Lana and the Laird (4 page)

There had been other times she'd dreamed of people before she met them and always, every time, they'd turned out to be someone important to her or someone she loved.

Such was the case with this man, whoever he was.

One day, they would meet and their interaction would change the course of her destiny. Or his.

She just didn't know how or why or when—although she knew for certain, given the mood of the dream, she was meant to save him from … something.

It was a little annoying, knowing things, but only in bits and pieces, and never fully understanding them. She should be used to it by now. She'd had this gift since she was a child, ever since the fever that had nearly killed her.

By now, she knew better than to try to guess at his significance. She certainly knew better than to entertain the silly hope he might be the man she'd waited for. But she couldn't help it. The feeling she had when she thought of
him
, the feeling that lingered so, made her heart skip and her soul ache with anticipation.

If she were wise, she wouldn't allow such flights of fancy.

Though she'd spent her life surrounded by family and friends, Lana had always walked in loneliness, apart from the world. She'd certainly never fit in. When people learned about her gifts, their eyes would widen and their nostrils would flare. And they would back away. Not always physically, but mentally and emotionally for certain.

Lana was used to it, but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

She'd come to terms with the fact she would never be married. What man would want a wife who could learn all his secrets from the lips of the dead? She was lucky to have a family that loved her and cared for her and didn't revile her for her gifts. She was lucky to have sisters who would always welcome her in their homes, even when she was old and gray and … alone.

Aye, whoever he was, this dying man, he was not her soul mate. He wasn't her true love. He wasn't the one who would accept her, embrace her for what she was.

There was no such man.

She was only courting heartbreak to contemplate such things.

It took a long time for dawn to break. Some nights were like this, longer than others, when she sat vigil over some unseen world. When the first rosy fingers crept over the sill, Lana stood and stretched. Then she made her way to her wardrobe and dressed for the day.

As was her custom, she headed for the kitchens. As she closed her door, she glanced across the hall at her sister's rooms and a sadness plucked at her heart. Once upon a time, when the night was too long, she would have gone to Hannah's room, crawled into her bed, and curled up against her. But Hannah was married now. No doubt Dunnet wouldn't appreciate a nocturnal visitor.

Her sister's husband was a fine and patient man, but not that patient.

Lana quirked a smile as she entertained the prospect of the scene such a visit might engender. It was a small amusement, but she was easily amused.

As she made her way down the hall she nodded to Sir Callum, who was on guard. He was a gallant warrior, a wounded soul. Lana liked him because he was so gentle—an odd trait in a warrior. He'd died in this hall, long ago, protecting his lady love. It was a great tragedy that he had failed in his quest and his beloved Loreli had been taken by the enemy. Though she was long dead as well, Callum still kept his watch. Lana prayed at some point he would be able to forgive himself for his failure. It really hadn't been his fault. He and his men had been tremendously overpowered.

On the staircase, she stepped to the side to keep from disturbing young Katie who was, as always, leaning against the balustrade and weeping. There was no need to greet Katie. Because she was so wrapped in her grief, she never noticed anyone or anything. She'd been seduced by her laird sometime in the fifteenth century and found herself with child. To avoid the shame, and perhaps to punish her lover for his disinterest, she'd thrown herself from the balcony.

Ah, and then there was Dermid. Lana didn't care for Dermid in the slightest. She averted her eyes as she passed the library and pretended not to hear his shouting. Dermid was a shouter, and the foulest words issued forth from his railing spirit.

It was a relief to reach the kitchens, to step into a warm, welcoming world filled with fragrant scents and happy memories. She shot a grin to Una, who was supervising Morag's work. “Good morning,” she said. Lana spent most mornings with the sisters in the kitchen. It was a haven for her. The castle ghosts tended to avoid these rooms, as Una was far too territorial.

Morag turned, a bright smile on her usually dour face. “Good morning, lass. And how did ye sleep?”

Lana selected an apple and bit into it before she answered. “Wonderfully.” There was no need to tell the truth. No one really wanted to know.

“I'm making bannocks,” Morag said as she stirred the contents in a crockery bowl.

Una blew out a breath. “She's stirring too much,” she complained. Una was one to complain.

Lana set her hand on Morag's. The stirring ceased. “If you over-stir, they will be hard,” she murmured.

Morag closed one eye and studied her through it, then set the bowl to the side. “This wouldna be a problem if she had written down her recipes,” she muttered.

Una snorted. “She should have paid more attention when I tried to teach her.”

Lana nodded, but she said nothing. She'd had a difficult night and she had no inclination to get embroiled in another skirmish between the two sisters. They had always been at odds, locked in a constant battle for supremacy in the kitchen. It was difficult for Una to accept the fact that Morag had won. After a fashion. She was the only one who could still cook. Una could only supervise. And even then, in silence.

“Tell her she's using too much salt,” Una barked.

Lana sent her a reproving frown. She didn't like being ordered around by the dead. Aside from which, Morag wasn't using too much salt. Her bannocks were perfectly seasoned. “I'll be back later,” she said, giving Morag a kiss on the cheek. “I'm going to check on the dogs in the stable.”

“Ach. Wait.” Morag hurried into the larder and returned with a bundle of scraps. “Here.”

“Thank you. They will appreciate this.” She shot her friend a smile and made her way into the bailey and to the stables. Several days ago, Hannah and her husband had rescued a dog that had been attacked by her vicious owner. In the melee, Dunnet's hound Brùid had been injured as well. Lana made it a point to visit as often as she could and try to soothe their spirits.

It was a sad thing when a creature was savaged. Though she was hardly an angel, Lana tried to do what she could to bring peace to the world. She liked to think it was her purpose on this earth. And if it was not, it didn't matter. It was the purpose she chose.

She sighed as she stepped into the stable, greeting Beelzebub, her sister's stallion, with a welcoming pat on his velvety muzzle. Then, as she made her way down the long line, the other horses poked their heads out for a pat as well. They were such fine creatures, Dunnet's mounts. A beauty, every one.

Though she didn't ride, Lana loved the stables. The familiar peace soothed her spirit. She loved the snuffle of the horses, the smells of hay and animal musk, the shadowed serenity.

The hounds were settled in the stall on the end, next to the stable master's rooms, because Ewan was a skilled healer. He and Lana had spent many hours caring for the dogs, changing their bandages and tending their wounds. More than one night, Lana had fallen asleep cuddling Brùid and willing him to heal. And more than once, she'd woken to find that sometime in the night Ewan had covered her with a blanket while she slept.

He wasn't about this morning. No one was, save Gavin, a young squire who had perished trying to save the animals in a fire that had ravaged the original stables several hundred years ago. Lana liked Gavin; he loved horses as well. So much, he'd given his life for them. She nodded to him, and he waved.

When she opened the stall door and slipped inside, Brùid whined a greeting and Lana settled on the hay at his side. The female, Sadie, lifted her head and thumped her tail, but her interest didn't truly perk until Lana opened the cloth in which Morag had wrapped the scraps.

“Och. Hungry are ye?” she cooed as she fed the dogs the morsels she'd brought. Though Sadie was a lady, daintily accepting each bit, Brùid was less polite. He gobbled each chunk down and then peered at her expectantly for more.

She was nearly finished when a bustle at the stable door captured her attention. She peered through the slats of the stall door and her pulse picked up as she caught sight of Galen Robb.

He was a fine-looking man, so tall and braw, and wrapped in the Sinclair plaid. His shoulders were broad and his features were those of a Greek god, perfect in every way. With his golden locks and his broad smile, he was a man many women in the area fancied.

Compared with the man in her dreams, though, his glory paled.

He was in the company of Trevor Clay. The men chattered as they led their mounts into the stables and proceeded to remove the tack.

“Maisey?” Galen asked on a laugh. “The milkmaid?”

Trevor set his hands on his hips and offered a cocky grin. “Twice.”

“In one night?” Galen's tone was a challenge, and Trevor's expression fell.

“Nae. All right. How about Irene? The butcher's daughter.”

“Ah. A fine lass.” Galen winked. “Quite a handful.”

Trevor held out his hands in a cupping motion. “Especially from behind.”

Lana's face burned as she realized exactly what they were discussing. She should probably make herself known before the conversation got truly salacious. But as she made to stand, Trevor's next words froze her in place.

“And Lana Dounreay?”

Galen's features pinched and his lips curled in what she could only interpret as disdain. The sight of it made her belly tighten. She eased back down, but didn't look away. Couldn't.

“The baroness's sister?”

Och, she didn't like his tone. Incredulity was hardly warranted.

“She's a pretty thing,” Trevor offered, but there was a hint of mockery in the words. It made the little hairs on Lana's nape stand up.

“Aye.” Galen picked up a brush and began to curry his mount.

“Prettier than all the others combined.”

“Aye.” He grimaced. “But she is the laird's ward.”

Trevor chuckled. The sound skittered through the room. “When has something like that stopped you from pursuing a pretty lass?” He slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, man. Why do you no' admit the truth?”

Lana's fingers closed tightly on the slats. She leaned forward even more.

“What truth is that?” Galen had stopped brushing to glare at his friend.

“She frightens you.”

Ah. The pain.

It was a silly pain, because she knew. She knew what people thought of her. Still, it was difficult to hear.

“I'm no' afraid of anything. Much less a wee lassie.” The brushing resumed, with a vigor so robust, the mount shuffled restlessly.

“Excellent.” Trevor rubbed his hands together. “Then I dare you to seduce her.”

A flush crept up Galen's cheeks. He tossed the curry brush onto the bench and snarled, “I am no' seducing the laird's ward.”

“Bah. We both know that's not the reason ye doona want to seduce the witch.”

The witch.

The word resounded in her brain. Bile crept up the back of her throat, and she swallowed it down. This wasn't the first time she'd been called such. Certainly not the first hint that her gift was the reason men reviled her company. But it still hurt.

“Trevor, leave off.”

“Ye've seduced almost every lass in the keep. Hell, you've nearly surpassed the Silver Fox himself. What's one more conquest? And she's such a pretty thing. With that angelic face, those devilish curves. Tell me you doona want—”

“I said leave off,” Galen snapped. Lana was filled with gratitude that he seemed to be defending her, but it deflated at his next words. “The woman is touched. Demented. No man in his right mind would go near her. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it.”

Ah.

Aye.

The truth at last.

Lana wasn't sure if she should give in to her anger or despair. Both warred within her. But she did know she could take no more of this conversation. Not a moment more. Without hesitation, she tossed the rest of the scraps to the dogs and stood, brushing the hay from her skirts. Then she pushed open the stall door and faced the two men.

Galen, to his credit, flushed. His lips worked and his Adam's apple bobbed. Trevor merely gaped at her.

It was, indeed, an awkward moment.

For them.

Lana knew she could make it worse. She knew she could tell Galen that his dead mother despaired he would never settle down, or she could warn Trevor that in his assignation last night he might have contracted the pox, but she did not.

She leveled them with a steady stare and forced a smile. It cost her. “Good morning,” she said with a nod, and then she made her way toward the bright sunlight beaming through the open door. It would warm her, she hoped. Warm that part of her soul that had gone so cold.

But she had to stop before she made her escape. Had to turn and pin them both with a vehement look. “Oh, and Trevor?”

He lurched as she spoke his name. Gulped. “Aye, my lady?”

“I am no' a witch. I would appreciate it if you would stop saying that.”

She left them then, burbling and groaning and lamenting their loose tongues.

It was a small rebuke, a gentle one, but she'd needed to say the words. She'd wanted to say more, wanted to rail at them both for their cruelty, their callous disregard, their ignorance, but she'd long ago learned that a vociferous defense of her sanity had an unfortunate and opposite effect.