Lana and the Laird

by Sabrina York

  “My man. He should not have accosted you.”

  “I dinna like that in the slightest.” Her fingers twitched around the hilt of the dirk.

  “I assure you, neither did I.” In fact, it had enraged him. It still did. He struggled to keep the fury from his expression—he did not want to frighten her—but he might have failed. As she studied him, her eyes widened a tad. “I have advised him to keep his distance.”

  “I appreciate that.” A grumble, at best.

  “If you have any other problems of that sort, I expect you to come to me at once.” It rose in him then, the compelling need to be the one, the man she turned to. The man who protected her and kept her safe.

  He didn’t know why she barked a laugh, didn’t know why it lanced him so.

  He shot her a curious glance. “Miss Dounreay?”

  “If I have any other problems of that sort, I shall be coming to you—”

  Ah, excellent. That was—

  “To ask how you would like to dispose of the body.”

  Oh, holy God. He gaped at her, this tiny mite, with delicate bones and a dainty demeanor. And ferocity. “The … ah … body?”

  “He is your cousin, is he no’?”

  “He is indeed.”

  “Then you should be the one to bury him.” At his bemused stare, she added, “’Tis only fitting.”

  “I … ah … you … Are you saying you will … kill him if he touches you again?”

  “I will gut him like a fish.” Odd that, how she said it, in the sweetest tone and with a hint of an angelic smile. He had no doubt whatsoever that she would be true to her word.

  He made a mental note to warn Dougal. Yes, he was annoying and a trial at times, but Lachlan did not want him gutted. It would be a hell of a mess to clean up.

  Against his best intentions, despite his dismay, his lips twitched, and then, in response, hers did as well.

  “Things really are different here in Scotland, are they not?”

  Her brow arched again. “Are ye just finding this out?” Her tone was dry as dust. He didn’t know why it made him chuckle.

  “Women are … fiercer.”

  “As are the men.” Her gaze flicked to his cravat. “For one thing, they doona wear that.” Though she muttered this bit beneath her breath, he heard. Although he suspected he was intended to.

  Lachlan glanced down at the mathematical fall of his snowy cravat and forbore a grimace. “I’ve never really liked them myself.”

  “They why do you wear it?”

  He shrugged. “I’m a duke. It’s expected.”

  She gaped at him. “’Tis not manly in the least.”

  He sat back. Couldn’t help it. He was blown back by the force of her revulsion. He wasn’t sure why, but a sudden desire scoured him. A formidable need to appear manly and powerful … to her. “And what would be … manly? To you?”

  She surveyed his face, his shoulders, his chest. “You would look fine in a kilt,” she acceded after a moment. Something in her voice, a raw and rare tremble, made heat lick through his body.

  As easily as that, a scorching arousal flared.

  Good God.

  He’d kept himself on a short leash for years. He’d always maintained absolute control over his emotions and his actions. But now, right now, he wanted to yank this delicious bit of froth and claws into his arms and savage her with kisses.

  His gaze flicked to the knife.

  Or not.

  “Ah … I shall … have to wear one sometime.”

  “Ye’ve never worn a kilt?” She gaped at him.

  “I have not.” He cleared his throat. “Scots are not, shall we say, revered in London.” Hell, even the lowly British barons considered themselves above a Scottish duke in station.

  “Is that why you speak like one of them?” This she said as though it tasted bad.

  “Fitting in is important in the business of politics.” He’d worked hard to do so. Spent his life in the incessant study of how to be a proper British lord. Sadly, he’d never quite achieved the effect. He’d certainly never enjoyed it.

  “Aye.” She eyed him with a considering glance. “It is important to fit in.” He hated the pity in her expression.

  “You say that as though I do not.”

  She huffed a laugh. “You doona. No’ here.”

  “I should like to.” Ah, was that a wistful note? Perhaps it was.

  “Then you should wear a kilt. And smile on occasion and … get rid of that cravat. It is far too tight.”

  It was, actually. It was far too tight. He could barely turn his head. But he was used to it.

  She ripped her attention from his neck to some shadowed corner of the library with a heavy sigh. “It is a pity, really.”

  He frowned. “What is a pity?”

  “That our duke is no’ more of a Scotsman.”

  Ah. How her words slayed him. Probably because such a wish had flickered through his mind more than once. He set back his shoulders and caught her gaze. “I am what I am.” For good or ill.

  Her vehement response startled him. “What you are, Your Grace, is a Scotsman. No matter how much you tried to be English in London. No matter that you want to be separate from us—”

  “I most certainly do not—”

  “You’ve Scots blood churning in your veins. Your heart and soul belong to the Highlands.” God he loved her vehemence. She was a wee wild thing and fierce in her passion. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was fierce in other passions as well. “You can pretend to be an Englishman all you like—”

  “I am not—”

  “Deny your birthright all you like—”

  “I am denying nothing—” Good God, she was insistent. Truculent. Exasperating. He had no idea why he liked it. For some reason, their exchange made his pulse ping, made his soul stir.

  “But it is the plain truth.” She sat back and fixed him with a smile that might have been a little sad. “Your mother would want better for you. She would want you to be the man you were born to be.”

  Lachlan stilled.

  Again with his mother.

  And yes, again, the reference stunned him.

  But still, this was a perfect opening. One he couldn’t afford to ignore.

  “Ah … My mother…?”

  She tipped her head and studied him. “Aye?”

  “You … say you have met her?”

  She sighed. “Aye. I have.”

  “Her … spirit?” It was wise to clarify.

  “Aye. Her spirit.”

  “Do you often … speak to the dead?”

  The sound she made was something between a grunt and a snort. “Every day.” Her tone was one of wary resignation. He studied her face, searching for any signs of madness. Her lashes flickered under his scrutiny. “Do you think me odd?”

  He disliked the tremor of her voice. The wobble of her chin. The flicker of insecurity in a woman who was otherwise dauntless. And suddenly Lachlan realized, if she indeed had this extraordinary talent, there were probably people who had reviled her for it.

  He would not be one of them.

  The bald fact was, if seeing ghosts meant one was deranged, then he was deranged right alongside her.

  It was a nice feeling to have something in common with another person. With her.

  He cleared his throat and searched for an appropriate response. He could come up with nothing except a simple, “No. Not odd. Not odd at all.”

  She set her hand on his. It sent a warm wave through to his being, but not so warming as her words. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Soft, sweet, and heartfelt. Her tone was far too relieved for comfort. He hated to think that she had gone through life worried how every person she met would react to her gift. He hated to imagine the rejection, the isolation she’d endured. Because in truth, he’d spent his life in isolation from the world. He knew how cold it felt. “It means so much to hear you say that,” she said. Then she leaned closer and confided, “Many people are afraid of me.�
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  He winced at her wounded expression.

  “Some call me wicked.”

  Unthinkable. He couldn’t silence his burble. “What? Why?”

  She shrugged. “Obviously I must have made a deal with the devil.”

  “Did you?” He softened the question with a smile. There was nothing evil about this woman. She was nothing but light. And claws.

  “No’ that I’m aware of.” This, she said with a decidedly wicked glint in her eye.

  “Well,” he said. “If you are wicked, I’m right there with you. I have seen a ghost or two myself, in my time.”

  She blinked. “You have?”

  “My castle is quite haunted.”

  “Ooh. I should like to visit it some time.”

  Her simple statement sent shards of excitement whipping through his body. He could envision her in his home, in his room, in his bed.

  The vision stole his breath.

  From where had this sudden and potent desire come?

  Oh, he wanted her, the way a man wants a woman, but there was more to it than that. This yearning went far deeper. It was a hunger, a need for camaraderie, connection. With her.

  It was far too painful to contemplate, because it could not be.

  It. Could. Not. Be.

  With great effort, he plastered a benign smile on his lips and turned the topic. “So, Miss Dounreay, have you always had this gift?”

  “Och, nae. When I was a wee lass, I fell through the ice in the loch.” She shuddered, as though in the grips of a terrible memory. He could only imagine. “I dinna drown, but it was dead winter and after the dunking, I developed the ague. A raging fever.” She flicked a look at him. “I think I did die then. I dreamed of angels singing. And when I woke, the first person I saw was my mother, standing over my bed.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She died when I was three. She told me everything would be all right. It would always be all right. And I believed her. Since then…” She lifted her arms to encompass the room, or the castle, or possibly the world. “They are everywhere.”

  He nodded, unsure what else to do. “Scotland is filled with ghosts.”

  She snorted. “You doona know the half of it.”

  “It seems like a useful ability.”

  “At times. At times it is something of a curse.”

  “Ah.” He could relate to the subject of curses. “Are there any ghosts here now? In this room?”

  She nodded. Her golden locks tumbled over her shoulders. Her fingers tightened. “Dermid is usually here.”

  “Dermid?”

  “Dunnet’s uncle. He was murdered.” She tossed this comment off with a nonchalance he should have found concerning.

  “Do you … do you know who murdered him?”

  Lana pressed her lips together and nodded. Lachlan had the sense that, though she knew, she would never tell. “He was really a horrible creature. He still is.” This last bit, she whispered.

  “He sounds … unpleasant.”

  “Exceedingly. I’ve been ignoring him. He’s fading.”

  “Fading?”

  “Aye.” She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “If you give them no energy, they have no energy.”

  “I see.” He did not. “Is there anyone else here?” Surely there wasn’t one person in particular he was asking about.

  “Your mother is here.”

  Ah, yes. Yes.

  Lana’s expression softened and she murmured, “She’s always with you when you think of her.”

  Somehow, that simple statement cut through his ever-present maternal resentment and thawed his heart. He didn’t know why it felt so good.

  “She’s verra proud of you, Lachlan.”

  It was wholly inappropriate for her to call him by his given name, but Lachlan could not have cared less. Indeed, he wanted to encourage her to do so.

  Beyond that, her words had knocked him askew. “Proud? Of me?” The woman who had heartlessly deserted him as an infant?

  “She’s proud of the man you’ve become.” Lana’s nose wrinkled once more and she fluttered her fingers. At his cravat. “Although she’s not impressed with your costume.”

  “Is she not?”

  Lana leaned forward and whispered, “She’d rather see you in a kilt. Like your father.”

  Ah yes. Of course. Although his father didn’t wear a kilt when he visited at night. But then, who knew what the dress code in hell might be? Chains were definitely not optional.

  Lana tipped her head to the side and shot him a minxish smile. She was that, he decided, a minx, under her fierce exterior. “And she would like to hear you speak with a brogue again.”

  “A brogue?” Dear lord, he’d spent years trying to scour the burr from each and every syllable. Life was more pleasant at Eton when one wasn’t thrashed by the other boys on a daily basis.

  “I would be happy to coach you.”

  “I … ah … coach me?”

  “Aye. While you are here, I can give you guidance. Explain how Scots think and act and, most important, why. Help you repair your ruined accent. Consult on your wardrobe.” Her expression became severe. “We would have to spend much time together, though. There is much work to do.”

  Lachlan gaped at her. First of all, the thought of spending time with Lana Dounreay delighted him to the depth of his being. Second, here she was, this tiny thing, so sincerely, so sweetly, offering to turn him into a savage.

  Part of him yearned for just that, but he wondered if he had the courage to let go of his cold, staid, British persona. It had protected him well.

  “I shall certainly consider that.” And then, much more sincerely, because he couldn’t not, “Thank you, Miss Dounreay.”

  Her smile was his reward. That and the realization that, at some point in their conversation, she had loosed her hold on the dirk.

  Surely that was promising.

  Surely that meant at some point they might actually be friends.

  A flicker of denial whipped through him at the thought. Some part of his soul wailed no. It wasn’t friendship he wanted with Lana Dounreay. Not friendship at all.

  It was a pity that was all there could be.

  * * *

  How odd it was, sitting here in the library having an amicable conversation with a duke—and this duke in particular. Lana was relieved to discover he wasn’t the starchy aristocrat she’d originally thought. And she was gratified at his acceptance of her peculiarities. In fact, he seemed eager to discuss her gifts.

  It was heartening because, for one thing, it reassured her that her instincts hadn’t been so very wrong. And for another, she found she liked him. He was warm, sincere, and even charming. For the first time since they’d met, she had the sense that not only would she be able to help him, to reach him, she would want to.

  And while the true reason for their interaction had not yet been revealed, she had her suspicions. She was, in fact, convinced that she was meant to change his mind about his decision to clear the land. She wasn’t sure how she would accomplish this—he did seem to be a powerful, willful kind of man—but she had some ideas. And the fact that they had something in common, a trenchant belief in the spirits, made her optimistic he would be willing to be persuaded.

  She ignored the ping of regret that his advent in her life could not have been for another reason, that her long-held and secret hope was not to be miraculously granted. That he was not the man for her.

  She forced this inconvenient desire away and reminded herself of the ways of the world.

  He was a duke.

  She was a girl with no title or land or fortune. And she was far from pretty—certainly not as beautiful as her sisters.

  A duke would want—

  “Miss Dounreay?”

  She blinked as his captivating voice tore her from her ruminations.

  “Aye?”

  “May I ask you more about your gift?”

  “Certainly.” She was delighted that he asked. For
one thing, it was an excellent diversion.

  “When you speak to the spirits … do you have … conversations?”

  “Ah. Not with words, so much as thoughts and feelings. Visions, occasionally.”

  “Visions?”

  “Aye.” It was far too complicated to explain, but the duke seemed to require no detail. His brow lowered and he tapped his lip as though deep in the coils of a quandary. She set her hand on his arm, ignoring his flinch. “Your Grace. What is it?”

  He glanced at her and she was struck again by the beauty of his eyes, a deep blue, fringed in long lashes. She wanted to sink into those eyes. Soak in them.

  He stared at her for a moment, his throat working. She didn’t speak, because she sensed he required silence to form his query. To rally his courage.

  “If I were to pose a question of my mother, would you be able to give me her answer?”

  She didn’t understand the raw need beneath the words, but then, it wasn’t necessary for her to understand. She nodded. “If she is willing to answer.”

  “Ah.” The flicker of optimism on his face faded. He looked away.

  “You willna know unless you ask, Your Grace.” And when he didn’t respond, she urged, “What is your question?”

  She barely heard his response; it was little more than a murmur, and his head was turned away. “I would like to know … why she left me.”

  A sudden and violent pain lanced Lana’s heart. It wasn’t completely her own. Much of it came from Lileas. Lana glanced at her; her spirit shimmered. Denial, repudiation, and rage rippled from it. “Leave you, Your Grace?”

  “Why did she kill herself?”

  The question echoed through Lana’s mind, as though from far away. Her vision clouded. Her hold on this world, this room, loosened. And she stepped into another.

  She stood in a dark, damp chamber. The scent of brine engulfed her. The sound of dripping water echoed from the stones, resounding in the silence. She glanced at the man at her side and her heart clenched. William, her love. Tall, dark, handsome, though his features were taut, his eyes narrowed as he glowered at the men closing in on them. There were three of them, two large and burly and one no more than a boy. All men she knew. Trusted.

  Tension twanged in tandem with her heartbeat as their malice swirled around them. Her breath snagged in her lungs. Fear clutched at her.