Lana and the Laird

by Sabrina York

  A wave of anticipation surged through his veins. It was a brilliant idea. Really it was. “Do you suppose I could find French letters in the village of Dunnethead?”

  Dougal reared back, a look of revulsion on his face. An odd sound emanated from his throat, one not quite human. “Fr-French letters? Are you mad?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Aren’t those for avoiding the pox?”

  “They are also used to prevent conception.”

  “You canna take the chance.” A hiss.

  “What chance is there? If I use protection?” It wasn’t as though he hadn’t availed himself of them before. He was hardly a monk. But he had never, in his life, been as desperate as he was now.

  “I’ve heard tell condoms are no’ always effective,” his cousin muttered.

  “Balderdash.” The more he thought on it, the better an idea it seemed.

  Perhaps he could have Lana and keep his vow, too. The prospect made his head spin. It had been so easy to eschew women before. And now he knew why.

  Quite simply put, the other women were not … her.

  Now, now that he’d held her and kissed her and stared into her eyes, his ardor rose to irresistible heights. That there was a way he could have her, set it to flame.

  * * *

  Bloody hell, it was annoying being here in the back of beyond. In London, procuring French letters would have been as simple as sending his man to a shop. In the wilds of Scotland, it was far more difficult. To make matters worse, Dougal, in a fit of pique, had refused to help. Beyond that, Dunnethead was a small town. Everyone knew he was the duke. And they would know to what end he required these particular items.

  He wasn’t sure why the thought of everyone knowing his plans mortified him so, but it did.

  In the end, it took a great deal of finesse, a handful of coins, and several pints of ale in a tavern off the docks to secure what he sought without the locals being any the wiser. Thank God for merchant seamen who were only in port for a day.

  With his treasure in his pocket and a smile on his face, Lachlan strolled up the road to the castle on the hill. It was a lovely day. The loveliest yet. He was in a brilliant mood.

  Surely it had little to do with his plans for tonight.

  When he entered the bailey, he was met with a flurry of activity. Alexander stood with his hands on his hips, overseeing it all. When he caught sight of Lachlan he strode over in a rush. “Your Grace.”

  Lachlan frowned at his use of the title but didn’t correct him. It was obvious his mind was distracted. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Alexander scrubbed at his face. “We’ve received a letter from my brother in Dounreay. There has been another attack.”

  “Hell.” Alexander had told Lachlan about the troubles in his wife’s home parish, an endless string of thefts, raids on crofters, and even an attempt on Magnus Dounreay’s life. Dunnet suspected that a neighboring baron—Scrabster, Lachlan’s vassal—was at the heart of the mischief and had sent his brother to investigate. Clearly, Andrew’s presence in Dounreay hadn’t been deterrent enough. “What happened?”

  Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Someone tried to kidnap Isobel, my niece. As steward of the land, I canna let this stand. I must go to Dounreay at once.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hannah is insisting on coming with me. Both she and Lana are beside themselves with worry.”

  “I understand why. It is their home. Their family.”

  “Aye. I tried to explain that it could be dangerous, but they willna hear it.” Alexander blew out a breath. “Heaven preserve us from stubborn women. At any rate, we are leaving at once.” True regret flickered over his harsh features. “I’m sorry to cut our visit short. I’ve enjoyed having you here, Your Grace.”

  Myriad emotions rushed through Lachlan at Alexander’s sincere words. First was gratitude. Gratitude to whatever power had led him here to meet this man. A man he was proud to call his friend. On the heels of that was a flicker of shame. He was the overlord of Dounreay, and if someone was plaguing the people there, it was his responsibility to investigate and put an end to it. It was his duty to protect his vassals, and he had not. Not even once during his time as the Duke of Caithness. He’d been far too busy worrying about himself.

  And finally, he felt a great wash of panic.

  He didn’t want to leave Dunnet. He didn’t want to return to his cold, dismal castle to live amid the rubble. Alone.

  And he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Lana.

  That was probably the worst of it, the most painful realization of all. Which was probably why he set his jaw and said, “I shall come with you.”

  Alexander stared at him. His lips worked. “Your Grace?”

  “Lachlan.” He clapped his baron on the shoulder. “And I should go. These are my lands as well. I must make a statement to these reprobates that such nonsense will not be tolerated. That is … if you don’t mind my company?”

  “On the contrary, it would be wonderful to have you along.” The smile, the relief on Alexander’s face was humbling. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Lachlan sighed. “Alexander, is it so much to ask you to use my given name?”

  His baron chuckled. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

  “You shall have to practice.”

  “I suppose so.”

  They headed toward the castle together in an unspoken accord, walking in companionable silence. It wasn’t until they stepped into the parlor, and he saw Lana sitting on the divan with her sister having tea, that Lachlan remembered the French letters in his pocket. Again he was barraged by a mélange of conflicting emotions. First and foremost was the thrill of seeing her. It always hit him like this. Then there was regret that his plans for tonight had been scuttled—for God knew how long. They were leaving for Dounreay at once. Doubtless, there would be little opportunity for the two of them to be private on the road, and who knew what the situation would be like at her home. He had to resolve himself to the fact that his sojourn of this morning had been for naught. Still, it was good to know he had the condoms. Just in case.

  And finally, there was a prick of guilt. Because Dunnet was his friend and he wouldn’t be pleased to know Lachlan planned to seduce his wife’s sister.

  It was probably for the best that there would be no chance.

  But he had a hell of a time convincing himself of that.

  * * *

  When Lachlan stepped into the parlor, Lana’s heart skittered. She should be used to the sight of him by now, the way something as simple as a glance at him made her pulse pound and her body liquefy. But if anything, her reaction to him was stronger than ever.

  It was a shame, really it was, that the letter had come from Dounreay. And as much as she wanted to return home—she’d missed it dearly—she didn’t want to say good-bye to him. The thought made her throat clog. Made her want to weep.

  She forced a smile instead. “Good day,” she said with a blush. There was no call to feel shy, given the intimacy of their kisses the night before, but she did.

  “Good day.” He bent over her hand, lingering longer than he should. He bent over Hannah’s as well, but Lana could tell, in her sister’s case, it was a perfunctory greeting.

  Dougal entered the room and greeted everyone with a scowl, as he always did. Although his scowl seemed to linger on Lana. He shot a glance at Lachlan and his expression darkened even more, which was, on the face of it, astonishing. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked in a harsh tone. Odd that. He seemed almost indignant.

  Lachlan didn’t respond other than to level a frown on his cousin. Lana blinked. She’d never seen him look so stern. Whatever this was about, the two men definitely did not see eye-to-eye. For some reason, Dougal glowered at her again.

  “I have good news,” Dunnet said as he snagged a scone from the platter on the table and sat next to Hannah. “Lachlan is coming with us to Dounreay.”

  Oh. Lord.
r />   Such simple words.

  Surely they shouldn’t ignite such a conflagration of joy? It burned through her in a frenzy, making her want to laugh and dance and sing.

  “How nice.” Aye. All she could manage. Although, when his gaze caught hers, much more was said. All of it without words.

  She was so bemused by his expression, so sunk in their silent and steamy exchange, she almost didn’t hear Dougal’s yowl, which was saying a lot, because Dougal could yowl. “What?” He turned to Lachlan, his eyes bulging and his nostrils flared. “What do you mean, you’re going to Dounreay?”

  Lachlan’s lips flattened. He was clearly not pleased at being questioned by his cousin. “Aye. I’m going to support Dunnet and help investigate the cause of all the troubles there. We will be leaving at once. Please ready my things.”

  Though Lachlan turned away, Dougal continued to gape at him. The muscles of his face were tight, and veins ticked on his neck. His hands were curled into fists. “But. Your. Grace,” he gritted out. “We must return to Ackergill.”

  “Dougal. We’ve already had this discussion and I’ve made my decision.” He leveled his cousin with a cold, implacable stare. “My place is with my people.”

  “But—”

  “Ready my things at once. No doubt Dunnet’s staff can help.”

  It was a blatant dismissal, but still, Dougal lingered, his lips working, his muscles flexing. When he realized Lachlan intended to say nothing more—to him at least—and certainly didn’t intend to change his mind, he whirled on his heel and stormed from the room. He looked back over his shoulder, though. The others were engaged in plans for the journey, so Lana was the only one to catch his expression.

  It sent chills down her spine.

  * * *

  The first leg of the journey to Dounreay was miserable for Lachlan, mostly because Hannah—who apparently had a tender stomach—sat across from him and insisted on retching all over his boots. For some reason, Lana found this amusing, though Lachlan had no earthly idea why.

  Dougal was put out because he really hadn’t wanted to come and because there was no room for him in the carriage—not with Lachlan, Lana, Hannah, and Alexander. He’d had to go astride with the outriders. And then, when they’d come to the inn in Halkirk, there hadn’t been enough rooms for their party and Dougal had had to sleep in the stables. So his foul mood was understandable.

  The inn was crowded but the innkeeper was able to arrange three rooms for his noble guests, one for Lana, one for Alexander and Hannah to share, and one for Lachlan. He was able to procure the private dining room belowstairs so the ladies didn’t have to eat with the rough men in the common room, most of whom were deep in their cups. That his cousin was one of those men annoyed Lachlan, but it was to be expected, given his disgruntlement.

  It was difficult saying good night to Lana as they all made their way to their rooms after a passable fare of mutton and potatoes, but only because he had to do so in the presence of Dunnet and his wife. There was no kissing.

  He kissed her hand though, as that was all that was allowed, and he shot her a meaningful smile the others couldn’t see. It said I shall be thinking of you tonight. Her flush charmed him, for he knew it meant she would be thinking of him as well.

  As Lachlan closed the door on a very empty room, the temptation to visit hers was great—it was only across the hall—but he knew he had to be strong. He knew, if he did visit her, for a good night kiss only, more would happen. He wasn’t strong enough to resist her allure, not now. Not now that all of his walls had been decimated.

  He kicked off his boots and tossed himself onto the bed, draping his arm over his eyes. He didn’t even bother to put out the light, because he knew he wouldn’t sleep. He would lie here, all night, thinking of her. Thinking of what could have been, had timing been different. Had he been a different man. Thinking of holding her, touching her, knowing her the way a man knows a woman …

  If there was a hell, populated by the wailing souls of his cursed ancestors, it was probably more pleasant than this.

  When a soft knock came at the door, his heart lurched and he shot up. It was her. Dear lord, she’d come. An odd mixture of anticipation and trepidation washed through him as he stared at the door, a mere plank of wood, keeping them apart. What a simple barrier to conquer. But it wasn’t so simple.

  He hardened his heart and shuffled across the room, working on his protestations, his denials, his resolve. He couldn’t allow her to enter. Couldn’t pull her in, kiss her, touch her. He couldn’t sit with her on his lap in the chair by the fire and assault her senses with drugging kisses and seductive caresses. He couldn’t allow his hand to drift up beneath her diaphanous skirts and touch her, there. He couldn’t tease her pearl or make her wriggle and moan. He most certainly couldn’t lead her to his bed.

  His hand closed on the knob. He sucked in a breath and turned it.

  And his belly plunged.

  It wasn’t Lana. Ah, how his soul wailed at that. Which was ridiculous, because he wasn’t doing any of those things. He was not. Still, somehow, he felt as though he had lost all in that moment.

  “Ah, Dougal.”

  His cousin nodded. “Your Grace.” He held out a tumbler. “I brought you your nightly toddy.”

  Lachlan attempted not to curl his nose. He was coming to hate those toddies. Still he took it with a nod. “Thank you, Dougal.”

  “Do you want me to help you prepare for bed?” Dougal stepped inside and glanced around, his brow lowering. “Could they not have done better for you?” Indeed, it wasn’t an impressive room, though it did have a bed and a chair by the fire, both of which would feature in his imaginings later.

  “The room is fine. I insisted Dunnet and his wife take the larger room.”

  Dougal reared back. “Why?”

  Lachlan stifled his chuckle. “Because there are two of them?”

  “You are a duke.”

  Lachlan set the tumbler on the table by the bed as Dougal closed and latched the door. He grumbled to himself as he collected Lachlan’s boots and riffled in his chest for his nightshirt.

  “Leave that.”

  Dougal reared up with a frown marring his countenance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll get myself ready for bed.” Now that he was wearing simpler clothes, he certainly didn’t need a valet. And it was trying to stand there, being dressed and undressed like a child.

  “B-b-but … Your Grace…”

  “Please, Dougal.”

  His cousin stared at him for a long while. Dougal liked feeling needed and it was probably uncharitable to notify him his services were no longer required, but they were not.

  He wasn’t sure why this simple decision should feel so right, but it did.

  It was a relief when Dougal finally assented, but before he left, he nodded to the toddy. “Doona forget to drink it.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “You need your rest. Aside from which, the crowd in the common rooms are becoming raucous. Surely the noise will keep you awake for hours.”

  Were he another man, he would be down there among them, singing and blethering and drinking himself silly. But he was not a common man. He was a duke. And as such, would not be welcome in a common room with common folk.

  “Doona worry, Dougal. I’ll be fine.”

  His cousin sent him one more concerned glance and then nodded and quit the room. His absence felt like a liberation. Lachlan didn’t know why his presence, which had once been welcome, had suddenly become so burdensome. It probably had to do with the fact that they’d been close to inseparable for years. Dougal had been his constant companion, often his only companion, during his time in London. Now that he was here in Scotland, assuming his role and responsibilities as duke, he, Lachlan, was changing. He was moving away from the man he’d been, the selfish, petulant, self-important, frightened lord. He was becoming what he was meant to be. A Scottish kilt-wearing laird, who made decisions that were best for his
people, rather than those that were best for himself.

  It pleased him that he was that man. That he could be the man he’d always wanted to be, but never felt he could embrace. But he could. Somehow, now, he found that he could.

  And it felt right. It felt good. It made him glow inside when he thought of it.

  That glow? He interpreted it as … happiness.

  He’d never really been happy, so he could only assume this was what it was. But it seemed to fit all descriptions of the emotion.

  And if this was happiness, Lana made him happy, too. Even though he couldn’t have everything he wanted with her, she still made something warm and sweet swell within him. Something like contentment.

  That was a miraculous gift.

  Beyond all that, here, in the wilds of Scotland, he’d found something he’d always yearned for. Friendship. He was no longer completely alone, and his need for Dougal’s companionship was waning. Beyond that, as he spent more time with Alexander and Hannah and Lana, he realized that he really didn’t like Dougal. Before he’d come here, he’d never even allowed himself to explore such thoughts. Dougal was the only companion he’d had and that was it.

  Things were different now, and he was glad of it.

  He reached for the toddy and took a sip and then, grimacing, dumped it in the chamber pot. He wasn’t in the mood for one of Dougal’s cloying drinks. He would much rather lie awake and think of Lana. And the rousing choruses from the common rooms were merely a muffled accompaniment to his ruminations.

  That was, until they came closer.

  Lachlan groaned as one of the drunken men stumbled up the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the night, his guffaws and slurred ramblings bouncing off the narrow walls of the hall.

  He was about to cover his head with a pillow to block them out when he heard a strange sound, mingled with the low male voice. A female cry, quickly muffled. The hint of a struggle. Something pinged in his consciousness and he leaped from the bed and flung open his door and—