Lana and the Laird (5 page)

She was different from others and she knew it. She knew she wasn't like other girls, girls who could play and laugh and live their lives without the burden of knowledge. Girls who could love and be loved.

Girls who never had to worry, never had to dread the day when
he
learned the truth. When
that
expression flickered through his eyes. When he backed away and shook his head … and left.

No man wanted to be with a woman like her. A woman who was touched. Lana had accepted it. But it was a pained acceptance.

She wanted nothing more than to be like them.

But she wasn't and never would be.

In something of a fog, she made her way into the woods, to a clearing she'd found that was particularly peaceful. She sat on the old log and closed her eyes and soaked in the beauty of the day. She needed it today. Especially now.

That unpleasant scene with Galen, combined with the trails of her dream, had her on edge.

The sun splattered through the leafy cathedral, warming her face. A splendid breeze carrying the brine from the sea teased her nostrils. Birds twittered in the trees and woodland creatures scurried about. Such surrounds warmed her soul, made her feel a part of it … a part of
something
.

She knew when Lileas sat down beside her. Of all the souls she'd met since she came to Dunnet, she liked Lileas the best. The woman was sweet and serene and at peace with her fate. Though Lana sensed a deep sadness in her, she never spoke of the past. In fact, she didn't speak much at all. But when she did, it was with purpose.

They sat in silence, enjoying the buzz of the bees and the tickle of the breeze. Not a word passed between them. But then, they didn't need words.

Then suddenly Lileas's energy shifted; it hummed with agitation. A vision swamped Lana. She was used to such visions, shared by spirits as they attempted to communicate with her—but this one made her blood go cold.

A child. In the loch. Thrashing in the water. Dire danger.

Lana's heart clenched and she leaped to her feet. Alarm trickled in her veins. She rushed through the woods, trying to fight off the panic roiling in the ether. Lileas was right. Someone was in danger. A scream assaulted her as she emerged from the trees at the loch, and her breath stalled. Her panic was replaced by sheer, unadulterated fury.

A girl thrashed in waters far over her head and a group of boys stood around her, keeping her from finding the shore. Her cries sent a shaft of dismay through Lana.

Fiona was a tiny thing, one of the many orphans fostered at Lochlannach Castle; her mother had perished after her family had been burned out of their home in a Clearance to the south. The poor child had suffered far too many tragedies for such a young life, and there she was, in the cold waters of the loch. Floundering.

But that wasn't what enraged Lana. It was the boys, tormenting her—one holding her under and then letting her up so she could scream again—that infuriated her. And they were laughing.
Laughing.

Lana had nearly drowned once. She knew the terror of feeling the waters closing over her head, possessing her, claiming her. She knew the terror of struggling for something as simple as a breath.

That these heartless boys were creating a similar fear in a small motherless waif, creating a lifetime of dread, incensed her. Ignoring her own terror, that clawing fear of water, she stormed to the shore and then, sucking in a deep breath, waded in. Icy ribbons twined in her veins, but she ignored them, pressing deeper and deeper. It was summer. The water wasn't frigid. There was no ice to break through. No chance that she would collapse into the dark maw of the loch.

She tried to remind herself of this.

“John Robin,” she bellowed, allowing her ire to warm her blood, consume the fear. “What do you think yer doing?”

The boy froze and whipped around. Mercifully, he released his hold on Fiona and she burst through to the surface, gasping for air. Lana grabbed her and hefted her up, holding her in her arms as she glared at the miscreant. The other boys, who had been egging him on, scattered.

When John Robin whirled to flee as well, Lana caught him by the scruff. Nae. He wouldn't escape her wrath. Not until she'd lashed him well and good with her tongue. “What on earth were you thinking?” she snarled.

The boy glared at her, a smirk on his too-young face. “Let me go,” he muttered, trying to jerk free.

She leaned closer, allowing her anger to rage at full force. “What would your mother think of this?” she hissed.

John Robin's eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Trepidation flickered across his face. For once, Lana was glad her gift disturbed people. Someone needed to put the fear of God into this boy.

“M-my mother is dead,” he burbled.

“Do you no' think she watches over you? Do you no' think she sees everything you do?”

John Robin's lips flapped.

“For shame, John Robin. Frightening a puir wee thing like Fiona. Do you no' think she's had enough fear in her life? Enough heartbreak?” Lana held her closer; the mite wrapped her arms around Lana's neck and clung. “Mercy's sake, the two of you have suffered too much. Doona make matters worse.”

“I was just playing with her.” Dear lord. Did he really think this was a game?

“Ye could have killed her.”

“I dinna—”

“Nae. Because I came,” Lana spat as she carried Fiona from the loch. She tried to set her down, but the girl would not let go. “How would you feel if you had done her real harm? Is that a weight you want on your soul?”

To his credit, he paled and then his cheeks pinkened. He appeared contrite, but that wasn't nearly enough.

Lana leaned in and caught his gaze. “If I ever, ever hear of you tormenting this lass again, you will have me to deal with. Do you understand?” She attempted to make her tone as menacing as she could, and she was pleased with the result. The boy gaped at her; he looked as though he might faint. “Do you?”

“Aye. Aye.” He shot a look at Fiona and then one at Lana, and then he turned tail and ran back to the castle.

Lana sighed and tightened her hold on the girl. “I am verra sorry that happened to you, my wee darling,” she said, scraping the wet hair from her tiny face.

“Th-thank you,” Fiona said, clinging tighter.

“My puir thing.” She rubbed a shivering shoulder. “Shall we go change our clothes?” Lana asked. “Something dry perhaps?”

Fiona nodded. She nibbled her lip. “Wh-why do boys have to b-be so mean?” she asked as Lana headed for the castle.

“Ach, they're not all mean. And the ones that are, are usually afraid. The meanness is their way of dealing with it.”

“A-afraid?”

“Aye. Afraid of being alone. Afraid of what the future may hold. Afraid of lots of things. Everyone is afraid of something.”

It warmed Lana's heart to see Fiona attempt a smile. “Wh-what are you afraid of?”

She chuckled. “Everything.” She wouldn't mention the loch, not to this girl. Not now. “But when you're afraid of everything, nothing holds any true terror. Don't you think?”

Fiona observed her with wide eyes, and then nodded.

Lana took the shivering child to the kitchens, where it was warm and there were bannocks cooling. They nibbled on them—though they were hard—and sipped tea as they recovered. Then Lana left Fiona with Morag, who clucked over her like a mother hen, and made her way to her rooms to change.

As she crested the stairs, her sister bustled toward her, but, wrapped in her thoughts, Hannah didn't see her. Her features were drawn into a sour pucker, and her fingers were entangled. A sure sign of agitation. When Hannah finally noticed her, she stopped short and blinked. “Oh. Lana.” A distracted murmur. Then her eyes widened as she took in Lana's dishevelment. “What happened to you?”

Lana fluffed out her skirts, which were still damp. “I went for a stroll … in the loch.”

“Oh, lord.” Hannah knew she avoided deep water at all costs, and why. “Are you all right?”

“I am, but Dunnet needs to have a talk with John Robin. He was dunking Fiona. Mercilessly.”

“Why, that rotter.”

“Aye.” Lana nodded. “He needs a firm hand.”

“On his backside.”

Lana couldn't help but snort a laugh.

“I will have Dunnet see to it.” Hannah's brow wrinkled and Lana was once again struck by her sister's preoccupation. She could feel the tension humming on the air. Something was wrong and Hannah was trying to hide it.

“Do tell me what has happened,” she said they hooked arms and headed for Lana's rooms.

Hannah frowned. “What makes you think something has happened?”

Lana merely quirked a brow. Hannah should know. She should know by now.

“Oh, right.” Hannah blew out a breath and shook her head; her inky black hair caught the light. “Dunnet has had word from the Duke of Caithness.”

Something unpleasant curled in Lana's belly. She'd never met the duke, their powerful overlord, but she'd heard of him. By all accounts, he was a pompous, self-important popinjay. A Scottish laird who had neglected his clans for decades, preferring the decadent entertainments of London to the tedious business of ruling and protecting his people.

He'd only recently returned to his homeland, but in that short time, he'd swiftly validated the reputation that preceded him. Last month Dunnet had gone to meet the man in his castle in Ackergill, and it hadn't gone well. The duke had announced he expected Dunnet to clear his land, to evict his tenants and import sheep. It was a horrifying prospect. Thousands would be homeless, with nowhere to go. Hundreds would starve. It had happened in the south, to Fiona's mother in fact.

That the Duke of Caithness was planning the same here was ghastly.

Naturally, Dunnet had refused outright.

No laird with a conscience could agree to such an atrocious act.

They'd all been waiting, on tenterhooks, to see how their overlord would respond to Dunnet's refusal. Clearly, judging from Hannah's expression, the duke had issued his response. And clearly, it wasn't good news.

“What did the duke have to say?” she asked through a tight throat.

Hannah's tension heightened. The subsequent buzzing in Lana's head increased. “He's coming,” Hannah whispered. “He's coming here.”

Lana stared at her sister, her heart aching. For she knew what the duke was bringing with him.

He was bringing death and destruction.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Lachlan dug in his heels and snapped his reins and his mount surged forward. He ignored the cry, fading in his wake. His cousin had never been much of a horseman. Dougal had cringed at the prospect of riding outside the carriage and, frankly, for good reason. He had a sloppy seat and would no doubt be pained come evening.

Why the thought made Lachlan smile, he had no clue.

Or perhaps it wasn't Dougal's discomfort that incited this feeling of joy within his soul. Perhaps it was just this.

The feel of a powerful mount between his thighs, the whistle of the wind in his ears, the thrum of his heart, pounding in tandem with his horse's hooves. It was magnificent. Magnificent to release himself to the world and let fly.

It was a beautiful day to ride. The sun was shining, though it was now lowering in the sky, shafting dusky orange fingers over the shadowing hillocks. The breeze was sweet, with a tinge of the sea, and it ruffled his hair in a pleasant caress, tugging the tendrils from the queue. Kestrels wheeled overhead, calling to one another in sharp caws. Lachlan glanced up, staring at them in envy. How glorious would it be to take wing? To see the world from far above? To soar?

Ah, but he was soaring. They fairly flew over the well-worn track. Rebel, his mount, one he'd raised from a gangly colt, was in his element. No doubt he'd been restless, missing the daily rides they'd enjoyed in Hyde Park. It seemed he was delighted at this brief taste of abandon as well.

For the first time in a long time—perhaps forever—Lachlan felt it. That sense of rightness. Of being at home in his own skin. He didn't want it to end.

It did, of course.

He reached the inn in Howe just as night was falling. He had his horse unsaddled and curried before Dougal caught up. The coach, traveling far behind them and piled high with Lachlan's trunks, would take even longer to arrive.

Dougal caught sight of Lachlan and leaped from his saddle. He should not have. In his rush to make sure his duke had survived his riotous ride with no ill effects, he didn't pay attention to his footing, or the fact that, after such a long ride, his legs might be weak. He fell onto his bottom.

Lachlan reached down to help him to his feet. He hardly smiled at all.

“Well,” he said, clapping Dougal on the shoulder. “That was a wonderful ride.”

His cousin frowned at him. “I canna see why you willna ride in the coach.”

Lachlan began unbuckling Dougal's saddle, despite his cousin's consternation. “The coach is stuffy.” Aside from which, he had no desire to spend the day in a closed carriage being incessantly needled to return to Ackergill. Dougal wasn't pleased at all by his decision to interrupt the renovations to travel to Dunnetshire and beard the Wolf of Dunnet in his den. He'd insisted a sharply worded letter would suffice.

But when Lachlan made up his mind, he rarely changed it, and his determination to confront Dunnet would not be quashed. In fact, during the long trip it had grown.

“Coaches are safer.” Dougal eyed Rebel as though he were a beast from hell.

“I much prefer being out of doors. Besides, Rebel needed the exercise.”

“That beast is far too wild for you.”

Lachlan blinked. Rebel was perfectly suited to him.

“He was clearly out of control.”

Ah. But no. It was Lachlan. Lachlan was the one who was out of control. And he loved the feeling. He grinned at his cousin and handed the mounts off to an enthusiastic young groom.