Lana and the Laird (15 page)

Dougal fixed him with a queer gaze. “You almost sound wistful.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm glad your father took me away from that pile of stones after … the tragedy. I don't think I would have wanted to grow up in the shadow of Caithness Castle.” He snorted something he hoped sounded like a laugh. “Especially now that I've seen it close up. I cannot imagine why anyone would choose to live there.”

“It's the seat of the duke.”

In its current condition, it was hardly the seat of anything. Only a small portion of the rambling edifice was even habitable. The east wing was little but rubble, and the wings that were not ruined were drafty and … howled.

He didn't feel like a duke there, more like a warden over a prison filled with angry spirits. He felt more like a duke here, with his people, wearing a kilt, than he ever had at Caithness Castle. Or, for that matter, in London.

Here, he felt comfortable in his own skin.

“You belong there,” Dougal said with a glare.

Lachlan flinched at the prospect. He
hated
that castle. “I
belong
among my loyal people.”

A snort. “They are no' your people. They are your vassals. And they are no' loyal.”

“Some of them are.”

Dougal's glower darkened. “Dunnet? Bah. You shouldna let him fool you.”

“I do not believe Dunnet has been lying to me.”

“And what of Olrig's claim that he is in league with Stafford?”

“Dunnet insists he is not. And frankly, I believe Dunnet more.” In fact, Lachlan suspected the portly baron was trying to stir up trouble for his own purposes. Though what those purposes were remained to be seen.

“You shouldna be so trusting. You need to take a firmer hand with them.”

“A firmer hand?”

“These are Scotsmen. Hardly educated souls.”

“They seem clever enough.” In fact, Dunnet's plan had been quite brilliant. If Lachlan had the gift of more time, he would have been tempted to give it a try. It could, indeed, have ushered in a new era of prosperity for his people.

“Clever? Bah. They are bumbling barbarians. They require shepherding.”

“Like sheep?”

“If you will.” Dougal's nose curled. “We should return to Ackergill. I doona like being here, among the enemy.”

“They are hardly the enemy.”

“Strangers then. We need to finish this business quickly and return to the castle.”

Lachlan set his teeth. This conversation was bothersome. But then, many conversations he'd had with Dougal were, of late. “The castle is dismal.” He would much rather stay here. Where he didn't feel so … alone.

“It willna be. Once you refurbish it.”

“By the time I refurbish it, I will be dead.”

Dougal glanced away and muttered, “Aye.”

Lachlan stared at the fire, in something of a dismal mood himself, and sipped his toddy. Though he hadn't wanted another drink, he was glad of it. It burned in his throat then floated into his veins. It had been a long day and he was ready for it to be over.

But there had been some amazing revelations, ones that imbued him with an inconvenient hope that there might be a way out of this mess, some escape. First of all, he had found
her
, the woman from his dream. That had stunned him to the core. The fact that she could speak to his mother—that she could perhaps communicate with the spirits who had been tormenting him—was exciting enough. And then, of course, there was the fact that she held a piece of the cursed cross. That had to be why he'd dreamed of her. Perhaps if ghosts did exist and could communicate with the living, maybe this was his mother's way of pointing him in the right direction.

He must have been more exhausted than he thought. When his eyes began to droop and his vision went blurry, he stood, wobbling. In the end, Dougal had to help him to the bed.

“Sleep well, Your Grace,” he murmured as he put out the lamp. Lachlan heard it, but from far far away. He was already drifting. He welcomed the oblivion. Clutched close to his breast, the possibility that he might dream of her.

*   *   *

A familiar sound woke him. A chilling rattle. Lachlan's heart stuttered and he shot up in his bed, eyes wide, darting from shadow to shadow. His vision was bleary and his head throbbed. His pulse rushed in his ears, but he forced himself to focus.

A moan. A wail.

Sweat prickled his brow and he hunkered lower in his covers.

Not again. Not again.

His soul howled in denial.

But yes.
He
was back. He had returned.

With dismay, he watched his father emerge from the shadows. As always, he was dressed in gray rags and draped in chains; he walked with shuffled, tortured steps. He said nothing at first, he never did, merely wheezing and groaning in agony.

Then he thrust out a bony finger, pointing it at Lachlan, goring him with its import.

“
You must…”
he hissed. The sound rippled in the darkness. A cold trickle danced down Lachlan's spine. “
You must…”

Must what?

Lachlan scrubbed at his eyes and then peered at him again, holding his breath, willing the pattering in his chest to cease.

“You must return hooome.”

The apparition spun about, stepped back into the shadows, and then disappeared.

Lachlan collapsed on his pillow gasping for breath. He hated these visits.

They always occurred deep in the night, waking him from a sound sleep, leaving Lachlan mentally exhausted and physically drained, as though the spirits had taken their energy from him and left him but an empty husk. He knew he would not fall asleep again. He rarely did.

He didn't know why the spirit kept tormenting him. He'd come. He was in Scotland. Attempting to do what his father asked, even though it was probably an impossible task. He was determined to try, even with the little time he had left.

He threw back his covers and set his feet on the floor. He had to wait until he stopped shaking to stand, and even then his legs were limp. When he could, he stumbled to the wardrobe and found a pair of breeches and a simple shirt. After a fright like this, he needed to walk, to clear his mind, his soul, of the terror.

He didn't wake Dougal. He never did. It was unfair to ask his cousin to bear the onus of his curse. Lachlan made his way through the deserted halls of Lochlannach Castle, down the grand staircase, and headed for the terrace that overlooked the crashing sea below. There was a moon tonight. The view of Dunnet Bay would calm his soul. And if it did not, there was always the option of stepping over the edge and into oblivion.

But as he emerged into the cool velvet night, it wasn't oblivion that awaited him.

It was Lana Dounreay.

She sat on the seawall staring out at his coveted view, dressed in a diaphanous froth that had to be her nightdress. Her hair, turned silver by the night, hung down over her shoulders, glimmering in the moonlight.

His heart pattered, but for a very different reason.

She was so lovely, so serene, it made his breath catch.

He came to stand beside her without a word, tucking his hands in his pockets and staring at the sea. She glanced up at him, but without surprise, as though she had expected him. Together they gazed out at the dark ripples of the water, the shards of light dancing over the surface of the blackness.

A gentle breeze wafted by, bringing with it her scent. It made him dizzy.

Ah, how he wished …

He wished he were another man. A man not cursed. A man not haunted. A man not doomed to an early death.

A man who could have kissed her once.

How wondrous would that have been?

He must have sighed because she put her hand on his arm. It was warm. Soft. Alluring.

“Can you no' sleep?” she asked in a soothing timbre.

He glanced at her and his gaze was snared. Her eyes were so wide, so blue, so deep. He wanted to drown in them. “No. I … had a visitor.”

Her brow rumpled. “A visitor?”

“Yes.” He turned back to the sea. Though he was loath to discuss this with anyone, lest they think him mad, he knew she would understand. “My father.”

“Ah. I see. Does he visit you often?”

Lachlan snorted a laugh but it was really not one. “Too often.”

Lana tipped her head to the side. “You … doona enjoy his visits?”

“I do not. They are … terrifying.”

Why this puzzled her was a mystery. Ghosts
were
terrifying.

“Can you describe the visit?”

Something in her tone caught his attention. He sat beside her on the wall, listening to the waves crash below. It took a while for him to collect his thoughts, but she waited. “He is always dour. Pained. There is wailing and—”

“Wailing?”

“Yes. But it is the chains that are the most perturbing.”

Lana blinked. “Chains?”

“Yes. He's draped in them. Bound by them. It is his eternal torment. Because of the curse.”

“How odd. None of the ghosts I know wear chains.”

“They are probably not cursed.”

“Probably not.” Her lips quirked as she murmured, “As there are no such things as curses.”

His heart lurched. Would that that were true. He studied her face. Beautiful as it was, that hint of amusement pricked at him. “Do you find this funny?”

“Nae. No' a bit of it.” She patted his hand. Her heat lingered. “'Tis just … odd.”

“What is odd?” Was he really asking? This whole conversation was odd.

“Odd that your ghost wears chains. Chains are verra … of this earth, after all.”

“He's being punished. They are probably metaphorical.”

“Most likely.”

As they turned back to the vista before them, Lachlan reflected that this was, indeed, a surreal conversation to be having. But then, with someone like Lana, it made sense.

“Your mother doesna wear chains.”

His belly roiled at the thought. “I am … gratified to hear it.”

“She seems quite at peace.”

“Good to know.”

“Except that she worries about you.”

“Will you tell her I'm fine?”

“I canna.”

He gaped at her.

She lifted a shoulder. “I willna lie to her. Besides, she knows you're no' a happy man.”

A happy man? Was there such a thing?

“I am a cursed man.”

“Pffft.”

“I am.” He didn't know why he smiled. His lips just wanted to move that way.

What was it about this woman, this sprite, that made the shadows waft away? Made all his dark ruminations evaporate like mists in the sunlight? Made him
smile
after the horrific encounter he'd just had?

Ah, but it didn't seem so horrific. Not now. Not with
her
by his side.

Lana shot him a glance that warmed his heart. “She thought you looked verra fine tonight at dinner.”

“Ah. The kilt.”

“Aye.” Her lashes fluttered. “I thought you looked verra fine as well.”

Now, that stirred something in him. Something illicit and naughty. “Did you?”

“Aye.”

“Was I manly?” He was teasing, perhaps, but when she flicked a glance at him, with that expression—one of hunger and admiration and … heat—all his playfulness withered, scorched by the blazing flare of his lust.

There was something about the cloak of night, the refreshing scent of the sea, the fragrance of her perfume, the way her hair riffled in the breeze. Or maybe it was his churning need to wipe the memory of his father's visit from his mind, or the suddenly clawing desire to be a man he could never be … but Lachlan had to kiss her. Everything in him ached for it.

And so he did.

Though it was foolish and injudicious and wildly inappropriate of him, he did.

He leaned closer, slowly so as not to startle her, threaded his fingers in the silk of her hair, cupped her nape, and set his lips on hers.

It was sublime. She was warm and willing. Her mouth was mobile beneath his as she explored him as gently as he explored her.

Excitement welled, desire roared.

She made a sound, a murmur, a moan, and it incited him to further madness. He deepened the kiss, pulled her closer, eased his tongue into the cavern of her mouth. A shudder racked him as she pressed against him. Her breasts, tender and soft, nudged his chest. His mind spun. His body shook. Need possessed him.

But he had to stop this.

He could not continue.

There was too much at stake.

And he was not that man.

Slowly, he pulled back, detangled from her hold, though it was clear she did not want to be detangled. He held her hand in his when it seemed inclined to wander.

She gazed up at him with a dewy smile and sighed. “That was verra nice,” she whispered.

“Yes. It was.”

Her smile lit a glow in his belly. “Aye. A Scotsman says
Aye
.
That was a verra nice kiss.
” She stared at him expectantly.

“Ah … Aye. That was a verra nice kiss.”

“Excellent.” She patted his cheek.

He could not resist pressing another buss on her lips, and then her nose and then her forehead. And damn. He didn't want to stop. He rested his head on her shoulder and groaned. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

She laughed, a trill snatched away by the wind. “'Tis only a kiss.”

Yes. Only a kiss, but by God, he wanted more. “We should go inside. It's getting cold.”

“I'm no' cold.” She peeped up at him with a mischievous smile. “I'm warm.”

Oh, lord. What had he begun?

He'd never found it difficult to ignore female lures, but this was no mere female. She was a siren. Singing a song he couldn't resist. He wanted her. He wanted her as he'd never wanted any other woman.