Lana and the Laird (7 page)

If there was anything in this whole debacle he regretted, it was that.

Why
she
came to mind just then, his angel, he had no clue.

She was nothing but a dream, a drug-induced hallucination. She wasn't real.

For the rest of the journey, Lachlan struggled to wipe all thoughts of
her
from his mind. He needed to focus on the coming confrontation. He needed to be on point. He ran through his arguments in his head, planning and replanning what he would say to Dunnet and in which particular tone.

It didn't help that all the while, Dougal incessantly peppered him with ominous warnings about dark betrayals, poisonings, and the propensity Scots had for tossing their enemies from the ramparts with impunity.

When Lochlannach Castle appeared in the distance, Lachlan stared at it. It was enormous and grand, with stately silver spires reaching for the sky. Situated at the curve of the bay, as it was, it was an impressive sight. He tried to ignore the lance of displeasure that Dunnet's castle wasn't a pile of rubble.

By the time they pulled into the bailey, Lachlan was ready. Ready to go to war.

He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. It was irritating then that Dunnet had gone to the trouble to prepare a grand welcome. When he emerged from his carriage, he was greeted by the skirl of the pipes and the curious stares of Dunnet's people—it seemed as though each one of his clansmen had turned out.

The baron himself stood at the front of the crowd, looking lordly and proud in full formal kilt. For some reason, Lachlan found it irksome, this not-so-subtle reminder that Dunnet was a Scot, and Lachlan, to his mind, was not.

The man was tall, taller than Lachlan, which was saying something, but he was brawnier and harsher by far. He exuded all the wildness of Scotland and then some. His hair was long and dark, his features sharp and craggy, and there was a savage scar tracking down one cheek. His brown eyes were solemn and steady.

Lachlan reminded himself not to be taken in. It was those eyes that had made him want to trust Dunnet. It was that sincere and serious gaze that had fooled him before.

“Your Grace,” he said. “Welcome to Dunnet.”

When Dunnet introduced his wife, Hannah of Reay, Lachlan couldn't help but feel a prick of envy. The delicate, dark-haired beauty was besotted with her husband. And Dunnet had her.

All the things Lachlan wanted to the depths of his being—but couldn't have—came so easily to this man, despite his treasonous heart.

It hardly seemed fair. But then life never was.

Although Lady Dunnet was adequately deferential, with a curtsy of the appropriate depth, Lachlan couldn't miss the curl of her nose as she surveyed his person.

Damn these Scots. He was sick unto death of their irreverence.

Likely Dougal was right when he said he wouldn't put it past them to murder him in his sleep or poison his food.

“Won't you please come in?” Lady Dunnet said with a thin smile. “I have arranged for some refreshments after your journey.”

Ah yes. Poison indeed. Lachlan fixed his sharp gaze on Dunnet. “I need to speak with you immediately,” he said in a clipped voice. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.

Lady Dunnet's lashes fluttered. Her lips worked. She was clearly put out at his refusal to be poisoned immediately upon his arrival. “Would you care to settle into your rooms first?” she asked.

“No.” He frowned at Dunnet. “Is there somewhere we may speak? In private?”

Dunnet swallowed heavily—apparently he'd correctly interpreted Lachlan's tone. “Of course. The library.”

They made their way through the bailey and into the castle in silence. Lachlan's aggravation rose with every step. Thoughts of Dunnet's perfidy coiled through his heart and soul, further souring an already sour mood. Lady Dunnet followed them, and it occurred to Lachlan she intended to join them in their discussion.

This surprised him, because most of the women of his acquaintance would never consider such a thing. Business was for the men and the men alone. Most women would understand this and make themselves scarce. Hie off and sip tea or embroider something.

Not Lady Dunnet.

As they reached the library, Lachlan turned to her and proffered a small bow. “Lady Dunnet. If you don't mind.”

Her face flushed, but the baroness nodded and backed away, although Lachlan didn't miss her scowl. But really, this was for the best. The conversation he was about to embark upon was not for tender ears.

With Dougal at his back, he strode across the cavernous library and took a seat at the desk. Dunnet took the chair across from him. True to form, the man was silent, but he simmered with a cocky bravado, one that made Lachlan's nerves thrum.

Dunnet's man, a dour Scot with a mangled visage, brought whisky for all of them and then left; with his retreat, silence blanketed the room. Lachlan glanced at his glass and his nose curled as Dougal's dire warnings about the Scottish propensity for poisoning enemies wafted through his head. He didn't touch the drink. Adjusting his cravat, he leaned forward and said, in the gravest tone he could manage, “I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you, Dunnet.”

For some reason, Dunnet smiled.
Smiled.
It was an irreverent offering that made Lachlan's left eye twitch. “Disappointed, Your Grace?”

Fury rocked him at the man's moue of innocence. He was not innocent. Not in the slightest. Not if what Olrig had told him was true. But they would come to that … “First, your failure to respond to my order for the Clearances of Dunnet.”

Dunnet's eyes narrowed. “I did respond. My answer was
nae
.”

Lachlan's fingers closed into a fist of their own accord. The gall of the man, to refuse a direct order. “It is your
obligation
to obey me.”

“My obligation is to my
people
. They depend on us—on you and me—to protect them.” Dunnet leaned forward. “It is our sacred oath, passed to us by our ancestors.”

Our ancestors?
Lachlan gaped at him, unable to respond. Likely
his
ancestors did not visit him night after night, begging, pleading, commanding that he save their souls from an eternity of hellfire and damnation.

It was a heavy load to bear, the eternal souls of those ancestors, but Lachlan would not fail them. He would restore the castle and give them peace … if it took him the rest of his days.

Which were few.

When Lachlan didn't respond to his declaration, the impertinent baron felt the urge to add, “It is my position that these Improvements will destroy the county. As they are destroying Scotland.”

The hair at Lachlan's nape prickled. How dare Dunnet
sermonize
? Lachlan glowered at him. “It is my position that I need the funds.”

“You … need the funds?”

Not that it was any of Dunnet's business, but perhaps explaining the logic for clearing the land of crofters would help him see reason. “It is my intention to renovate Caithness Castle before … Well, as soon as I can.”

“How much do you need?”

At his shoulder, Dougal growled. “This conversation is beside the point.”

“True. True.” Leave it to Dougal to return him to task. Dougal was as outraged by Dunnet's behavior as Lachlan was. “The point of this conversation is my disappointment with you, Dunnet.”

“Your Grace, surely you see that the Clearances—”

Fury whipped through him. Enough nonsense. It was time to expose the rotting truth of his betrayal. “I refer to the other source of my disappointment, Dunnet.”

The baron reared back, as though something in Lachlan's expression shocked him. Perhaps he caught a glimpse of the beast in duke's clothing. His nostrils flared. “Your Grace?”

Lachlan lanced him with a sharp stare, a glacial tone. “Did you think I wouldn't hear of it?”

“Hear of what, Your Grace?”

“Your treason,” Dougal snapped.

Lachlan sent his cousin a quelling glance. He neither wanted nor needed Dougal's assistance. Not here. Not now. He turned back to Dunnet, his expression harsh. This was, in fact, the meat of his disgruntlement. “I really liked you, Dunnet.” He had, and the man's betrayal had wedged in his craw. “Silly of me, but I thought, on some level we were cut from the same cloth. I thought you, of all my lairds, would be loyal.”

“I am loyal.” A bellow.

Lachlan set his teeth. “I'm not a fool. I know Stafford has been courting my barons. When I heard about your meeting with his son, I was wounded. Wounded to the core.”

Dunnet swallowed heavily. “That was a chance meeting at an inn. There was no discussion of politics. And it doesna signify. I have no intention of joining with Stafford.” Ah, the plea of innocence. Lachlan almost believed him.
Almost.

He drummed his fingers on the desktop. “That's not what Olrig said—”

“Olrig?” The savage Scot emerged in Dunnet. His nostrils flared, his eyes burned.

But Lachlan could play the savage, too. “Is it true or is it not,” he snarled, “that you called a meeting of
my
barons to plead with Olrig and Scrabster to side with Stafford?”

“Nae. It most certainly is not.”

It wasn't the denial as much as Dunnet's vehemence that gave Lachlan pause. Made him wonder if … perhaps he'd been given faulty information. Campbell had warned him about that, too. Even as the greater lords battled over huge swaths of land, the minor barons had their long-held grudges. Perhaps he'd been hasty in accepting Olrig's word on the matter.

“That's not what Olrig said,” Dougal muttered. Lachlan shot him a silencing glare. He wasn't helping.

Dunnet leaped to his feet and planted his fists on the desk. “Olrig is a stinking pig.”

“Is that why you beat him up? Or did you beat him to a pulp because he opposed your plot?”

“It isna my plot—”

“Ah, so you admit your involvement?” Really. Dougal needed to be silent.

Lachlan whirled on his cousin and glowered at him; he backed down.

Dunnet did not.

“Nae. I doona.” His growl rumbled on the skeins of air, sending shivers skittering along Lachlan's skin. Such outrage could not be manufactured. “Regardless of what you have been told, I have never even considered siding with Stafford. Olrig is another matter entirely. In fact, he is the one who approached me.”

Hell.

Bile rose in Lachlan's throat. He sat back and considered this information, forcing his pulse to slow, his wrath to cool. If what Dunnet said was true, Olrig was doubly a villain here. Once for his betrayal, and once for his lies. However, while his gut urged him to believe Dunnet over Olrig, there was still the disconcerting fact that Dunnet had refused his orders outright. Olrig, on the other hand, had been eager to comply with the request to clear his land.

Regardless, the situation would require more investigation. And despite the fact that one of them was lying, one of them was a traitor, Lachlan still required Dunnet's support with these Clearances. He studied the baron for a moment, taking in his stern, outraged expression. “You say you are my loyal man.”

“Aye. I am.”

“Well then, my loyal man, surely you will have no difficulty acceding to my wishes.”

“Your … wishes?”

“Consider it an ultimatum, if you will.” Lachlan proffered a smile, although it was barely that.

Dunnet narrowed his gaze. His large hands curled into fists. “And that is?”

“You shall clear your land, or I will strip you of your title and your property. It is as simple as that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lachlan set his teeth. “Clear your land or I shall have the new baron clear it for you.”

Dunnet stared at him, his mouth agape. The shock washing over his features as the implications of the punitive demand hit home caused a niggle of guilt in Lachlan's gut. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so harsh. Perhaps he should have given Dunnet room to negotiate, or at the very least allowed him to retain a shred of the dignity his station deserved.

But there was no time for such games, no call for any mercy. Aside from which, Lachlan had little patience left.

He needed Dunnet's compliance and he needed it now.

Ah, but he didn't get it now. As he had during their first interaction in Ackergill, Dunnet shot to his feet and stormed from the room—without a word.

*   *   *

After the disastrous altercation with Dunnet, the sullen factor showed them to their rooms—a sumptuous suite in the east wing of the castle—but Lachlan didn't linger there. He needed to clear his head. He headed for the garden for a breath of fresh air, which was probably a mistake, because there, he encountered Dunnet's wife.

It was patently obvious she wasn't pleased to see him.

“Lady Dunnet.” He bowed.

“Your Grace.” Ah, how she spat the words. Her gaze flicked hither and yon, in search of escape. He would not allow it. He wanted to learn more about Dunnet, and his wife was a likely source of information. Though she would undoubtedly be staunchly loyal to her husband over Olrig, it behooved him to question her if he was to work out who had lied and who had not.

While she seemed disinclined to spend any time with him, she stayed when he asked and answered every question he posed with honesty and a surprisingly forthright manner. The conversation was illuminating.

She insisted her husband was loyal to Lachlan and he had been truthful about Olrig's duplicity. She insisted her husband was not a treacherous or violent man, as Olrig had suggested. In fact, she'd been at the inn in Bowermadden herself and witnessed the entire interaction between Dunnet and Stafford's son—and no treason had been discussed. She'd also witnessed the fight between her husband and Olrig, and she maintained that Dunnet had not instigated it.