Lana and the Laird (35 page)

“All night?”

“From the moment I left you.”

She chuckled. “There wasn't much of the night remaining when you left.”

“Far too much to spend without you.”

His hand closed on her breast and she was reminded, suddenly, of the pleasure he'd played on her there the night before, and the night before that. She shivered as her nipples ruched in anticipation. Because she felt she probably must, she murmured, “Not here, Lachlan.” Not now. But glory. There had to be a way for them to be together tonight.

“No. Of course not. Just one kiss.”

“One kiss.”

But it wasn't just one kiss. It never was.

He kissed her many times and, as the passion rose between them, his caresses became wilder, more daring, inciting her to mischief as well.

He had his hand up her skirt, drawing delightful designs on the dampening flesh of her core, and she had her hand on him, when—to her annoyance—the door beside them opened.

They sprang apart. Well,
he
sprang. She was far too bemused for such cogent thought. She shook down her skirts and turned to see Isobel, bow in hand, studying them. Her head was cocked to the side and her tiny brow furrowed.

Something curled in Lana's belly. She knew what that expression meant. It meant Isobel was
thinking
. Saints preserve them all.

“Ah, there you are,” Lachlan gusted, rubbing his hands together. “Did you find your bow?”

It was right there. In her hands. But it was a good attempt and Lana appreciated Lachlan for trying.

Isobel's features scrunched up. “What were you doing?”

“Ah … doing?” Lachlan fiddled with his collar, as though it were suddenly too tight.

“It looked like you were
kissing
.” Why her niece shot her a glower, Lana had no clue. Unless the little mite had thought to win the duke for herself. Which was a likely possibility, given the adoration with which she perused him.

“Oh, heavens no. We were…” Lachlan shot Lana a panicked look.

Lana's lips worked. “I, ah. My hair was caught. His Grace was unfastening it for me.”

“Caught in what?”

Lana and Lachlan exchanged a glance. Caught in what, indeed?

He flapped a hand in her direction. “In her … that…”

“On a nail…” They both burbled at the same time.

Isobel peered at the wall against which Lachlan had had Lana plastered. The nail-less wall. Her expression tightened. She pinned Lachlan with a ferocious scowl that made her look very much like Dunnet. “Were you seducing her?”

Lana sucked in a pained breath. She gaped at her niece. An
infant
. “Isobel Mairi MacBean. Where ever did you learn such a word?”

She shrugged. “From Andrew.”

Lachlan blanched; he sent Lana a flummoxed glance and she shrugged as well. Really, what was there to say? Isobel was flummoxing.

Her niece affected a pout. “
He
said he wasn't seducing my mama as well, when I saw
them
doing the same thing.”

“Oh, heavens,” Lana murmured, then silence crackled through the tiny room, punctuated only by Isobel's assessing and discomfiting scrutiny.

“Well, my goodness,” Lachlan practically bellowed into the yawning disquiet. “That is indeed a fine bow. May I?” He stepped from the dressing room into the bedroom, taking the weapon from Isobel's hand and inspecting it thoroughly. Far too thoroughly. He ran his fingers along the arch and then tested the strings. He struck a pose and pulled back to test the tension of the threading. “Aye. A fine bow indeed. And you say you are a good shot?”

Isobel frowned from the duke to Lana and back. Thank heaven, she decided to allow herself to be distracted. Lana nearly collapsed with relief. “Aye. One of the best.”

“I would love to see a display of your skill sometime.” He walked her over to the bench by the fireplace and the two sat. Lana strolled to the window seat, trying to control her shaking.

It had been exciting being in his arms again. Even more exciting nearly being caught.

It was wrong of her to consider what she was considering, but still, she did.

As Lachlan and Isobel discussed the various merits of this arrow or that, she thought about seduction. About places around her home where she might lure him for kisses … or more.

Aye, there were many people around. Her family, servants, and others. But the castle was large and had many unused rooms. If she put her mind to it, it should be no problem finding some secluded spot. It should be no problem seducing him again.

*   *   *

Lachlan had no idea why Lana was smiling like that, but it set a flame in his belly. As he pretended to listen to Isobel's tales of her hunting prowess, his attention was on Lana.

He couldn't help but regret that they'd been interrupted, but he knew it was probably for the best. Anyone could have come upon them. Aside from that, young Isobel might have had an unfortunate education.

There were no two ways about it. He would have to exert more self-control.

After his meeting with Magnus, he knew it was even more important that he and Lana not be caught in a clinch. For one thing, Magnus would demand an immediate wedding. And for another, for some reason Lachlan was loath to disappoint the man.

His previous resolution to avoid altogether such exchanges with Lana did not cross his mind. He knew better than to even contemplate such madness. Especially after last night. He knew he didn't have the willpower to withstand her allure.

A movement out of the corner of his eye captured his attention. It took some effort, but he dragged his gaze from Lana to the door. Alexander stood there with a frown on his face. Lachlan couldn't help noticing that his gaze flickered from Lachlan to Lana. No doubt he'd witnessed Lachlan's explicit perusal of her. But he refused to feel guilty. They were on opposite sides of the room. And he wasn't kissing her at all.

“Your Grace?” he said.

“Aye, Dunnet?”

“You should come downstairs.”

Isobel put out a lip. “But I was showing him my bow.”

“Another time, little one,” Alexander said. “His Grace needs to come with me.”

“What is it?”

Alexander's brow darkened even more. “Stafford is here.”

His gut clenched. Earlier, he and Alexander had reviewed the papers Isobel had stolen from Scrabster's safe. Among them had been a letter indicating that his baron had been involved in a plot against him, and that Scrabster hadn't been working alone. The letter indicated the conspirators had a “powerful friend” who would assure “Caithness would not be a problem for long.”

There was only one man powerful enough to make Scrabster feel as though he were safe in his treason.

Stafford.

“What the bloody hell does he want?” Lachlan glanced down at Isobel—who was watching him with wide eyes and, most likely, open ears—and flinched. “I mean, whatever could he want?”

Alexander shrugged. “I doona know, but he is meeting with Magnus as we speak. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you.” Lachlan handed the bow back to Isobel and stood, brushing down his kilt. The last person he wanted to meet today was the Marquess of Stafford. Especially just after learning the bastard might be at the heart of a plot to end his life, and the recent confirmation that Stafford was most definitely inciting his barons to rebel against him. He didn't think he had the fortitude to restrain his temper.

But if the man was here, it was an excellent opportunity to finally confront him, to discover what he could about his enemy's foul plans and put an end to them.

He shot a glance at Lana and she stood. “Isobel, why don't you come with me?” she asked, holding out a hand.

Isobel's features formed a truculent expression. “I don't want to. I want to go with them.”

“But darling, they need to tend to grown-up business.”

“I'm almost a grown-up.”

“Darling, come along.”

But Isobel didn't. At least, not right away. She leaned toward Lachlan and whispered, “Is this one of the bad men?”

He tried to crack a smile, but couldn't. If his suspicions were correct, Stafford was at the heart of all his troubles. “He is not my friend.”

“Well, remember,” Isobel said, hefting her bow, “I'm an excellent shot. Call on me if you need me to skewer anyone.” Her eyes narrowed. “
Anyone.
”

As he watched her go, hand in hand with Lana, he couldn't help think how nice it was to have a champion.

Even if she was rather short.

*   *   *

It was all Lachlan could do to keep himself calm as he and Alexander made their way down the staircase to the parlor. He knew this battle was his to fight and his alone, but it was damn nice having a friend at his back.

He and Stafford had never gotten along. The marquess was devious and unprincipled; he was an unpleasant sort to boot. Lachlan itched to take him down a notch and remind him that, as favor with the prince went, Lachlan had far more.

He paused at the doorway, to swallow down his bile when he saw Stafford sitting there, calm as you please, sipping whisky with Magnus. Susana sat with them, but he could tell, from the clenching of her fists and the bunching of her cheek, she wasn't happy about it. Most likely because, from what he heard, Stafford was in the process of attempting to negotiate a bid for her hand. It was clear the fair Susana didn't appreciate being treated like a pawn on a chessboard, or a brood mare.

He didn't enter the room, electing to stand at the door … and listen in. Stafford had his back to Lachlan, but he could hear each word he uttered, and they made his belly boil. He could feel Alexander's tension rising as well.

When the bastard tossed out Lana's name, as a chip to be bartered on the marriage mart—to assure the security of Dounreay from the very villains Stafford had no doubt sent to plague them—Lachlan nearly exploded. For one thing, what Stafford was suggesting was out-and-out blackmail.

For another, Lana was
his
.

The thought of any other man claiming her, much less Stafford's piggish son, made him see red.

But the conversation only degraded from there.

“There's no telling what could happen to Dounreay,” Stafford said in a slither of a tone. “A land with no overlord—”

Magnus interrupted the marquess with a lifted hand. “We have an overlord. Caithness—”

“Caithness doesna care what happens to you,” the marquess said. His pompous tone, his presumptuous words, made Lachlan's fingers curl into fists. “He's left you unprotected for decades.”

“But he
is
our overlord.” Somehow Magnus managed to smile, but beneath his blasé exterior, outrage simmered; no doubt Stafford's arrogance didn't allow him to see it. “Technically, all the land in Caithness County is his. We are his stewards.”

“Ah, but you see … It doesna have to be that way.” Stafford shifted forward, to the edge of his chair.

“What do you mean?” Magnus leaned forward as well.

“I have received official word from the Prince Regent himself, that he is verra pleased with my Improvements to the land.”

“I see.”

“There is word he may be considering making me a duke myself.” Though this wasn't the first time he'd heard this bit of news, Lachlan's belly curled. It was a revolting prospect. “No doubt the prince could be convinced to give me these lands once Caithness is … gone.”

Lachlan's heart thudded painfully. Ah. Here it was.

“Gone?”

At his back, Alexander growled. Lachlan shot him a look, imploring silence. He didn't want to miss a word of this, and should either he or Dunnet unleash their fury and attack, it might interrupt this flow of illuminating revelations.

Stafford snorted. “Trust me. He willna be around for long.”

“What do you mean?” Magnus asked.

“Doona fash yerself, Magnus.” Stafford patted his hand. “You willna be suspected. No one will.”

“Suspected? Of what?” When Stafford didn't respond, Magnus added, “I thought the duke was a friend of the prince.”

“Bah.” Stafford waved away this triviality. “Prinny is easy to manipulate. Aside from that, everyone knows none of the Caithness dukes reach their thirtieth birthday. It will be no surprise when Lachlan Sinclair expires before his time.”

Magnus firmed his jaw. “I canna be a party to murder.”

“Ah, but that's the beauty of it. It isna murder … it's a curse.”

At this point, Dunnet nearly lunged, but Lachlan held him back. He didn't want Dunnet tangling with Stafford; the marquess was far too powerful an enemy for Alexander to have.

Lachlan would handle this himself.

He was a powerful enemy to have, too.

Utterly unaware of the menace he provoked, Stafford leaned closer to Magnus. “And what do you stand to lose?”

“A daughter?”

Stafford ignored him. “You will gain my support as your patron … and lose a laird who doesna care about you or your lands.”

Enough. Lachlan could maintain silence no longer.

How dare he? How dare he come in here and attempt to blackmail Lachlan's vassal? Order him to trade his daughter for safety? Entice him to sedition?

How dare he
breathe
? He didn't deserve the privilege.

“I do care, actually,” he said, strolling into the room. It cost him to maintain a nonchalant demeanor when all he wanted was to rip out Stafford's throat.

The marquess whipped around. His jaw went slack. He bounded to his feet. “Lachlan … I … We … We were just talking about you.”

“Aye,” he said in a crisp tone. “I heard.”

Stafford's lips wobbled. “This is not what it seems,” he protested.

“Isn't it? Because it sounded an awful lot like a plot to do me in.”