Lana and the Laird (18 page)

Lachlan winced as mortification roiled through him, along with the memory of how he'd accused Dunnet of betrayal when, in fact, the man had simply been standing up for what he believed was right. For something Lachlan was now convinced
was
right. He took a sip of his drink and said, “I owe you an apology for that, Dunnet. I came here so arrogant. So full of myself. So sure I knew everything. But I didn't. I didn't know anything.”

Dunnet's eyes gleamed. “You owe me nothing, Your Grace.”

Well, hell.
He was tired of everyone “Your Gracing” him. It was like a grain of sand niggling away at his innards. He especially disliked it from this man's lips, this man he respected and liked. “Please. Call me Lachlan. If we're to be friends moving forward, it is only fitting.”

Dunnet stilled. A flush rose on his cheeks. “I would like that. And I would like you to call me Alexander … if you'd care to.”

If he'd care to?

The prospect delighted him.

“Well,” Lana gusted. She sent him another of those smiles, the ones that made his stomach clench. “Since we're all being so charming and friendly, you may call me Lana.”

His lungs locked. Not because of her risqué suggestion, but because of the expression on Lady Dunnet's face.

“I think not,” she snapped.

Lana fluttered her lashes. Lachlan could have sworn he caught a glimmer of mischief in those beautiful eyes. “But whyever not?”

The sisters faced off. “Because he is a duke.”

“He's calling Dunnet, Alexander. 'Tis only good manners that he call me Lana.”

“You are a maiden.”

“I still have a first name. I quite like it. Do you like it … Lachlan?” She turned to him and proceeded with more fluttering, and he became certain she was teasing her sister mercilessly.

“Yes, I do, Miss Dounreay. It's a lovely name. But…”

“But what?” A coquettish tone.

But your sister will eviscerate me if I use it.

“Papa would have apoplexy should His Grace call you by your given name.”

“Papa is no' here.”

“Lana Dounreay!”

She ignored her sister's squawk. “I am so happy you changed your mind, Lachlan.” She stood and crossed to the sofa where he sat and perched next to him, pulling something from her pocket. “I have something for you.”

The necklace.

His heart stalled. His breath caught.

Certainly, it was only a shard, only a bit of the treasure he sought, needed, but it was a start. It was a fragment of hope that he could, indeed, break this curse.

Everything would be different then. It could be.

It did not escape him that if he managed to break the wretched curse … he could have her. Or someone like her.

But he didn't want someone like her.

He wanted her.

Certitude roared through his being.

The necklace glinted in the sunlight. His hand trembled as he reached for it. When he touched it, he felt it again, that glow of rightness. Of providence.

He stared at it for a moment, and then he covered her hands with his and gazed into her eyes. His mouth went dry. “Thank you,” he said.

The spark in her eye made him want to thank her … properly. Perhaps somewhere private. Perhaps with a kiss.

It wasn't a wise thing to contemplate, nor a wise thing to allow, but he felt a need, a clamoring, to hold her again. To touch his lips to hers. To taste her.

It was just a kiss, after all.

Only a kiss.

Nothing more.

“Would you…” The words caught in his throat, the words he'd never dared utter. “Would you care to walk with me? In the garden?”

She drew in a breath. A pink tinge drifted up her cheeks. “I would like that verra much,” she said softly.

Lachlan didn't miss the concerned frown Lady Dunnet sent him. He shot her a reassuring smile, one that bespoke his honorable intentions.

Or it may have been a wolfish grin.

One could never be sure.

*   *   *

The garden had always been one of Lana's favorite places, but now, in this moment, it was magical. It might have been the elation that Lachlan had changed his mind about the Clearances—that certainly made her feel wonderful, as though she might have played a small part in the salvation of her people. Or it might have been the excitement singing in her veins at the warmth of his hand on her back. Or it might have been his scent, wafting to her as he leaned closer to duck beneath the trestle. Or simply the fact that they were here, together. Alone.

He was going to kiss her.

She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

She led him to the gazebo at the center of the sprawling gardens. This time of year, it was covered with leafy vines and blooming flowers, which made it doubly delightful. Not only was it a fragrant bower, it was private.

She peeped up at Lachlan as he stepped inside, and she was struck again with how very tall he was. Tall and broad and, dressed as he was in the Sinclair plaid, beguiling beyond belief.

His face was that of a fallen angel, all harsh planes and rigid angles, but perfectly carved and symmetrical. It was a hard beauty, but undeniable. His harshness was softened by his eyes, deep welling blue fringed with thick lashes. His hair was so long and soft, she wanted to sink her fingers into it.

He was beyond attractive. He was irresistible.

Oh, hell, she would not wait for him to kiss her. She could not.

She would kiss him first.

She took him by surprise. She was certain of it, because as she leaned up and covered his lips with hers, he gasped. It was fortuitous, because he opened his mouth, and she tasted him.

He was delicious.

As her mouth moved over his, he stilled and grasped her arms, holding her tight, as though at any moment he might wrench away. She despaired that he might stop her, but she didn't cease her assault. If this was the only kiss she would get, she would make it count.

But he did not. He did not wrench away. With a great groan, he pulled her against him—and ah, it was heavenly there in his arms—and he deepened the kiss. Glory and passion and a bubbling arousal raced through her, unlike anything she'd ever known. It was savage and wild, unrestrained.
He
was savage and wild and unrestrained.

And that incited the same in her.

He muttered something as he held her tighter and nibbled his way over her cheek, down to her neck, causing her to shudder. She nested her fingers in his hair, as she'd longed to do, and held him there, huffing and moaning as he worked some arcane magic on her skin.

His hands roved as he consumed her, over her back, her shoulders, her sides, and then, finally, to her breast. It was a shock when he scraped over a nipple. She'd never realized her body could sing the way it did to his touch. She leaned back and stared at him. “Lachlan.” A whisper.

His eyes glowed. His nostrils flared. His gaze locked on her lips. “Lana,” he said, and he kissed her again.

It was as crazed as the kiss before, as hungry, as desperate. As though neither of them could get enough.

He walked her backward until her legs hit the bench and then he sat, tugging her onto his lap. He was hard, and she wiggled to find a more comfortable spot. She had no idea why his eyes crossed and he groaned. Or she did. Surely it wasn't wicked to wiggle a little more? She found a comfortable position, fisted his hair, and pulled him back to her.

He came, a willing servant to her desires.

They kissed for a long while, exploring each other, creating a heat between them.

But then he eased away and stared at her. “Lana…”

She heard it in his tone, his reluctance, his regret, his retreat.

Something within her howled.

He dropped his forehead on her shoulder and sighed. “We can't do this.”

“Can we no'?” She thought they were doing quite well.

He lifted his gaze to hers. In it she saw a wealth of pain and loneliness and remorse. “I have made a vow.”

She blinked. “A vow?”

“How can I? How could I? How could I take the chance?”

She had no clue what he was nattering on about, but she didn't like it. “Lachlan…”

“I should not be kissing you.”

Aye. He rather should.

“Because if I kiss you … I will want more. I … do want more.”

Excellent.
She nestled deeper.

It was irritating that he pushed her away, albeit gently, and settled her on the bench at his side. “It's my curse, Lana. The curse. I cannot take the chance that I … that we…” He raked his fingers through his hair, releasing his queue and creating a tantalizing fall of curls. “I cannot take the chance of making a child.”

Everything within her froze. “Do you no' want children, Lachlan?”

His laugh was harsh. “More than I could ever say.” He stroked her cheek. “More than I could ever say. But I cannot take the chance. It would be a sin to bring a child into this world, knowing he would be doomed, as I am.”

“You are no' doomed.”

He frowned at her. “I am. I am, Lana.”

What nonsense. The man was so convinced he was cursed, he'd created a prison for himself, wherein he was. He
was
cursed.

“Oh, Lana.” He drew his fingers through her hair, then tucked it behind her ear. “It's more than that. I fear…” His throat worked.

“What, Lachlan? What do you fear?”

“I fear that any woman I was … with…” A pained expression crossed his face.

“Aye?”

“Any woman I was with would become cursed as well.”

She shot to her feet. She had to. “Ballocks.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ballocks. Utter ballocks. First of all, there are no such things as curses—”

“How can you say that? Each of my ancestors died—”

“Aye. Right on cue. Has it ever occurred to you that they were clumsy?”

“Clumsy?”

“Or foolish? Or that they simply believed they should die on their thirtieth birthday and ever so obligingly did?”

“That's nonsense.”

“Och. And a curse is a more logical explanation?”

“You of all people should believe in curses.”

“I of all people should know they are ballocks.” She crossed her arms. “Do you know what I think?”

His brow rippled, as though he in fact did not.

“I think you are afraid of commitment.”

He reared up, outrage on every line of his face. “I most certainly am not.”

“And you are using this curse to protect yourself from the nuisance of vulnerability.”

A red tide crept up his ears. He averted his gaze. “Ridiculous.”

She studied him for a moment as frustration pummeled her, and she realized she was not managing him properly. Sometimes in battle a full frontal charge was not wise. She decided to change her tack. “Either that or…” She let her comment drift on the breeze.

“Or what?” He whipped around to stare at her.

“Or you doona
want
to kiss me.” It was quite clever the way she thrust out a lip. It brought his attention back to her mouth.

“Good God, Lana!”

“'Tis all right, Lachlan.” She patted his hand and shifted farther away. Even affected a sniff. “I understand. I am no' as pretty as Hannah.”

“You are gorgeous.”

“And I am no' as clever as other girls. And I do have my … curse to contend with.” A sigh. “I understand why you would wouldna want to kiss me.”

“I bloody well do.”

She met his gaze and patted his shoulder. “I understand. You doona have to pretend.”

His nostrils flared. “I'm not pretending. Damn it, Lana…”

She walked away, leaning on the post to stare out at the garden. She knew when he came up behind her. She felt his heat.

“Lana, you are the most beautiful, tantalizing, aggravating creature I have ever met.”

“Well, that's romantic—”

Before the words escaped, he whipped her around and pulled her against him and set his mouth on hers. Showing her, proving to her, his ardor.

It was a long time before he lifted his head, and when he did, there were no more conversations about his curse or hers. And no more protestations.

 

CHAPTER NINE

He had to stop doing that, Lachlan thought as he made his way back to his chambers. He had to stop kissing Lana Dounreay. For one thing, it made his trousers far too tight.

But ah, it had been marvelous. He'd loved every nibble, every nip, every velvet touch. And he yearned for more. Ached for more.

And yes.
That
was why he had to stop kissing her. It made him hopeful, it gave him ideas. It incited mischief.

Aside from that, if he were caught kissing Dunnet's sister-in-law, it would be a disaster. Dunnet would no doubt demand Lachlan marry her. Lady Dunnet, on the other hand, might demand a duel.

The trouble was, the more he kissed her the less he cared if they were caught. Even with the curse hanging over his head like a sword.

Dougal was waiting in his rooms when he returned. “How was your ride?” he asked.

Lachlan tossed himself into the chair by the fire. “Very illustrative.”

“How so?” His cousin poured him a drink, although Lachlan didn't want it. He'd just had one with Dunnet and that small dram had eroded his good sense enough to make him think taking a walk with Lana in the garden was a good idea.

And oh, it had been, but now he was paying for it.

Lachlan shrugged. “It has become clear to me that the Clearances are not the orderly evictions I thought they were. I saw a woman nearly burned to death today.”

Dougal's expression went blank. “That's terrible.”

“And fields scorched, for no other reason than to drive out the tenants.”

“Ah. Well.” His cousin nodded, his features a moue of remorse. “That is the purpose of the Clearances. To remove the unprofitable crofters.”