Lana and the Laird (12 page)

Now that he thought on it, the castle of his boyhood memories had been old and crumbling, but it hadn't been a complete ruin. Certainly not in the condition it was now. And even in the few short months he'd been back, it seemed to be disintegrating at an unnatural rate, with random holes appearing in walls with regularity. As though someone were determined to tear the castle down, stone by stone.

But why would someone do that? It made no sense.

While these questions weighed on his soul—most specifically the question of McKinney's loyalty—he knew he couldn't answer them now. The revelation about his parents was more than enough to deal with at the moment.

His wandering feet carried him to the stable, but then that was hardly a surprise. Stables were a place he always found soothing. It was a pleasure inspecting Dunnet's stock and imagining what beautiful foals they would make if bred with his own. It was a pity he'd left most of his horses in London, but there hadn't seemed any point in bringing them all to Scotland, when he was only coming here to die.

But ah, he missed them.

He was checking the withers of a beautiful mare when Dunnet rode in on another splendid beast. The baron's lips tightened as he set eyes on Lachlan—he could hardly blame him; they hadn't parted on good terms. Still, after he dismounted, he affected a bow. “Your Grace.”

“Dunnet.” Lachlan couldn't help running a hand over the stallion's withers and checking his teeth.
Good God.
The beast was perfection in equine form. His mouth watered at the thought of this horse as a stud for his own stables … and then he remembered. There was no time for him to breed horses. No time for anything. Still, he couldn't help but murmur, “This is a beautiful beast. All your horses are.”

Dunnet bristled, obviously waffling between annoyance and pride. “Thank you. It's … something of a hobby of mine.”

“Quite an enviable assemblage. No doubt, these animals would be in great demand in London.”

For some reason, Dunnet frowned. “They are not for sale.”

“A pity. He would make a fine stud.” Turning away from the fascinating lines of the stallion, Lachlan sucked in a deep breath and steeled his spine. While he would much rather chat about horses, there was a bit of business hanging between him and Dunnet. It would ease his mind to have it resolved.

While he regretted barking out the ultimatum in their meeting, he had issued it and couldn't back down now. Aside from that, he needed Dunnet's cooperation. Wanted it, perhaps. “Have you made your decision?” he asked.

Again, perhaps he shouldn't have been so blunt. Dunnet's features tightened and he muttered his response. “I need to speak with my wife before I give you my answer.”

Ah. Lady Dunnet. Lachlan couldn't help but smile. “I had an interesting conversation with her.”

There was no call for Dunnet to bristle. “Did you?”

“She is quite … outspoken.”

“She's a fine Scottish lass.” This, in something of a snarl.

Lachlan winced as he realized how his comment might have been taken as an insult. It wasn't intended as such. Not by a long shot. “I'm certain she is. I did not mean offense. I appreciate frankness in my dealings. And your wife was … frank.”

Dunnet didn't respond, other than to quirk a brow.

“She seems to be of the mind that I have lived in London too long. That I do not understand my people. She suggested I … dress like a
man
while in Scotland.”

“She … did?” A look of pained amusement flickered over Dunnet's face.

In fact, both Lady Dunnet and Lana had suggested as much. Though to be honest, Lana's criticism of his costume had hit him the hardest.

“What do you think, Dunnet? Would it help in my dealings if I dressed the part of a Scottish laird?”

His baron shrugged and waved at him from his cravat to his superfine breeches. “You look like a dandy.”

He couldn't hold back his smile. “That's what she said.”

“You would look more like a proper duke in a kilt.”

He could only imagine what they would make of that in London. He'd be laughed out of the House of Lords. But, he reminded himself, he was not in London. “I shall have to find one.”

Dunnet gaped at him. “You doona
have
a kilt?”

“I've had little need for one … until now.”

Dunnet strafed him with a measuring look, and then he nodded. “We shall have to get you a kilt forthwith.”

“I would appreciate that.” Indeed, he should dress the part. As long as he was here. And if he was being honest, he couldn't wait to see how he looked in a kilt. How he
felt
in one. He glanced at Dunnet's knees. Yes, it seemed rather … liberating.

And, he had to allow, he was anxious to see Lana's reaction to such … manly garb as well—

Bloody hell. He had to stop thinking like that.

At Lachlan's willingness to don the Cloth of the Olde Gaul, Dunnet seemed to release his hold on his reticence, or a smidgen of it at least, and the two embarked on something that might actually be considered a civil conversation, chatting about their respective stables and methods of breeding. Feed. Exercise. Pricing. They also discussed his keeping of the castle, his oversight of the village, and the politics of the region.

Despite their rough start, Lachlan couldn't help respecting the man. “You know, I do like you, Dunnet,” he said after a while. “I think, perhaps, we got off on the wrong foot. Shall we begin again?”

The man went silent, studying Lachlan for an eternity. It was a great relief when he thrust out his hand and said gruffly, “Aye.”

True, they would probably ever be at odds on the subject of the Clearances, but it was nice to know they could look beyond that and, perhaps, be congenial. As they strolled through the bailey, Dunnet proudly showed him the enhancements he'd made to this feature or that, and introduced him to some of the denizens of Lochlannach Castle. With them worked a group of men who had fled to Dunnet when they'd been evicted from Olrigshire. Lachlan was surprised at how many there were. “Olrig has been aggressively clearing,” he murmured. Dougal had reported as much. In fact, the alacrity with which Olrig had launched the new program had pleased him.

Dunnet nodded. “Verra aggressively. In the past week, refugees have been pouring over our borders.” He caught Lachlan's grimace and sighed. “I'm sorry, Your Grace. I canna hide how I feel and I willna lie to you. I truly do believe these Clearances are morally wrong.”

“I appreciate your honesty. I do.” Lachlan gazed out at the busy bailey; a wave of inexplicable longing welled in his soul. “It's a pity things couldn't have been different…”

Silence crackled between them, and then Dunnet murmured, “It makes me wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

“How men like Stafford and Olrig will be remembered by future generations. I'd wager they willna be lauded by their descendants.”

Something curled in Lachlan's gut. “I daresay you are correct in that.”

Dunnet pinned him with an intense scrutiny. “And how do you want to be remembered by your descendants?”

“I shall not have them.” The bald statement was far sharper than it needed to be. He had come to terms with this truth long ago. “The Sinclair line ends with me.” And the curse with it. The words were like dust in his mouth. He could never father a child. The chances of it being a boy, born doomed, were too great.

“And that will be it?”

“Yes. That will be it.”

Dunnet studied him for a moment, his brown eyes steady and solemn. “Is there any chance you might be willing to reconsider your decision about the Clearances?” he asked in a soft voice.

“No.” How he wished the answer could be otherwise. “I'm determined to leave something of myself behind, Dunnet. I shall return Caithness Castle to its former glory before I pass.”

“And what happens to this resplendently restored castle when you die?”

Lachlan stared at him as the question winged through his mind. He hadn't considered the future beyond his death. There had been no point. “It shall revert to the Crown, I imagine.”

“You have no heirs at all? No relatives to steward this great estate?”

“Only Dougal.” Only Dougal. What a dismal thought. And he was born on the wrong side of the blanket. He would never inherit the castle. It would indeed revert to the Crown. A stone languishing at the bottom of Prinny's treasure chest. Forgotten, ignored, and abandoned for all time.

In that light, the effort to refurbish it, the sacrifice it would require, seemed pointless indeed.

When he and Dunnet parted, it was amiably, but the man's words weighed heavily on Lachlan. This conversation, combined with the one he'd had with Lana, had him questioning so many things.

He was loathe to return to his suite, because he knew he would find Dougal there. While his cousin was an ever-faithful attendant, his chatter made it impossible for Lachlan to think with any clarity.

Ah, but when he did return, he found a kilt hewn of the Sinclair plaid laid out on his bed.

Dunnet had remembered.

Lachlan didn't know why that simple thoughtfulness made him grin like a loon.

*   *   *

Excitement whipped through Lana as she and Hannah prepared for dinner, although she wasn't sure why. Certainly not because
he
would be there. But she couldn't deny the skitters of anticipation that the thought of seeing him again evoked.

Indeed, at first glance he'd been a far cry from the man in her dream. The disparity had puzzled her, but during their conversation in the library, she'd caught a glimpse of him, his soul, and it had touched something deep within her.

Her certitude that she was meant to help him change his mind about the Clearances firmed.

Hannah finished buttoning up her gown and Lana whirled around to show her the effect. “How do I look?”

“Perfect, darling.” Hannah tucked a lock of Lana's hair back into the chignon she'd created.

“Perfect enough to dine with a duke?”

Her sister didn't respond at once. She adjusted Lana's collar and brushed down her skirts. “I … ah … What do you think of the duke?” she asked.

A flicker of prescience rippled. “He really is verra handsome, isn't he?”

Hannah fiddled with her sleeve. “Aye. He is … handsome.”

Lana laughed. “Why do you say it in that tone?”

“What tone?”

“As though it tastes bad.”

Her nose wrinkled. “He's a duke. And practically an Englishman.”

“What does that mean?”

Hannah shrugged. “Just that, men like him are used to taking what they want.”

Lana snorted. “Have you yet to meet a man who dinna take what he wanted?”

“You know what I mean.” She glanced away. “Besides, Alexander tells me he is cursed.”

Cursed? Lileas hadn't mentioned a curse. Lana glanced at the specter, who rolled her eyes. “He doesna seem cursed.”

“According to Alexander, he is convinced of it.” Hannah went on to tell her the details of the story—the lost MacAlpin Cross, the succession of untimely deaths, and Lachlan's own impending doom.

Lana's heart twanged at that thought, but the whole tale sounded like twaddle. Lileas wasn't impressed, either.

She waved off her sister's admonitions. “I doona believe in curses.”

Hannah rumpled her features, a sure sign she was vexed. “It hardly signifies if he is cursed or not. I'm just warning you to have a care.”

Lana sighed. “Have a care about what, Hannah?”

“He's a handsome man.”

Aye. He was.

Her sister pulled her into a hug. “I canna help worrying. I wouldna want you to be seduced by him.”

Her stomach clenched.

Seduced by him?

Seduced by the man of her dreams? Tall and stalwart? Brave and bold? Lana's heart stuttered at the prospect, but Hannah was watching her, so she forced a blasé smile. “I sincerely doubt I could be seduced by a man who doesna have a brogue. Who has never even worn a kilt, for pity's sake.” Although somewhere deep within, she knew this was a lie. There was something more to him that transcended his appearance or his station. Something that drew her. Called to her.

But that hardly mattered. It was beside the point anyway. The duke wasn't interested in her. Not like that.

She should be pleased that he
was
interested in her gift and her ability to help him.

Really. She should.

Hannah sighed. “There's a relief. Still and all, do be careful around him, Lana. He's a powerful man, and powerful men tend to believe that women were put on this earth as playthings and nothing more.”

The memory of her altercation with Dougal flitted through her mind. Dougal was that kind of man. But … “Och, Lachlan's not like that.”

Hannah blinked. “Darling, who is Lachlan?”

“Why, the duke, of course.”

“How … why … How do you know his given name?” Oh, dear. The mother hen in Hannah lifted its ferocious head and roared.

Lana forced a chuckle and patted Hannah's hand. “His mother told me.”

“His mother?”

“Lileas. She told me he's a good man at heart.”

Hannah crossed her arms. “Well,
Lachlan
has given orders for Dunnet to clear the land. And if he refuses, he will be replaced as baron. Most likely,
your
Lachlan has sent the same orders to Papa.”

Lana shivered at the phrase.
Your Lachlan.
Then she blinked and gaped at her sister. “Do you really think he has?” Oh. How disappointing that would be. More than disappointing. Devastating. If Dunnet lost his station, he would lose his home, and Hannah with him. And if Papa lost his station … Where would she live? Where would they live? A skitter of trepidation walked up her spine.