verra much.”
She chuckled at his rolling exaggerated lilt. “I was pleased with your brogue.”
“Were you?”
She tightened her hold on him. Brushed her breast ever-so-innocently against his arm. “You know I was. You are so verra … charismatic when you speak like a Scotsman.”
His frown returned. Blast. She shouldn’t have rushed her fences.
“About that, Lana—”
“And the children adored you.”
This scuttled his intentions. His throat worked. “Did they?”
“Aye. And you were wonderful with them.”
“I … enjoyed them greatly. I couldn’t help feeling I had much in common with them, being an orphan myself.”
“Oh, my.” She hadn’t even considered that. “I can imagine so. I do love Dunnet for taking them in. Many lairds would have sent them away.”
“Shameful.”
“Aye.” She shot him a sideways glance. “As duke, there is much you could do for all the orphans of the county. Assure they have safe homes, clothing, education…” She trailed off, because his eyes had taken on a contemplative look. She could tell he was thinking this through. She could tell he’d completely forgotten he intended to end whatever this was between them.
She gently guided him to the left. He followed.
“I canna imagine it would cost so very much,” he murmured. “To set up a home, a school. Pay caretakers.”
“Nae.” She led him down the path to the gazebo.
“Certainly not as much as refurbishing a ruin.”
“Not nearly that.”
“But if I did do something, I would want it to carry on, after I am gone. That is verra important.”
“Aye. It is.”
“When I die, all entailed properties revert to the Crown.”
Lana wrinkled her nose at the thought of the portly Prince Regent claiming all of Caithness.
“But my personal assets are mine and mine alone. I can do with those whatever I wish. I could sell my properties and use the moneys to create a foundation to care for the orphans.”
“That would be verra generous of you.”
He huffed a breath as they stepped into the fragrant bower. “If I sold my London townhome and my stables, that would be a good start.”
“You canna sell your stables. You love them.”
“But those children have nothing. I have more than my share. And I will have no need for those horses when I am gone.” He stared down at her with a sad smile. It made her heart ache. His generosity, his certitude, his grief scored her.
She wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to soothe him.
All thoughts of ruthless seduction melted beneath the urge to wipe that desolate expression from his face.
She cupped his cheek. “Lachlan, you are a wonderful man. I know anything you do for those children will be honored and appreciated. Anything you do will be remembered long after you are gone.” She sat, and he sat beside her.
“I … do want to be remembered.”
“Of course you do.”
She kissed him. It was a tender thing, just on the corner of his mouth. She loved that he turned into it.
“Will you remember me?” His wistful tone gutted her.
“I will never forget you, Lachlan,” she vowed. “Never.”
* * *
He stared at her, soaking in her beauty, her tenderness, her serenity.
God, he loved her.
Had he really thought he could end this? Had he really thought he could walk away from her?
She kissed him again and then kissed the tip of his nose, his chin, his neck, murmuring all the while, “Never. Never. Never.”
Everything in him clenched when she eased to her knees before him.
Aye, she was a Scottish lass. Aye, she professed to know things about the ways of men and women.
But he would never have suspected she knew about this.
He should have stopped her when she knelt. Should have stopped her as she worked the fastening of his breeks. Definitely should have stopped her when she took him in her fist. But God. God. He couldn’t.
Her touch was too blissful. Too sweet.
She lowered her head and her hair sifted down, caressing him in a silken fall. Her breath danced over the head of his cock, and his heart lurched. His lungs locked. Every fiber of his being went on point.
He should stop her. He should. The mantra rang in his head. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
To do so would kill him, here and now, his curse be damned.
Her mouth was warm, soft, beguiling as she took him in. It was a gentle kiss, a tender suckle.
It raked him clear thr
ough to the core.
His fingers curled at his side and his nails bit into his flesh as he struggled to control himself, to keep from taking hold of her head and plunging deep. She was an innocent. She deserved gentility. She wanted to explore.
But damn. It nearly killed him, her innocent exploration. She licked and lapped and nuzzled him until his eyes crossed, until a searing heat, an unbearable pressure built at the base of his balls.
When she moaned around him, he couldn’t resist. He had to set his hand on her head and guide her and, ah. Ah.
Bless her, she took guidance well.
Following his lead, she began a slow up-and-down slide and then moved more quickly. He didn’t know where she got the idea to clutch him at the root, to squeeze and pump in excruciating counterpoint to her lunges, but bloody hell, he liked it.
It didn’t take long for her to lead him to perdition. A knot formed in his belly and a sizzle of heat warned him his crisis was near. His blood surged and his pulse pounded. His vision went red and madness descended. He tried to ease her back—knowing she didn’t comprehend the whole truth of what she incited—but she wouldn’t allow it.
She sucked harder, stroked him with a tighter, heinous fist. Then she moaned her pleasure, sending rivulets of exquisite sensation vibrating through him, and—
God.
He released into her.
Though he didn’t intend to, though he struggled against it, he did.
And she took him in. She swallowed every drop.
It was exquisite beyond bearing. Gentle and savage and sweet all at the same time.
When she glanced up at him, her lips damp and curled in a satisfied smile, he couldn’t stop himself. He yanked her into his arms and kissed her, wildly, madly.
There was a tinge of salt in the kiss.
Surely it wasn’t the flavor of his tears.
But he was certain of one thing.
He could never let her go. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his soul, he knew.
She was his.
For better or worse.
She was his.
God help him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alexander was true to his word and took Lachlan to the armory the next morning, allowing him to survey the Scottish weaponry. They spent many hours on the lists as Lachlan tested one after the other, until he found one he liked best.
Dunnet, of course, gifted it to him.
While he had always enjoyed fencing, there was something powerful, elemental, and right about swinging the thickly hewn broadsword of his ancestors. It felt good in Lachlan’s grip. It made him feel like … a warrior.
He must have looked like a warrior, too, dueling with Alexander, bare-chested and sweaty in the heat of the day—judging from Lana’s expression when she came upon them. He loved the way her eyes flared, the way her gaze locked on his chest. It stole his attention completely, that expression.
Which was not wise during a swordfight. He nearly lost an ear.
He was lucky it wasn’t something more … prominent.
When he wasn’t glorying in his newfound sport, Lachlan spent much of the next few days with Lana, usually in in her sister’s company, which he didn’t mind in the slightest. For one thing, Hannah was pleasant and funny and quite clever.
Ah, but there were other meetings as well. Ones that were not chaperoned in the least. By some unspoken agreement, they met each night on the terrace for a kiss. And, occasionally, a little more, although he could not again allow her the liberties he had so enjoyed in the garden. As much as he was tempted to deepen their exploration—and he was—he knew he could not. Though Lana was warm and willing, and made clear she was interested in other pursuits, Lachlan held fast to his vow.
It was a challenge. With each encounter, it was more difficult to say good night and walk away, but he knew he had to. He resolved to simply enjoy her presence. If he had a handful of days left in this world, he would want to spend them just like this. With her.
They took walks in the woods and along the shore. They visited the charming town of Dunnethead, took rides in the donkey cart, and had frequent picnics in the meadow—though she called it the lea.
Each day, he wore his kilt, and each day she taught him something about the Scottish way of life.
Some of it, such as haggis, was revolting.
Some of it was charming.
Most especially, he liked the way the clachan was an interweaving of souls. Whether they were blood or not, they took care of one another. The orphans were an exceptional example of such support. They had no one, but they had everyone.
Occasionally Lana would tell him the tales of the Ghosts of Dunnet, or the spirits who haunted Dounreay Castle. It brought home the fact that there was such rich history here, generations upon generations of history. Feuds and battles and great love affairs had taken place on these very grounds. Men had been betrayed and forsaken and redeemed.
He especially liked the stories about the men who had been redeemed.
It was a dream he held in the dark shadows of the night. He couldn’t help thinking that now—now that he’d found one piece of the cross—he might find the others. He might be able to break the curse after all.
And he couldn’t help thinking, dreaming, wondering—if he did break the curse, if he didn’t die after all—what kind of life he would he like to have? What kind of man would he want to be? Who would he want to have by his side?
But it was hardly a mystery.
He knew.
Oh, he knew.
He would want her.
It was foolish of him to do so, but he fell deeper in love with Lana in those days, strolling through the woods and collecting shells on the beach. He fell in love with her laugh, her smile, the glint in her eye. Her fingers, twined with his, gave him a breath of peace. Her kisses were soul-salving and sweet.
But it was never more than that.
It couldn’t be.
He could not allow it.
Dougal wasn’t pleased with the developments. First of all, he was annoyed that they were still here in Dunnetshire. Daily, he renewed his insistence that they should return to Ackergill. Beyond that, he was horrified at how much time Lachlan was spending with that woman. Dougal knew of Lachlan’s vow and agreed it was wise to assure there were no more Caithness dukes to bear the weight of the curse. He was convinced that in this, Lachlan was flirting with disaster.
No matter how Lachlan tried to reassure him, his cousin wasn’t appeased. Probably because Lachlan did a poor job of explaining why he felt the need to spend so much time with Lana. But to be honest, his feelings for her were so tender, so raw, he simply didn’t want to share them. As though bringing them out into the open, under Dougal’s harsh scrutiny, might tarnish them. As a result, Dougal no doubt thought it was a case of simple lust.
There was nothing simple about it.
One morning, as they prepared for the day, his cousin was particularly unpleasant. Probably because, once again, Lachlan had eschewed the cravat.
“I doona like what I see,” he grumbled as he straightened the pleats of Lachlan’s kilt.
“Oh? And what do you see?”
“I see you courting Miss Dounreay.”
Lachlan shot his cousin a smile, although it was forced. “Nonsense. You and I both know I cannot court her.”
“And you would do well to remember that. You shouldna be leading her on.”
Lachlan snorted. “I’m no’ leading her on.”
Lana knew his situation. She understood completely. The two of them were simply enjoying what little time they had together. Reveling in the days they’d been granted. Reveling in the nights. They both understood there could be no real future between them, and they accepted it.
“You were kissing her in the stables yesterday.”
Ah yes. He savored the memory. It had been a lovely kiss. “It was only a kiss.”
“It only ever starts with a kiss. What would you do if things got out of han
d? If you compromised her?”
“I will no’.” Lachlan had iron control. Iron. Control.
“What if you did? Do you no’ think Dunnet is watching, too? He would demand you marry her at once.”
Marry her.
A wisp of a dream trickled through him.
Imagine how wonderful that would be. Having her by his side every day, every night, as long as they both should live. Ah …
But it was only a dream, and a short term one at that.
His soul ached as reality crowded in once more, squashing the tender wish like a juicy bug. He was swamped with a bone-deep regret that things were the way they were. He was used to the regret, but damn, how it wearied him.
And while he did have iron control—his resistance of the last few days had proved that beyond all doubt—he couldn’t deny that his desire for her was growing, blossoming, pervading every thought, every breath, every waking moment. A prickling restlessness, a persistent ache beleaguered him. The urge to break free from the chains that bound him was becoming intolerable.
Dougal studied him with a frown, as though he sensed Lachlan’s wavering. “I think we should return to Ackergill.”
“We are no’ returning to Ackergill.”
“Then you should avoid her.”
“Avoid her?” God. The thought was appalling.
“I can tell you are … tempted. What man wouldna be?”
Indeed, Lana was tempting. Tantalizing. Delicious.
“Doona forget your vow. You swore never to father any children.”
Nae. He had not forgotten. How could he? It tormented him daily. But … A wicked thought flickered through his mind. It wasn’t the first time he’d entertained it. “There are ways to prevent conception.”
“What?” Dougal squawked.
He squawked a lot of late.
Ah, aye. Lachlan’s lips curled at the thought. When Lana had brought it up a week ago, his heart had been too hard to consider the prospect. But now?
Now something else was hard.
He was certain it was his resolve.
There were ways to prevent conception. What if he could have her like that? What if they didn’t have to restrict themselves to impassioned kisses and furtive strokes? What if they could be together? In that way? What if he could possess her truly?
