Lana and the Laird (8 page)

It made him feel that ping of jealousy again—a lament that Dunnet had found the love of his life, a woman who was strong and brave and loyal to the hilt.

She was bright, intelligent, and fierce. And she defended her husband with an intensity that made Lachlan believe she spoke from the heart. Beyond that, she spoke with wrenching candor—boldly sharing her opinions about the “evils” of the Clearances.

Some of her comments were said with a bite—especially her criticism of his costume—but he appreciated her absolute honesty. Though he was prepared not to like her, he found he did, especially when she admitted, with a challenging glimmer to her eye, that she had eavesdropped on the conversation in the library.

Indeed, he enjoyed her presence, and her refreshing honesty, so much, he cringed when Dougal intruded on their conversation. “Your Grace! Where have you been?” he called as he strode toward them.

“Ah, I was just taking a walk. I needed it after our journey.” In truth, he'd needed to get away from Dougal. The man had been in his pocket since they'd returned to Scotland, and it had been even worse on this trip, closeted together in the claustrophobic carriage. Lachlan was weary of his dire blandishments about treason among his barons and betrayal looming with the local lairds. Not to mention the constant urgings to return to Ackergill.

Dougal was nothing if not a harbinger of doom, and Lachlan had had enough of his gloomy presence.

His cousin's brow furrowed. “Are you … feeling all right, Your Grace?”

“I'm feeling fine. Fine.” Probably a lie, but it was the kind of thing men said when things were not fine in the least. He turned back to the panoply of the sea reaching to the horizon and swept out his arms. “What do you think of this view, Dougal?”

True to form, Dougal glanced at the bay and frowned. “It's water.”

“Ah, but it's a magnificent view, is it not?”

“Your Grace, you really must rest.”

A growl lodged in his throat, but he swallowed it down, along with a prickle of annoyance. He forced a smile and clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “If you need a rest, do go on, Dougal. Lady Dunnet and I are having a chat. And I fancy a stroll. Will you accompany me, Lady Dunnet?” He offered his arm.

Why Dougal sent her a blazing glare, he had no clue. She responded with a brilliant grin. He suspected, just to be contrary. He liked that about her, too.

She hooked her arm in his. “I would be honored, Your Grace. May I show you around the castle grounds?”

“I would like that.” It was a relief to walk away from Dougal. The weather was fine, the breeze refreshing. The wind washed in off the water and danced around him. He spent far too many days indoors, he reflected. In London, it had made sense. All lords were occupied by the business of their station. But here? Here in the wilds of Scotland? He suddenly felt—dare he say it?—
free
.

He felt all the freer as he walked away from Dougal.

They strolled in silence, but an odd thought niggled and Lachlan couldn't help but break the companionable peace. “So something else has been plaguing me, Lady Dunnet,” he said as they made their way into the bailey.

“What is that, Your Grace?”

“If Dunnet is not a violent man … why on earth did he beat Olrig?”

She shot him a cheeky smile. “Have you met Olrig?”

Lachlan couldn't help but chuckle. Yes. He had. And he'd not liked the man in the slightest. Something in his eyes was … off-putting. “I have. But still … Civilized people do not resort to savagery to resolve their conflicts.”

“Do they not?” Her sharp gaze gave him pause. “Besides, it was hardly savagery. Alexander punched him once. That was all. 'Twas Olrig who came at him first.”

“I expect better than petty squabbles from my barons.”

“The Scots doona live by the same rules as the English, Your Grace.”

“I've noticed.”

“But we do have our codes. Verra strong and deeply rooted traditions. Scots are passionate men, but reasonable at their core.”

“Like your husband?”

“Aye.”

“And about your husband … What happened to make this reasonable, nonviolent man break Olrig's nose?”

Lady Dunnet's chin firmed and she changed direction, tugging Lachlan toward the stables. “I shall show you.” In a nod to good manners, and curiosity, he followed.

The stables were cool and shadowed. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they did …
Holy God
. His breath stilled. The most resplendent stallion caught his attention. A true beauty. Lachlan couldn't help stopping to ruffle a muzzle. “This is a beautiful beast,” he murmured.

“Aye, she is. Alexander has some excellent horseflesh.”

“Arabian?”

“Aye. And a mix of his own. Horses need to be strong and fleet in the Highlands. One of his hobbies is breeding them.”

Regret pricked at him. Yes, yet another thing he and Dunnet had in common. How he wished there wasn't bad blood between them. He was certain—
certain
—the man would have been his lifelong friend, had things been … different. He swallowed his disappointment at that. “I shall have to discuss this with him.”

“Do.” Lady Dunnet took his arm and guided him toward the back of the stables, though he had to stop several times to inspect this mare or that foal. It was, truly, an amazing collection of animals. Most especially a black stallion that made Lachlan feel a sharp ping of envy. They finally made it to the last stall and Lady Dunnet opened the gate. “Here.”

Lachlan peered inside and froze.

It was the last thing he'd ever expected to see, on this journey of vengeance and retribution, but there she was, lying in the hay of a mean stable stall.

It was her. His angel.

In the flesh.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

Shock rocked through him.

She was here.
Here.

And she was exquisite. Her features were delicate and finely honed. Her skin was like alabaster, flawless and smooth. Lachlan stared, although he knew each curve by heart.

“She's…” His pulse thumped as he stared at the vision, curled up in the hay of the stable. Sleeping. Her delicate snore rippled through the stall. “I … who is she?”

“My sister, Lana,” Lady Dunnet said on a huff.

Lana.
Her name was Lana. It felt … right. So right.

“She's been looking after the dogs.”

Dogs? His gaze flicked to the other occupants of the stall. Yes. Indeed, she lay with two hounds, both of which were covered in bandages. “What happened to them?”

“Olrig beat the female. With a whip. When Alexander tried to stop him, well, that's what caused the altercation between them. And then, when Olrig turned the whip on Alexander, Brùid attacked and Olrig stabbed him. Fortunately, both animals survived.”

Lachlan scowled. “Olrig beats his dogs?” He deplored men who beat their animals.

“He beat this one. Quite badly. She nearly died.”

Lachlan knelt down on the pretext of inspecting the hounds' wounds. But in truth, his attention was on one thing only.

Her.

His mind spun.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be
her
.

She wasn't real. She was naught but a dream. Wasn't she?

Ah, but then her eyes opened. Even before they did, he knew they would be a crystalline blue. The sight raced through like a bolt of lightning.

“Hullo,” she said.

His world tilted on its axis, because he knew her voice. It danced through him on ribbons of delight. He had no idea how he managed it, but he responded. “Hullo.”

Lady Dunnet broke the spell, stepping between them. “Lana, darling, have you been sleeping in the stables?”

Lana smiled at her. “Oh, hullo, Hannah. I didn't see you there.”

The baroness tapped her toe. “Have you? Been sleeping here?”

Lana riffled the pup's fur. “They get lonely at night.”

“They have each other. And it's the middle of the afternoon.”

“Is it?” Wide blue eyes blinked.

“It most certainly is. Have you had anything to eat today?”

“No. I've been here.”

“Come along then, darling.” Lady Dunnet helped her sister stand.

Lachlan's soul howled,
No! Don't take her away.

He couldn't lose her. Not for a moment. Not until he found his balance again. Not until he understood what this was. “Would you … introduce us, Lady Dunnet?”

Lady Dunnet frowned. “Your Grace,” she said. “This is Lana Dounreay. Lana, this is His Grace, the Duke of Caithness.”

Lana's gaze raked him and for some reason her lips quirked although there was nothing amusing about his person. Not in the slightest. Then her nose wrinkled. Damn and blast. He didn't like that at all. She glanced at her sister. “
He's
the duke?”

Bloody. Hell. The incredulity in her tone sent prickles along his spine. Surely he looked like a duke. He'd worked very hard to do so. He tugged on his waistcoat, which was perfectly …
ducal
. He pulled himself to his full height and threw back his shoulders. To his delight, her gaze locked on the breadth of his chest. “I am.”

“I see.” She executed a deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”

“Lady Lana.” He kissed her hand. Her taste, her scent … it made his mind spin.

Lady Dunnet tugged her sister's arm. “Come along. We need to get you inside.”

“But the dogs…”

“They will be fine. Fetch Nerid and let's go.”

Lana put out a lip and glanced at the cat curled up with the dogs. The thought lit in his brain that there was just something wrong about that, but he couldn't recall what it was at the moment; he was far too bewitched.

“Nerid wants to stay here. They feel safer with him protecting them. I did assure them that the horrible man shall not bother them here.” She bent to riffle the female's fur, and the bitch licked her hand. “But I can understand their concern.” Lana fixed her beseeching gaze on his. It made something ripple in his belly. Something like hunger. “Can you imagine, that poor thing? A terrible man beat her. She dinna do anything to anger him. He just beat her.”

His heart lurched. He wasn't sure if it was sympathy for the dogs or a simple sinking. Because hell, she was smiling at him. “That is a terrible thing,” he said in a voice that suddenly didn't sound like his own.

She smiled again, an angelic offering. Of its own accord, his body leaned nearer. Her presence engulfed him. Her scent inveigled him. Her—

“I do like your mother,” she said, and his brain blanked.

What?

He reeled back. His jaw locked. His pulse pounded. “My … mother?”

“She's verra nice.”

Holy God.
Something bitter tickled the back of his throat. Lachlan tried to silence the howling in his soul. “Madam. My mother died long before you were born.” She'd been a callous, selfish woman and he'd never been able to release the pain of her willful abandonment.

What mother took that fateful step off the ramparts, leaving her child behind? Alone? Unloved? In a cold, cruel world?

Unaccountably, and in sharp contrast with his swirling distress, Lady Lana chuckled and patted him on the cheek.

Patted him on the cheek.

In the whole of his life, no one had ever patted his cheek. While it befuddled him completely, he could not deny he found it … charming.

“I know,” she said. And then she turned on her heel and made her way from the stables and into the sunlight with Lady Dunnet.

Lachlan stared after them, his mouth agape, his mind awhirl, unable to move a muscle. Because hell, he'd found her. The woman of his dream. That alone was enough to poleax him.

But there was more.

She
liked
his mother.

His long-dead mother.

He had no clue what it all meant.

*   *   *

In a daze, Lana followed Hannah back into the castle. One thought rang through her mind:
He's here.
The man she'd dreamed of had come. He was tall and muscled and wildly attractive.

Handsome, aye, but more.

The raw power of his presence, tightly leashed. The intensity of his stare. The undeniable strength of his aura. It all spoke to her. Touched her.

As their gazes had met, her breath caught, her heart thrummed. Her body had come alive, humming with an unfamiliar excitement and anticipation. A blazing hope … that he was the one. The one meant for her.

But he couldn't be. He was … a duke. A duke who had come to clear the land.

Not what she'd expected. But then, he wasn't what she'd expected in many ways.

How odd. She was rarely ever wrong.

In her dreams he hadn't been so … reserved, dressed in fancy clothing and speaking with a crisp British accent.

In her dreams he'd been a braw Scottish warrior in a kilt.

A hero in peril.

A man she was meant to save. Or love.

But he was a
duke
. He did not need saving.

And a duke would never be interested in a woman of her station.

She didn't know what to make of it. Her instincts had rarely been erroneous before.

She drew in a deep breath and reminded herself to take the journey one step at a time. If the angels saw fit to bestow that dream upon her, it must be for some reason. No doubt all would become clear … in time.

Trouble was, she wasn't very patient. And she never had been.

She probably shouldn't have mentioned his mother. Not then. Not so soon. She didn't even allow herself to reflect on the pain that had lanced her soul when, at her announcement, he reared back, his handsome features twisted in shock and revulsion. It was the same shock and revulsion she'd seen countless times before.