Lana and the Laird (37 page)

The bastard spent most of the evening attempting to court Lana. Lachlan should have been grateful that she responded with nothing but amusement.

He wasn't grateful.

He would have much preferred being the one to command her attention.

He would have much preferred sitting next to her or across from her. Or within sight of her.

He tried to enjoy the meal, but it was a trial.

When he made his way to his rooms that night, Hamish followed. With a smirk, the man pulled a chair into the alcove across from Lachlan's door and set up camp. Lachlan allowed him his triumph, secure in the knowledge that he would probably be getting little sleep in that chair, and for no great purpose. Lachlan had no illicit intentions tonight. He wouldn't be sneaking out to visit Lana … because she wasn't available tonight. And if he were going to sneak out to visit Lana, he would probably use the valet's entrance, which made Hamish's position at the main doors to his suite a moot point. Not that he'd thought about it. Much.

But that was the point of sneaking, after all. Not being seen.

He shot Hamish a supercilious smile as he stepped into his rooms and closed the door with a decisive click.

A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention and he went still. His heart thumped. Two thoughts flashed through his brain. The first and foremost was the looming threat of Stafford's plot. And then came the illogical and lingering apprehension that his father's spirit had followed him here to Dounreay and was getting an early start on his haunting. But Lachlan remembered that whoever his visitor had been, it had not been his father. Slowly, he scanned the dimly lit room.

When Dougal emerged from the shadows, his pulse gave a leap.

He didn't know why he felt the sudden urge to hunt for a weapon. Or perhaps he did. While he'd never felt in danger in Dougal's presence, in light of his recent discoveries he certainly felt ill at ease.

The possibility that Dougal and Stafford might be in cahoots didn't escape him.

He knew he needed to have a confrontation with his cousin, but at the moment all he had was a handful of suspicions. He wanted to see what more he could discover before he tipped his hand. Regardless, he needed to be on his guard.

“Ah Dougal.” Lachlan forced a smile. “You've returned.”

“Aye, Your Grace. With disturbing news.”

Lachlan had a pretty good idea what the news would be. “Do tell,” he said as he made his way from the parlor into the bedroom. It annoyed him to see a toddy awaiting him on the table by the fire.

“Dunnet's men have attacked Scrabster.”

Lachlan blinked. That wasn't the news he'd been expecting to hear. It was directly opposed to the tale Andrew had told. “Really?”

“Aye. The bastard blew up his castle and skewered the baron with several arrows. Nearly killed him.”

“He's not dead?” There was a pity. Now there would have to be a trial. Although, with the letters they had in their possession, and the fact that Lachlan would be the justice of the peace, he had a pretty good idea how it would turn out.

But Scrabster's betrayal was a small annoyance at this point. What bothered Lachlan more was the fact that Dougal was lying to him. Again. “And why would Dunnet do this?”

Dougal's brow lowered. “The same reason he attacked Olrig, I'd wager. Because he's in league with Stafford and the two barons refused to join ranks. The point is, Dunnet canna be trusted. And we are no' safe here. We must return to Ackergill at once.”

Lachlan didn't understand why Dougal was so intent on returning to Caithness Castle, but it probably had nothing to do with Lachlan's safety. Indeed, if his cousin was part of Stafford's grand plan, isolating him in the crumbling castle would suit his needs quite nicely.

At any rate, he had no intention of leaving anytime soon, but he wasn't in the mood to argue with his cousin. He hadn't slept much the night before—someone had kept him awake—and he was tired. Beyond that, he was heartsick at yet more evidence that the man he thought he could trust with everything, including his life, was a traitor. So he dropped into the chair by the fire and murmured, “I shall think on it.”

“Think on it?” Dougal's face went an odd shade of red. And then, at Lachlan's sharp glance, he calmed himself. It seemed to take some effort. “Aye, Your Grace.”

“In the meantime, I'm tired from the journey and would like to rest. I will see you in the morning, Dougal.”

It was a blatant dismissal. His cousin's lips flapped as he glanced from Lachlan to the door and back again. “I, ah, made you a toddy.”

“Thank you. I shall enjoy it.”

If Dougal was waiting for Lachlan to take a sip, he had a long wait coming. There was no way that toddy would pass his lips, ever again. But he wasn't ready to reveal his suspicions. Not just yet. So he fixed his gaze on the fire and when Dougal didn't leave, he repeated himself, this time in a meaningful tone. “I shall see you in the morning.”

“Do you no' want me to help you prepare for bed?”

Lachlan forced a smile. “In this costume, I need little help.” Indeed, that was one of the benefits of the kilt. “Good night, Dougal.”

“But—”

“Good night.”

Finally, his cousin took the hint—though it was hardy a hint, more of a command—and made his way to the valet's door. Once he was gone, Lachlan glared at the toddy and, holding the glass with two fingers, carried it to the privy and dumped it into the toilet. He held the empty glass to his nose and sniffed, trying to identify the ingredients. Whisky for certain, but there was another scent, a bitter tinge.

Something nasty roiled in his belly at the confirmation his cousin had been drugging him. He stormed back to the bedroom and, setting the empty glass on the table once more, prepared for bed. He took the precaution of finding his hunting knife, packed in his trunk, and tucking it under his pillow. And then he pushed a chest in front of the valet's door. If someone sought to visit him in the night, Lachlan didn't see the point of being an easy target.

As tired as he was, sleep was long in coming. For one thing, Dougal's duplicity plagued him. He needed to decide how to handle it. He wished he had more information about his cousin's plans, his intentions. He wished he knew
why
he'd done all the strange things he'd done. But there was one thing he did know. If he asked, Dougal wouldn't tell him.

At least Stafford's motives were plain.

Other thoughts plagued his mind as well and then, in the nature of such things, his body. Memories of Lana's kisses, visions of her face as she came apart in his arms, her scent, her warmth.

And then, the expression on her face when Hamish had railed at her …

God, that had scored him to the soul.

Dukes doona marry girls like you. Dukes use girls like you. Use them and toss them aside when they are finished.

And she had nodded.
Nodded.
As though she accepted this wholeheartedly. As though she expected as much from him.

Although, if he were being honest with himself, it was true. All true.

He did have no intention of marrying her, despite the fact he'd despoiled her. Despite the fact he'd selfishly forgotten to use any protection. Hell, he could have planted a babe in her belly already. They'd had plenty of opportunity.

It was wrong that the thought excited him.

The thought of his child, stirring in her body. Growing there.

It was wrong to hope his seed had taken root.

That he might be forced by convention to break his vow and marry her despite the curse. Despite everything.

The thought thrilled him to the core.

But then his exhilaration came crashing down as he remembered. He could not, should not expose her to his hell.

Even his hope was a sin.

It was a terrible thing to want something so much and know it couldn't be yours. Even worse to know it could be yours, if you simply reached out and took it. The temptation to do so scoured him.

A thump and a curse in the dressing room made Lachlan still. His pulse quickened as he heard footsteps in his room. He slid his hand beneath the pillow. The cold hilt of his knife was a comfort. The only light was that of the fire, and as it had burned down to embers, there was barely that, but he could see a figure moving through the shadows. As the intruder neared the fire, Lachlan recognized Dougal's features. He frowned as he picked up the empty glass and then glanced at the bed.

Lachlan made it a point not to move.

He was curious to see what would happen now, when Dougal was certain he was asleep. Or, at the very least, drugged out of his mind.

He didn't have long to wait. Dougal made his way back into the dressing room, and shortly thereafter Lachlan heard the telltale clank of chains.

Anger roiled through him.

Anger and resolve.

By God, he was catching his ghost tonight.

He waited until the “spirit” made his way to the side of the bed, moaning and groaning and clanking and then, when he was close, Lachlan sprang.

Indeed, he knew at once, as Lana had, this wasn't a ghost. It was a man, and a solid one. It was, apparently, a man who knew how to fight. But Lachlan was clever and determined and utterly enraged. And he had a knife. When he leaped for the man, Lachlan draped him in the coverlet from his bed to blind him and then held him tight.

The man whirled madly, trying to shake Lachlan loose. Together, they careened around the room, bumping into furniture and knocking over a vase. It fell to the ground with a crash, but Lachlan ignored it. He focused on hanging on to his intruder. To that end, he dropped the knife. It clattered to the ground.

The man was larger and stronger, but Lachlan had his fury to feed his fire. Still, he didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

Thank God Hamish was keeping watch outside his door. He must have heard the tumult because he burst into the room and took in the sight of the duke clinging to a bucking miscreant draped in the ducal bedclothes, and sprang forward to help.

Together Lachlan and Hamish lugged the cursing man into the parlor and forced him into a chair. He tried to lunge away, but Hamish was a big man and held him still. It was probably poetic justice that they used his chains to bind him to the chair.

Outrage flicked over Hamish's face as he glared at the draped ghost. “Shall I fetch Dunnet?”

“I think that would be a good idea,” Lachlan said as he retrieved the knife. It wouldn't hurt to have it handy.

Hamish wasn't gone long as Dunnet's rooms were just down the hall. While he was gone, Lachlan lit the lamps. By the time Hamish returned with the baron, the room blazed with light and the man tied to the chair had stopped struggling.

“What the hell is this?” Alexander asked, staring at the bound man.

“A visitor.” Lachlan lifted the blanket from the man's head; his face was an unnatural shade of white—one that had always horrified Lachlan. Now he could see that the man's skin had been brushed with ashes.

Alexander's gaze flicked from Lachlan to the intruder, studying their features. “He looks like you,” he murmured.

“Aye,” Lachlan said. Though he was older and heavier set, there was no denying the resemblance. “He is meant to. This man has been posing as my father's ghost for two years.”

“Really?” Alexander's fists opened and closed. “Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea. Shall we ask him?” It was a rhetorical question. Still, when Lachlan settled his gaze on the man, his lips tightened.

“He doesna seem inclined to speak,” Hamish said. “Excellent.” When Lachlan glanced at him quizzically, he grinned. “I've been wanting to use the torture devices in the dungeon, but havena had the chance.”

Lachlan gaped at him. “There is a dungeon?”

“Oh, aye.”

“And torture devices?”

“Verra old ones,” Hamish said with a glance at the erstwhile ghost. His grin was evil. “Rusty.”

Their captive's nostrils flared.

“Hamish is verra good at interrogation, Your Grace,” Alexander said, doing a poor job of hiding his smile. “He will get this blighter to talk. Doona fash yerself.”

“There might be blood, though.” Hamish picked up the knife and studied it. “Perhaps we should take him down there before we begin? We wouldna want to make a mess here.”

“Ach, nae. Not in the duke's chambers,” Alexander said agreeably.

It occurred to Lachlan, at that moment, how much he really enjoyed having friends. He couldn't help sending Alexander a grin. The baron winked. “Shall we wake Andrew and let him join the fun? My brother enjoys this kind of thing, too,” Alexander said in an aside to Lachlan.

“Nae.” Hamish clapped their captive on the shoulder, making him jump. “Let's let Andrew sleep. He can take the next shift. Of course, we'll have to take care that there is something left for him to torture.”

“We could leave him the fingernails.” Alexander was generous like that.

Hamish put out a lip. “I was looking forward to the fingernails—”

During this exchange, the ghost's eyes had gone wider and wider. When fingernails were thrown into the mix, his lip began to tremble. “No! Please. I'll talk. I'll talk.”

The ghost, apparently, was not a stalwart soul.

It surprised Lachlan that he spoke, not with a Scottish brogue, but with a precise British lilt. For some reason, Lachlan had assumed he was a Scot.

He pulled up chair facing the man and sat. Alexander did the same. Lachlan fixed his features into a ferocious expression and glared at his tormentor. It wasn't difficult to maintain. “Well?” he said.

“I … Where do you want me to begin?”

Where? Where indeed? Myriad questions milled through his mind.

Hamish wasn't so plagued with options. “How about starting with what the hell were you doing in His Grace's room? In the middle of the night?”