Lana and the Laird (24 page)

“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.

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—

Oh, holy God in heaven above.

Insanity flitted through his mind as he stared at the sight in the hallway. Lana, in her flowing nightdress, in the arms of a rough and brawny brute. The savage had his hand over her mouth and was attempting to drag her into a room. Her eyes were wide, frightened. It was this that unleashed the beast within him.

Lachlan roared. His muscles bunched and he sprang. He was taller, but the other man was bulkier. Lachlan, however, wasn't drunk. He swung at the man's face and landed a heavy blow to his jaw. He reeled and stumbled back, releasing his hold on Lana. She darted away and the man snarled his rage. Finding his center, he launched himself at Lachlan.

It was a stumbling rush at best and Lachlan had plenty of time to take his aim. Thankful for the many hours he'd spent at Gentleman Jackson's boxing establishment in London—not to mention countless brawls at Eton—he put all his knowledge into play. A left uppercut to a beefy jaw, followed by several quick jabs to the midsection. When the man was reeling, heaving, gasping for breath, Lachlan finished him off with a mighty blow to his cheek. With a wheeze, he collapsed.

It was damn satisfying.

First of all, the physical activity was invigorating. For another, he had rescued his woman.

He turned to her with a smile.

He did not expect a frown in return.

His heart lurched. “Lana. Darling. Are you all right?”

She turned her frown on the insensate behemoth. “Aye. But why did you do that?”

What?

“Why did I clobber him?” The man who was, most likely, intending to
rape
her?

“Ach, nae. I'm verra thankful you clobbered him. But Lachlan…” She sighed and threw up her hands. “I do wish you'd clobbered him in the hall.”

Really? He hadn't had much choice. When one had the need to clobber someone, posthaste, the
where
of it was rarely a consideration.

She tapped her lip, which distracted him. His blood was still running high and the action turned his thoughts from battery to passion. He very much wanted to kiss her. “He is far too heavy to move,” she said.

Lachlan glanced at the ruffian. He was. Like a mountain, crumpled on the floor. His gaze danced over the chamber and stilled on Lana's trunk.

Oh, hell.

“This is your room?”

She nodded. “Now where shall I sleep?”

Ah.

The thought that whipped through his mind was evil indeed. He should not even countenance it. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't drive it away once it landed and took root. He had a bed. And he had French letters …

It must have been plain on his face, for when she glanced up at him, her gaze stalled, her lips parted, her eyes glazed over. Her tongue darted out to dab at her lips, which was a staggering sight indeed. It sent waves of lust licking through him.

Her fingers fluttered together and then apart in a tantalizing mockery of the urges dancing through his mind. “We could wake Dunnet,” she said. “The two of you could drag him out, I suppose.”

“If you wish.” He knew she did not wish. “Or you can come to my room.” A whisper. It hung on the air between them. “I would let you have the bed.” Though they both knew he would not be sleeping on the floor.

She swallowed. “I … ah … That is verra generous of you … Lachlan.”

Not in the slightest. It was the most selfish offer he'd ever made.

But she did not say no.

He trembled as he led her to his room. It was a short walk, but it seemed to take an eternity. He was certain that at any moment, Dunnet, who should have been roused by the tumult, would open his door and espy Lachlan leading his sister-in-law to her doom. But his door didn't open.