Lana and the Laird (28 page)

It was a good thing their journey today wasn't a long one. They should reach the inn in Forss by early afternoon, and then their final leg of the journey would take less than half a day.

Although if Hannah kept requesting stops, it would take longer.

Lana studied her sister as she settled herself after one such visit to the bushes. She was pale and wan but otherwise looked hale. Her energy was strong. Very strong, in fact. Lana leaned closer and touched Hannah's sleeve. “Do you think it was something you ate?”

Hannah frowned. “I canna think what it might have been. We've all had the same meals.”

“Perhaps the ague?” Dunnet said, his expression worried.

“I doona have a fever.” Hannah set his hand on her forehead. “And I feel fine once I…” She flourished a hand. When her gaze fell on Lachlan, she winced. “I am verra sorry about your boots, Your Grace.”

“They are only boots.”

Lana knew better. They were more than just boots, but she appreciated his gentle lie. Hannah would be mortified if she knew how much he loved those boots. Lana shot him a grateful glance and their gazes clung for a moment. And then, to her surprise, something nudged her thigh. It took a moment for her to realize it was his hand, beneath the froth of her skirt.

She glanced at Hannah and her husband. They were wrapped in each other, talking about what might have caused her stomach upset. Casually, Lana rearranged her cloak over her lap, so they couldn't see, and she took Lachlan's hand in hers.

He stared out the window, as though their fingers were not entwined beneath the cloak, but a smile teased his lips. As the coach lumbered on down the rutted track, he stroked her with his thumb. Over the top of her hand, her palm, along the lengths of her fingers.

It was hardly some grand romantic gesture.

But oh, how it thrilled her.

When Hannah's eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth, and Dunnet knocked on the roof so she could once again rush from the carriage with him hurrying in her wake, Lachlan turned to her. “I've missed you,” he whispered once they were alone.

“I'm sitting right here.”

“You know what I mean.” His eyes glimmered. “I want to kiss you but I dare not.”

“Tonight,” she murmured.

His nostrils flared. “Aye. Tonight.” She hoped to God the inn had enough rooms for her to have her own.

“I wish you hadn't left so soon,” he said.

“It was nearly morning.”

“Why didn't you wake me?”

“You were sleeping so peacefully.”

He shook his head and stared at her. “Odd that. I never sleep peacefully.”

“I probably wore you out.”

He cracked a laugh. “It's supposed to work the other way around.”

“I was tired as well.”

“Were you?” A teasing glance.

“Och, aye.” A grin. But then, she sobered. “Lachlan, there's something I need to tell you about.”

“What is it, my darling?”

Oh, blast. He thought she was being seductive. She tightened her hold on his hand. “No. Really. We had … a visitor last night.”

A hint of horror lit his eye. “A … visitor?”

“Aye. Wearing chains.”

He paled. Scrubbed his face. She hated that he loosed his hold on her to do so. “And I slept through it?”

“You were verra tired.”

“How could I have slept through it? I've never slept through it before.”

“Well, probably because he dinna really have a chance to wake you, since I scared him off.”

He boggled. “You … scared him off? How on earth did you do that?”

“I doona think he was expecting to find me in your bed. He looked surprised. And then … well, I touched him.”

His stare widened. “You touched him? My father's ghost?”

She had to snort. “I doona think it was your father's ghost.”

“What?”

“I doona think it was a ghost.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I touched him, Lachlan.
Touched
him. Ghosts don't wear wool.”

“He was wearing wool?”

“It felt like wool. Aside from which, he used the door.”

Lachlan shook his head. “What does that mean?”

“Ghosts don't need doors, Lachlan. They simply are where they want to be. And his feet shuffled on the floor. Ghosts, generally, don't shuffle.”

“What do they do, float?”

She sighed. “They simply are. Shuffling intimates a physical presence and none of the ghosts I've ever met had any physical presence. They are simply … energy.”

“What do you think this means, Lana?”

From the corner of her eye, she could see Hannah heading back to the carriage. She knew there wasn't much time to finish this conversation. No time to prevaricate. “I think someone is trying to make you
think
you are haunted by your father. Someone verra cruel. Do you have any idea who that could be?”

*   *   *

Lachlan stared at Lana, his mind in a whirl. He was so flummoxed, he almost forgot to yank his boots out of the way when Lady Dunnet began heaving again.

Who would want him to think he was haunted by his father? And why?

As the carriage continued on, he thought back to the very first visitation, nearly two years ago. He'd been woken in his rooms in St. James after a long night of debauchery with Dougal and a handful of his friends. They'd been to a brothel and a gaming hell and he'd had more to drink than should be humanly possible.

He'd been pickled, for certain. Filled with God knew what kinds of pleasurable poisons. A moan had woken him. A moan, and then a howl. Though it had taken some effort, he pried open a lid … and stared. Stared at his father's spirit, hovering at the foot of his bed enrobed in chains, calling to him, beseeching him to return to Scotland.

At that first visit, he'd been stunned, frightened, and foxed, so he'd chalked the incident up to a hallucination caused by too much liquor. In the days following, he'd stopped drinking altogether.

But then, a month later, it had happened again. This time, there had been no carousing, no alcohol, no anything. This time, he'd taken more note. His father had been adamant that Lachlan return to Scotland and refurbish the family seat. When it happened the third time, the terror had really lit in. He'd been convinced that his father was writhing in some abominable hell and it was up to Lachlan to save him, to redeem him and all of his ancestors.

It was at that point Dougal suggested Dr. Pribble, the man who had inspected his person and then prescribed the laudanum. It had helped for a while but then, when it failed, it failed miserably.

The spirits returned with a passion. Sometimes more than one. All of them singing the same refrain.
Return to Scotland. Restore the castle. Redeem the Sinclair name.

He had still resisted, because he knew, deep in his soul, Scotland was where he would meet his end. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, he'd rationalized that if he never returned to Scotland, he could escape his fate.

A foolish rationalization, for certain.

There was no escape for Lachlan Sinclair, descendant of the Baron of Rosslyn. There was no escape for any of the Caithness dukes. The curse against them was immutable.

But he resisted as long as he could, until the urgings became more and more frequent. At long last, he could no longer bear it. He acceded to the spirit's request in the interest of saving his sanity. Because, at that point, he really did believe he was going mad.

He'd even considered doing himself in.

He wasn't sure why he had not.

Probably stubbornness. That and the howling urge to do as his father asked. To make his life matter somehow.

He'd thought the hauntings would cease when he returned to Scotland, because he was, after all, doing as the spirit asked, but they'd gotten even worse. The visits came with more regularity and the commands had changed, exhorting him to raise the funds to refurbish the castle by ordering the Clearances.

In all that time, he'd never once suspected the visitations were spurious.

Why had it never occurred to him?

Ah. He knew why.

With sudden clarity, it dawned on him.

Each and every time the spirits had visited, he had ended the day with one of Dougal's toddies. Toddies that had numbed his brain and weakened his body.

The realization stunned him. At the same time, it infuriated him. No, more than fury. A scorching tide of rage.

But why?

Why would Dougal want to convince him he was haunted? Why would he want to drive Lachlan insane? Why would he want to incite him to return to Scotland? To rebuild a castle he would never inherit? Why would Dougal care?

Ah, but his befuddlement, this wound, went far deeper than that.

All through his life, Dougal, and his father before him, had been his family, his company, his only companions. They were the only ones who had stayed by Lachlan's side, through thick and thin. The thought that they had been his tormentors all along was nearly more than he could bear. He'd trusted them. Confided in them. Needed them. He'd clung to the fact that
someone
thought him worthy of knowing. And …

Oh, hell.

Something cold crept through him as he sifted through the incidents in his life, the acquaintances who had abruptly distanced themselves for no reason, the invitations that had suddenly stopped coming. The direct cuts he'd suffered from people he had once counted as his friends.

Perhaps Dougal had been his only companion because
he
intended it to be that way. Perhaps his friends had drifted away
because
of Dougal. Perhaps his servants had left
because
of Dougal. Perhaps he'd spent his entire life utterly alone …
because
of Dougal.

It was a horrible thing to discover that everything you'd ever believed was a lie.

Everything.

His mother had not killed herself. His father was not languishing in hell.

And who had told him of the curse?

Uncle Colin.

Had that even been true? Or had it all been made up? Passed around the halls of London? Whispered behind his back? Had it all been lies as well?

As though she knew, as though she understood the confusion coiling through him, Lana's hand nudged his. He grasped it like a lifeline.

Yes.

Yes.

No matter what was really true in his life, this was. She was.

He would cling to that.

And, once he had stopped reeling, once he had regained his footing, he would investigate. He would discover once and for all, who was behind this.

And if it was Dougal, God help him.

Lachlan wouldn't stop until he knew for certain why someone had tried to ruin his life.

Or end it.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They arrived in Forss as the day was waning, which was a pity, because Lana had been wanting to explore the great Hill of Forss. A brisk walk would have done her a world of good after spending two days in a carriage. With Hannah. Throwing up. Aside from which, it would have been an excellent opportunity to draw Lachlan away from the others for a private conversation. But the sun was sinking in the sky and it would be dark far too soon.

It would be
tonight
far too soon.

And tonight, she would have him all to herself.

It was a charming prospect, and the thought of talking over his mystery was only part of it. Her body hummed as she recalled the glory of last night and she knew tonight would be as wonderful. If they could be alone.

As they all tumbled out of the carriage, glad to suck in fresh air, Dougal launched himself from his mount and approached Lachlan. They exchanged words and though she couldn't hear the conversation, Lana was aware of each gesture, each expression. She noted the darkening of Dougal's energy. He was angry … or frightened. Lana made a note to ask Lachlan about the exchange once they were private.

Happily, the inn at Forss wasn't as busy as the one in Halkirk, and there were plenty of rooms to spare. As Dunnet made the arrangements with the hosteler, Lana sat by Hannah's side on a bench in the entryway. She wrapped her arm around her sister's shoulders. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

Hannah sent her a watery smile. “Better. Now that we're no' moving.”

Lana tucked a skein of hair behind her sister's ear. “You look tired.” She did. Tired and wan. But still, there was something of a glow about her. How odd. Usually when a person was ill, they didn't glow. Unless … Lana narrowed her focus on Hannah's energy—it swirled around her in a lazy curl—and knowledge settled in her gut, and swelled.

Oh. Oh. What a delightful eventuality.

She couldn't hide her smile.

Hannah frowned at her. “Why are you gawking like that?”

“I am no' gawking.” She nibbled her lip, but the smile only blossomed.

“Lana…” A warning tone.

She sighed nonchalantly. “'Tis only that I remember a time when Susana suffered a similar illness. We were all so worried. Do you remember? When she returned from Perth?” It had struck them as odd and concerning, because Susana was never ill. Neither was Hannah.

“Aye. I remember. But that was only because she was…” Hannah's eyes widened. Her hand drifted to her belly. The glow around her swelled. “Oh, Lana. You doona think…?”

Lana shot her sister an impish glance. “It is certainly possible. You and Dunnet have been … devoted to each other.” Every night. Sometimes in the day. Sometimes several times a day. Ach, how often they slipped away with adoring smiles and steamy glances. Lana had found it annoying—but it was probably her envy speaking—at least, she'd found it annoying until lately. Now it didn't seem perturbing in the slightest. Now it seemed wonderful, because she knew the feeling.