Lana and the Laird (32 page)

What if she was wrong? What if the curse was real and he eschewed her embrace for what little time he had left, and he died on the eve of his thirtieth birthday. He would have missed his only chance to be with her. His only chance at some hint of happiness.

Ah. He knew. He knew he couldn't do that. Couldn't refuse himself that one shining gift.

He should allow himself the pleasure of her presence, her friendship, her smiles, but never
touch
her again.

The thought settled in his soul and at the same time it speared him, it incited a harsh internal laugh.

Not touch her?

He knew better. He knew, as long as she wanted him, he would be hers, helpless in her hands.

Lana gave a delighted cry as they turned onto the coast road to Dounreay. Her delight captured all of his attention, commanded his dark thoughts back into the shadows. Heart swelling, he watched her as they neared her home. She pointed out landmarks and told him tales of her adventures as a child.

He said nothing. Was incapable. He merely sat there with a smile on his lips and watched her.

His glorious angel.

His Lana.

A time or two, he caught Hannah watching him watch Lana. Her expression caused a ripple of unease to crawl through his belly. Granted, he was a duke and used to doing as he pleased with little or no remorse, but something in Hannah's eyes made a hint of guilt sizzle. Or perhaps it wasn't guilt. Perhaps it was fear. If Lady Dunnet knew what he'd done with her sister, to her sister, she would eviscerate him.

Best, then, that she not know.

He fixed his features into a pleasant arrangement, folded his fingers over his stomach, and attempted to look as innocent as he could. He doubted he fooled her.

When the pink turrets of Dounreay Castle appeared on the horizon, his breath caught in his throat. Oh, yes, it was a lovely sight, but not because of that. But because Lana leaned over him to see through his window. The feel of her, so near, her scent, her warmth, poleaxed him.

It had only been a few hours since he'd loved her, since he'd been
in
her. He dearly wanted to be in her again.

It would be awkward, meeting her father with his cock standing high, so he closed his eyes and tried to cool his ardor.

It was an impossible task.

As the carriage pulled into the bailey, he focused on the sights and sounds, trying to fill his mind with that, rather than the vision of Lana, splayed beneath him, huffing and groaning and straining for her pleasure—

What was he focusing on again?

Ah yes. The castle. Its denizens. His people.

Dounreay was a pretty keep, and as well-kept as Lochlannach Castle. It warmed Lachlan's heart that his vassals cared about their homes and properties. It sent a flush of chagrin through him to think of Caithness Castle, and how it had been allowed to crumble as it had. It was partly his fault, for ignoring his responsibilities for the better part of his life, but it wasn't all due to him. There were centuries of neglect reflected in his ancestral home.

He'd been thinking about that as well, and the money it would take to refurbish it and what a waste it all seemed now, in retrospect. That he'd even considered clearing the land to finance such a folly was a mortifying thought.

It made much more sense to focus on the making the main hall habitable. It would require a fraction of the work and, frankly, he only really needed living quarters for himself and his staff. Most important, it wouldn't require a fortune.

He was still determined to set up a trust for the orphans of Caithness. If he sold all of his extant properties and turned the profits to that cause, it would be a robust fund, and an excellent legacy. A much better decision than refurbishing an ancient pile of stones. The rightness of the choice warmed him.

He would set up a fund for Lana, too.

Just in case.

He needed to know she would be taken care of. No matter what.

As they descended from the carriage, it took everything in him not to curl his arm around Lana's waist. He had to remind himself that not only did he not have the right to touch her with such familiarity, but in the eyes of the world they'd never kissed. Never touched. Never spent two nights wound around each other.

He shoved his fists in his pockets instead—and tried not to glare at Alexander, who had his arm around Hannah's waist—even though he knew it made him look like a petulant boy.

They found their host, Magnus Dounreay, in the parlor sipping whisky. He seemed in that moment, to be a very happy man, ensconced—alone—in his parlor … sipping whisky at noon. But when he saw his daughters, true happiness flooded his features. He leaped to his feet—belying all the rumors Lachlan had heard about his ill health—and bounded across the room, sweeping Hannah and Lana into his arms.

“Ach, my darlings!” The old man nearly wept. “I dinna know ye were coming.”

Alexander stepped forward; the two men clasped hands. “We had to come, once we received your letter.”

Dounreay's furry brow wrinkled. “Which one?”

“Which one?” Hannah whipped around and glared at Alexander. She looked prepared to smack him if it came to light he hadn't shared
all
the letters.

He ripped his gaze from her face and focused on her father. “The one about Isobel. The kidnapping attempt.”

“Ah…” Dounreay paled and scrubbed his face. “Which one?”

“There was another?” Alexander boomed.

“Aye. Bluidy bastards. This time they crept into the castle and stole her from her bed.”

“Oh, dear.” It was a testament to Lana's shock that she clutched at Lachlan's arm.

It was a testament to Hannah's that she didn't notice. “Where is Isobel?” she wailed. “Is she all right?”

“Ach, she's fine, my lass,” her father reassured her. “They're all fine. There was a…” He shot a wary glance at Alexander. “Kerfuffle, but it all turned out well. Isobel is safe, thanks to Andrew.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes and studied Magnus with a growing suspicion. “Where are they?”

Her father blinked. Several times. More times than necessary. “Why, in Brims, of course.”

“Brims!” Lana murmured. “We must have passed them on our way here.”

“Why are they in Brims?”

Magnus didn't answer. Instead he patted Hannah's hand and, in a patent and pathetic attempt to distract her, said, “No doubt they'll be back at any time and they will want to tell you their tale. In the meantime, sit. Sit.” He forced her onto the divan. “Can I get you a drink?” This, he asked the men. Before either could respond, he poured them both a draught, and he barked at a passing maid for a tea tray for the ladies. He handed Alexander his glass and then turned to Lachlan.

He froze with the drink outstretched. His eyes narrowed. “And who are you?” he asked.

“Oh, lord,” Alexander moaned. “I'm so sorry. I forgot to introduce you. Magnus, Laird of Reay, this is His Grace, Lachlan Sinclair, Duke of Caithness.

Magnus's friendly expression soured. He jerked the glass back. It sloshed over his fingers, but he didn't seem to care. “Caithness.” A hiss.

Ye gods.

It was one thing, being greeted with such blatant repugnance from one of his barons. It was another thing entirely when the man in question was the father of the woman he loved.

Quite lowering.

Still, Lachlan found it in him to nod and fix something akin to a smile on his face.

Dounreay did not smile in return. He scrunched up one eye and peered at Lachlan through the other. “Come to badger me about clearing my land, nae doubt. I willna do it. I willna do it, I tell you.” He whirled on Dunnet. “Why did ye no' warn me you were bringing this snake here? Into my
home
?”

“Papa!” He was gratified that Lana leaped to his defense. “Lachlan is no' a snake. He's a good man.”

“
Lachlan?
” Magnus bellowed.

He was a huge, bristling bear, but she fearlessly faced him down. “And he is no' clearing the land. He's changed his mind.”

It shouldn't have been amusing, watching the expressions flicker over Magnus's face, but it was. Annoyance that his daughter had addressed her duke with such informality, confusion at her claim, and then relief as the announcement sank in.

And then, of course, annoyance again.

He whipped around and fixed Lachlan with a sharp scrutiny. It made a hint of trepidation skirl through his veins.
Good God.
Had he really debauched this man's daughter? No doubt, if they were found out, Magnus would run him through. With a dull blade. Several times.

“
Lachlan
has been staying with us at Dunnet,” Hannah said, and he couldn't help but shoot her a grateful glance. At her use of his name, Magnus seemed to relax. A little. Lachlan wasn't fool enough to be completely relieved. He would need to be on his best behavior here.

And Lana would, too.

No more late-night visits. No more long lingering baths. No more …

Hell.

The thought gutted him.

“Aye,” Alexander came to stand by his side and clapped him on the shoulder—apparently a sign of friendship and acceptance among the Scots. And Lachlan was thankful for it. “We've enjoyed getting to know him.” He glanced meaningfully at the glass Magnus still held in his hand. Grudgingly, the old man passed it over.

Lachlan wasn't altogether certain if he begrudged offering a welcome to the duke he had despised for years, or if he simply didn't like sharing his whisky; he suspected it was a little of both.

Still, it was excellent whisky.

“So,” Magnus said warily. “Ye've changed your mind about clearing the land?”

“Yes. I have. Did you not receive my missive with orders to that effect?”

Magnus frowned. “I dinna.”

Something curled in Lachlan's gut. He'd had Dougal draft letters to each of his barons, after which he had signed them and affixed his seal. Dougal had assured them they'd been delivered.

He didn't allow his anger to swell. Not yet. The letter to Dounreay could have been delayed, but recent revelations, and his cousin's insistence that this change of heart was a mistake, made him suspect Dougal hadn't sent them at all.

He resolved he would, at the earliest opportunity, draft new letters. No doubt he could count on Dunnet to see to it they were delivered with all haste.

But at the moment, he needed to set Magnus's mind at rest. “Dounreay, be assured. I have changed my mind. I am adamant that the Clearances are an atrocity.”

Funny how that one sentence, or perhaps the vehemence with which he issued it, caused a marked change in his baron's demeanor. He even cracked a smile. “Well fine,” he growled. “That's fine.” And then he smacked Lachlan on the shoulder, with such force he nearly tipped over.

The maid arrived with a tea tray for the ladies, and Magnus once again bade everyone to sit.

Lachlan made it a point to sit in the wing chair next to the divan. The temptation to sit next to Lana was far too strong. And if he did, he had no doubt that their glances, their touches, would give the game away.

Thankfully, once they were settled, all attention fell to Hannah, as her father peppered her with questions about her happiness with her new husband. Both she and Alexander beamed as they assured him they were very happy.

Ah, verra happy.

As all eyes were on them, this gave Lachlan the chance to shoot a smile at Lana. He was gratified when she smiled back.

And winked.

Hunger and excitement curled through him.

Holy hell. What a woman.

Though he knew it was unwise, his mind wandered in the direction of ways he might get her alone.

By all that was holy, he should not be thinking about sneaking off with her. Not here, in her own home. Not while sitting next to her father and making small talk about the happenings in London or the politics of Scotland.

One would think, as a duke, he had at least one scruple.

Apparently not.

While the others sat and nibbled on cakes, enjoying a rather pleasant chat, his mind whirled, considering and rejecting one option after another.

He must have been so deeply sunk in the possibilities that he lost the thread of the discussion, because all of a sudden both Hannah and Lana stood.

Lachlan's head whipped up. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Lana gave a little laugh, one that confirmed the fact he'd missed a salient chunk of the conversation. “Hannah would like to lie down,” she said. “We're going upstairs.”

Ah yes. It had been a long ride, a tiring few days. No doubt the women were both exhausted. But it was difficult to watch Lana leave. Though once the ladies were gone, Magnus pulled out his
good
whisky, which was fine indeed.

They were well into their second tumbler when a beautiful redhead burst into the room. Lachlan knew at once that this had to be Susana Dounreay. He'd heard many stories about Lana's audacious older sister, who was unmatched with a bow and regularly trounced trained warriors in combat practice. She was followed by two men, one a ginger and the other a behemoth with white-blond hair. It was immediately evident to Lachlan—from the similarity in their features—this was Dunnet's brother. Indeed, when Alexander spotted him, he leaped to his feet and crowed, “Andrew!” and wrapped him in a tight hug.

Andrew winced at the ferocity of the embrace at which point Susana stormed up to Alexander, gazing far up into his face, as she was rather small, and barked, “Have a care. He's been shot.”

Lachlan straightened in his chair.
Holy hell.
Things here were worse than they'd thought.

Alexander's eyes widened. His attention whipped to his brother. “Shot?”

“He was saving me,” a wee girl, also with white-blond hair and strikingly similar features, said as she flounced into the room. Ignoring all the adults, she studied the plate of cakes, selecting one with care and licking it.