Lana and the Laird (3 page)

The more he thought on it, the more Scotland befuddled him. Everything was so much more difficult here. Even a thing as simple as tea and cakes.

It was most likely because Scots excelled at being difficult.

The Blue Salon was the singular habitable chamber on the ground floor of the castle. It wanted cleaning, but it was warm and devoid of those chilling drafts, and it was bedecked with actual furniture—though the style was that of the last century.

Lachlan swept in as dukes are meant to sweep, intending to impress Olrig with how imposing he was.

Olrig, however, wasn't cooperating. He had his back to the door and was gazing up at the portrait over the mantel. It was a lovely woman holding a tiny child. Lachlan had no idea who the woman was—one of his long-dead ancestors, no doubt—but when he'd returned to Caithness Castle, he'd left the painting there because he liked the look of it. He liked the look of
her
. Something about the glint in her eye, the way she gazed at the babe in her arms, touched him. He liked the prospect that one woman, somewhere in time, had not abandoned her child.

A bitterness rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, forcing his gaze from the painting. Thrusting thoughts of mothers who did not abandon their children—and those who did—from his mind, he struck a ducal pose and cleared his throat.

Olrig spun around. He was a man of substantial proportions, with a face so round it seemed to swallow up his eyes. His bushy brows were flecked with gray, and his thinning hair was the color of mud. His nose was crooked, as though it had been battered in an unseemly scuffle, and there were bruises around his eyes, as though said scuffle had happened recently. His lips were troutlike; they curled up when he saw Lachlan.

“Ah! Your Grace,” he gusted as he rushed forward.

It was somewhat alarming, being rushed by a rhino, but Lachlan held his ground. Olrig skidded to a halt—far too close, close enough for Lachlan to catch the stench of rotting teeth—and he bowed. It wasn't much of a bow, as bows went, because the girth around his middle wouldn't allow it. But at least it was a bow.

“Olrig.” Lachlan extended his hand and allowed his baron to kiss his ring. “Shall we sit?”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” His chins wobbled. “I must say, I was verra pleased to receive your invitation to visit.”

Pleased? A Scot? Well, there was a novelty. Lachlan wanted very much to like this man right off, but couldn't shake the fact that something about Olrig set his teeth on edge. He wasn't sure if it was the way the man's gaze darted incessantly about the room or the smile that seemed far too cheery to be sincere. “And you brought your account books?”

“Of course.” Olrig took the lesser seat next to the king's chair and slid his books across the table. Lachlan opened them and scanned the pages. He'd always had a head for numbers and quickly assessed the figures. It was clear the books were a mess, nowhere near as meticulous as Dunnet's had been. It was also clear that Olrig wasn't as effective an estate manager as Dunnet.

With a scowl, Lachlan forced all thoughts of Dunnet from his mind. It was foolish of him to obsess. The lingering resentment was beginning to burn.

Although, if he was being honest, it wasn't resentment of Dunnet's defiance that burned as much as the seething bitterness of the bonds that conscribed Lachlan's world. That he truly was not free to do as he liked.

Dunnet was wild and free. Clearly, he did as he liked at all times. Even it if meant defying his overlord.

There was no call for this irritating slither of jealousy.

“Is everything in order?” Olrig asked with a worried glance at the tomes.

Lachlan closed the books with a snap. While he was interested in evaluating the financial status of his barons, he was far more interested in assessing their loyalty. “It is fine. Fine. But I think it would be best if we improve the land. What do you say, Olrig?” No point in beating around the proverbial bush.

Olrig blinked. “Improve the land? Ye want to
clear
it?”

Aw, hell.
Lachlan didn't like the waver in the man's tone. He steeled himself for an obstreperous response. “Yes. I think it would be best. More profitable, wouldn't you say?”

His baron observed him with a sharp stare, and then his face broke into a smile. “Aye. I do.”

Lachlan tried not to gape. Indeed, Olrig was the first of his vassals to respond with the slightest enthusiasm. “You … do?”

“Aye. Of course.” The man rubbed his hands together; Lachlan couldn't help noticing that his fingers resembled sausages. The thought made him hungry. “I've heard great things from other lairds who have implemented the practice. Stafford for one.”

Lachlan tried not to wince. The second Marquess of Stafford was one of his peers—and an old nemesis. The two of them had had more than one nasty altercation while attending the Prince Regent at court. Between the two of them, they governed the bulk of the northern Highlands—Stafford to the west and Lachlan to the east. They'd never seen eye-to-eye on political issues and seemed to be in constant competition for the prince's favor. Although, to be honest, it was Stafford's success with the Clearances that had incited Lachlan to attempt the same. By clearing the land of crofters and leasing to sheep farmers, the marquess had trebled his revenues. While Lachlan's lands were vast, they were not profitable enough to fund the renovations he required and be sure he paid the Crown its due. His personal fortune was unequal to the task as well. That left him with few options.

It was a pity the Rosslyn Treasure had been lost to the mists of time. It would have come in handy about now. Such wealth would allow him to do what he needed to do without worrying about getting anyone's bloody cooperation. But he had no fortuitous treasure and he required the support of his barons.

Here, at last, was a glimmer of hope. If one fell in line, the others would soon follow. “Very good.” He smiled at Olrig. “And how long will it take you to evict your tenants?”

The baron chuckled. “Not long. A month at most.”

“Excellent.” A movement at the door caught his eye. “Ah. Here is Dougal with the tray. Would you care for tea, Olrig?”

The man's nose curled. “Have ye no whisky?”

Lachlan blinked.
Whisky?
It wasn't yet noon.

These Scots.

Ah well, the man deserved some compensation for his hasty cooperation. He was the first to agree with any alacrity. Lachlan waved a hand at Dougal, who headed for the breakfront and poured two glasses. Olrig accepted his with a glittering eye and raised his glass.

“To profitability.”

“Yes. To profitability.” Though it wasn't his custom to take spirits at this hour, Lachlan drank. It behooved him to seal this connection. Olrig had the ear of the other barons and would be an excellent ally in his campaign to convince the others to fall in line. “I must say, Olrig, I am rather impressed with your eagerness.”

“Are you?”

“Yes. The other barons were not nearly as willing to accede to my request.”

Olrig quirked a brow. “Who have you spoken with?”

“Dunnet for one.”

A wet snort, accompanied by a twist of his lips.

“Do you know him well?” Lachlan asked.

“Do I. We are neighbors. Never met a more churlish creature.”

Churlish? Yes. That described him. Rude. Sullen.
Surly.
Lachlan ignored the little voice that whispered,
Strong, principled, admirable
, but only because the whispers annoyed him. He leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Olrig studied Lachlan, then he edged closer. “Ye want to keep a close watch on that one.”

A ribbon of unease swirled in Lachlan's gut. “Do I?”

“Aye. I've heard…” Olrig trailed off and looked away.

“Heard what?”

The baron lifted a shoulder. “I shouldna say.”

“I am your overlord.” Whatever Olrig had to share, he knew it would be unpleasant. But he needed to know.

“I've heard he isna … loyal to you.”

Bile crept up Lachlan's throat. Bloody hell. He had no idea why the revelation pierced him as it did. “How so?”

Olrig's piggy little eyes narrowed; he took another sip of his drink. “There is a plot afoot, Your Grace. One orchestrated by the Marquess of Stafford, with Dunnet as his agent.”

Oh, fuck.

“What kind of plot?”

“To incite revolt among your barons.”

Revolt? He hated the thought that Dunnet could be so duplicitous, but could not deny that it tallied with the man's insolent behavior. “To what end?”

“From what I understand, the marquess aims to undermine your standing with the prince.”

That was hardly a surprise. Stafford had been working on that for years. That, and petitioning the prince to make him a duke as well. Word was, he was making progress with the Regent.

“The marquess is hoping to position himself to claim your lands when…” Olrig's stubby lashes flickered.

“When…?”

“Beg pardon, Your Grace. When you die.”

Ah yes. That old chestnut. His curse, and impending death, was hardly a secret. It was all the rage in London salons. And in the betting book at White's as well.

“And you say Dunnet is in league with Stafford?” That concerned him more than any plot to claim his lands when he died. He would be dead then; he shouldn't care who held the parishes of Caithness. But the knowledge that his vassal had joined forces with his enemy incensed him. And for some reason, the fact that it was Dunnet incensed him more.

“Aye, Your Grace.” Olrig finished off his drink, and Dougal refilled his glass.

“Is this rumor?” Lachlan deplored hearsay. Especially when a man's reputation—and possibly his neck—was at stake.

Olrig leaned closer and whispered, “Not rumor. I saw him myself.”

“You saw him?”

“Meeting with Stafford's son. At the inn in Bowermadden. Plotting. Just last week.”

Lachlan stilled as a cold fist clutched his chest. Damn it all. Why was he disappointed? Dunnet had never tried to hide his disrespect. But blatant rebellion? It was untenable. Absolutely untenable.

“He tried to drag me into this plot, but I refused.” Olrig's eyes gleamed. He gestured to his squashed nose. “When I refused, he did this.”

“He hit you?” How savage.

“Aye. He … has a temper, that one.”

A temper, indeed.

Lachlan glanced at Olrig. Something that seemed like glee flickered over his expression, but it was fleeting, and it quickly melted into an obsequious concern. “I … Thank you for sharing this with me, Olrig. I appreciate your honesty and your loyalty.”

“I am a verra loyal man, Your Grace.”

“Your fidelity shall be rewarded.” Lachlan believed in rewarding loyalty … and punishing betrayal.

Swiftly and without mercy.

He shot a speaking glance at Dougal. Though he hated leaving his castle in the midst of repairs, he had to. He had to go to Dunnetshire at once and rip out this insurgency at its roots.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Lana Dounreay sat up in her bed with a cry. She'd dreamed of him again. The dying man. And as it had each time, the vision of him sinking into the deep and swirling darkness chilled her to the bone. As always, a cold fist of horror and fear clutched at her heart at the prospect of losing him. Of the world losing his brilliance.

This dream wasn't like the others. Not like the visions or the visitations she suffered each day. There was something about it that clung, like a spider's web that would not be brushed away. Surely it wasn't his face. But ah, what a glorious countenance. The man in her dream was tall and dark, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. His hair was a waterfall of inky curls, and his chin was speckled with a fascinating stubble. His eyes were a simmering blue and his features noble and strong. His lips were particularly entrancing, full and lush. Even through the tangled horror of the dream, the thought of those lips, and kissing them, plagued her.

Although, if she was honest, it wasn't his face or his lips or anything so superficial that spoke to her, captured her, compelled her. It was something far deeper. A recognition. A familiarity of spirit. Which was odd in itself, because she'd never met this man. She would have remembered if she had.

His presence was … profound.

She shifted Nerid off her chest and slid from the bed. Nerid had the tendency to sprawl. He liked to drape himself over Lana as he slept. He also liked to drool. As she repositioned him, his lid flicked open and he glared his offense.

“Ach, my wee beastie,” she cooed, chucking him on the chin. “Go back to sleep.” With a grunt, he settled himself on her pillow.

It was a sad thing when your best friend was a truculent cat.

Lana sighed, scraped her hair from her face, and padded to the window seat to stare out at the night. The trails of her dream haunted her still, and she knew there would be no more sleep.

She didn't know why the angels saw fit to show him to her, night after night. And, contrary creatures as they were, they were not forthcoming with the information. But Lana had had many such visions and she was used to the uncooperative nature of angels. She knew there was a reason, and it would be revealed in time. It always was.

She'd dreamed of Alexander Lochlannach, Laird of Dunnet, long before her sister Hannah had agreed to marry him. Long before either of them had met him. Long before they'd come to live in his home. She'd dreamed of his brother Andrew, too, with his laughing eyes and charming grin.

At first, she'd thought she'd dreamed of Andrew because he was her one true love, that the angels were giving her a peek at her future. Although she knew this was a foolish notion, she'd liked the idea that the handsome, playful man might be her soul mate. But then, when she'd come to Dunnetshire and they'd met, and she'd kissed him, she'd known immediately that he was meant for
someone
, just not for her.