Lana and the Laird (6 page)

Not waiting for Dougal to follow, he strode across the yard and swept into the inn. He was a bit tired and ready for a rest and a fine meal. Thank heaven McKinney had sent a runner to secure their accommodations in advance; that man would continue on to notify Dunnet of his overlord's impending arrival.

His steps slowed as he spotted a man and his very pregnant wife in the foyer. The sight stirred within him a deeply buried longing, one he assiduously ignored until it caught him unawares, as now.

A man, a woman, and a child. Such a simple dream. But it would never be his. He knew he would never be that man, a man eagerly expecting the birth of his child. And he would never have a wife. Never know a love like the one he saw shining in their eyes.

Surely there was no reason for the sharp envy that rose. Especially considering the raw anguish on the man's face and the complete exhaustion on his wife's.

“Please, sir,” the man said, grabbing the innkeeper's hand. “Can you no' find a spot for us? Somewhere for my wife to rest?” He gestured to her belly. Lachlan didn't know much about such things, but it did seem the woman was close to her time. Either that, or she was like to burst.

The innkeeper shook his head and said gruffly, “Nae. We have no rooms. The inn is full up. The only space we have is in the stables.”

The thought made Lachlan's stomach churn. He wouldn't sleep a wink in his toasty bed, knowing this woman was suffering in the stables.

All he wanted at this moment was to retire with a stiff drink and a warm dinner, and rest. But he couldn't. Not in good conscience.

He wasn't sure what impelled him to step forward as he did. Perhaps it was the fact that she reminded him of the woman in the portrait hanging over his mantel. Or perhaps it was some long-dormant shred of chivalry. But he did. Without a moment's consideration, he stepped forward and said, “Give them my room.”

Behind him, Dougal made a sound, something like a wheeze. “Your Grace. You canna.”

Lachlan shot him a silencing glare. “And give them my meal as well.”

The innkeeper sputtered. “But Your Grace, we made the roast especially for you.”

“Then I am sure it will be excellent.”

“There is not enough for all of you.”

“I'm sure they will enjoy it.” He bowed to the gaping man and his wife, but had to turn away. The gratitude in her eyes, and the tears, were far too much for him. He'd never been one for shows of emotion. “My man and I will sleep in the stables.”

Again, a noise from Dougal, one of displeasure, but he didn't object again. Which was wise. Now that he'd made his declaration, Lachlan wasn't about to change his mind. He was like that when he made a decision. He never changed his mind once he was committed to a course. Indeed, something warmed inside him at the thought he could bring even a small comfort to his people.

He and Dougal ate in the common rooms as there was no private parlor. They were served simple but tasty fare of roast chicken and potatoes. Though it was rather different from most of his experiences at inns, Lachlan quite enjoyed it. The furnishings were rustic and the ale slightly sour, but the feel of camaraderie among the other diners was pleasing. Laughter and jibes flowed around them. At one point someone picked up a fiddle and began playing a tune that had Lachlan's toe tapping. More than one reveler stopped by to shake his hand and offer appreciation over Lachlan's small gesture. He found he very much enjoyed it. It was, by far, the most gratifying evening he'd spent in quite a while.

For once, he felt a part of something, rather than a man standing outside and looking in.

If this was how the other half lived, it wasn't half bad.

Because there was a storm rolling in, there were several others sleeping in the stables. As they headed out to make their beds, Dougal renewed his objections to such humble accommodations but Lachlan, rejuvenated by the evening he'd shared with these men, clapped him on the back and laughed.

Laughed.

It wasn't until later, when he was situated in the prickly hay with a threadbare blanket and his coat as a pillow, that it occurred to him he couldn't recall the last time he'd laughed. If he ever had.

With a smile curling his lips, he drifted off to sleep.

The darkness consumed him like a cloud, swirling, roiling, billowing, burning the edges of his sanity. He sank deeper into the clawing mists, his scream clogged in his throat. No matter how he tried, he couldn't break free, couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

Just when he was about to give up, just when he was about to succumb to the nothingness, she appeared. As she always did, she came to him then, in his darkest hour, hovering above him, a golden light.

His angel.

Her face was exquisite, as smooth as cut porcelain. Her eyes bright blue and lit with hope. Her hair, like gossamer, curled around her face. A glow surrounded her.

“Come to me,” she whispered, holding out a fragile hand. But though he tried, he couldn't reach her. He never could.

The howling increased, whipping around him and through him, a cloying fear that made his heart race and his breath quicken. And he sank deeper, farther from her, farther from her light.

There was no hope of redemption.

There never was.

He watched her light dim, then flicker, and then become swallowed up by the shadows until he was utterly alone, completely devastated.

Again.

Lachlan lurched up, gasping for breath. His body was sheeted in sweat, every muscle trembling. He scrubbed his face as he struggled for wakefulness.

He didn't know why the dream affected him like this every time—because he'd had it for years. He should be used to it by now.

But each time was as powerful, as dreadful as the first.

It took a moment for him to realize he wasn't at home in his bed, but in the stable loft, surrounded by a handful of snoring compatriots. To his surprise, dawn was breaking.

It was a rare thing that he slept the night through. And this night there had been no visitation. Perhaps being away from the castle had muted the ghost. If so, he might never return to the pile of stones on the Ackergill cliffs.

But the dream still haunted him.

It always did.

He untangled himself from his blankets with care so as not to wake the others, and made his way down the ladder and into the stable yard. He took a moment to appreciate the glow of morning sunlight as it eased over the tor. The air was fresh and crisp and birds trilled in the trees. The countryside was sleepy and calming.

Quite a departure from mornings in London, which were often dreary, chaotic, and cloaked in sooty fog. Lachlan found he quite liked it.

Still staring at the bucolic scene, he shoved his hands into his pockets and meandered into the inn, where the smell of cooking bacon and eggs stirred his hunger. The innkeeper's wife met him with a smile and a steaming cup of coffee, which was like ambrosia. And then she set a plate before him. She stood over him as he picked up his fork, watching with glimmering eyes. He made a point of moaning, although it was hardly a challenge. The food was delicious.

“Do ye like it?” she asked, wringing her hands.

“It is excellent.”

“Och, I am so relieved, Your Grace. We're so pleased to have you here. Not often we get a duke.”

“I imagine.” There were not many floating about. At least, not in the wilds of Scotland.

“'Twas a kind thing you did last night,” she said. “Giving up your rooms for that puir wee mam.”

“And how is she this morning?”

The woman's eyes twinkled. “There's three in yer room now, Your Grace.”

“Ah. She had her child.”

“Aye. I'm surprised you dinna hear the howling in the stables.”

Lachlan chuckled. “Not a peep.” He'd heard nothing. No howling. No wailing. No clinking of chains. It had been wonderful. He should probably sleep in the stables more often.

“Well,” she gusted. “They are naming him after you.”

The cup stalled halfway to his lips as a shard of pain lanced him. Or maybe it wasn't pain. Maybe it was something else. “After me?”

“Aye.” Her expression faltered. “Ye doona mind, do ye?”

“Ah, no. Of course not. That is lovely.”

Lovelier than he could ever have imagined. He'd long ago accepted the fact that no child would be named after him. It was a gift he'd never expected.

So when the new father came down the stairs—looking exhausted, but beaming from ear to ear—Lachlan couldn't help but slip the man a handful of coins. A gift in return. But again, the man's gratitude made him uncomfortable. Lachlan was a wealthy man by accident of birth, not because of anything he had done. It was painful to know such a small gesture on his part could make a huge difference for someone else. Because he very rarely made them.

When Dougal joined him at the table, they ate and quickly left. Lachlan made up some excuse about needing to get on the road, but that was far from true. He simply needed to escape all the good wishes. They made him feel far too raw.

The storm hit around midday of the second day, forcing Lachlan inside. As the carriage hied to the north, he remained silent, mulling over his experiences at the inn in Howe. It occurred to him, that as duke, he could do so much more for his vassals than he had. Indeed, he'd spent most of his life carousing in London, trying to pack as much pleasure into his days as he could, knowing they were numbered. Although, upon reflection, there hadn't been much pleasure. Simply a string of overindulgences and a litany of things he thought a duke should do. Like balls and house parties and attempting to curry the favor of the British nobles—most of whom looked down their noses at a Scottish lord. He'd spent little time doing the things he actually enjoyed, like working with his horses.

It was a shame he hadn't made better choices. It was a shame he hadn't had the sense to break free of the constraints of his station.

It was a shame there wasn't more time to make up for it.

He certainly had enjoyed bringing a little pleasure into the life of a man and his wife. And it had been a simple thing to do.

And they were naming their son after him—

“Are you all right?”

Dougal's query startled him. Lachlan shifted his attention from the passing scenery onto his cousin. “I'm fine.”

“You seem moody. Did you sleep all right?”

“I slept fine.” He had. Odd that. Even the dream hadn't bothered him as much as it usually did. In fact, it had left him feeling … excited. He didn't know why.

“We should be in Rester soon.” Dougal leveled him with a playful glower. “Do try not to give up your rooms.”

Lachlan chuckled.

“We will get a good night's sleep there, and then it is a short ways to Lochlannach Castle.” Dougal's expression firmed. “This way, you can have your meeting with Dunnet not having traveled all day.”

A good plan. But Dougal's mentioning of it re-woke the burn of Lachlan's prickling irritation with his baron. It soured his pleasant mood.

That Dunnet could be in league with Stafford—his mortal enemy—that he intended to incite treason among his loyal barons, ate at Lachlan's soul. He'd been warned of the treasonous ways of the Scots, but truly, deep in his heart, he hadn't thought Dunnet capable of stabbing him in the back. It rankled that he had.

By the time he was through with him, Dunnet would be cowed. He would clear the land as his overlord commanded, or there would be hell to pay.

Especially when Lachlan was in
this
mood.

“It would be wise to finish this business quickly and return to Ackergill with all haste.”

Lachlan frowned. “We shall stay as long as it takes.”

“It shouldna take long. And you have much to do before…” Dougal finished with a shrug, but they both knew what he intended to say.
Before the end.
The reminder was grating. For a brief while, Lachlan had forgotten his curse and the weight of his burden.

He turned back to the passing scenery and tried to recapture the glory of the morning. It was a sad thing that he could not.

*   *   *

Much to Lachlan's consternation, his ghost returned that night, in the inn in Rester. He didn't stay long, just long enough to reproach Lachlan for leaving Ackergill. But it was enough to keep Lachlan from sleeping anymore.

By the time morning broke, he was in a foul mood. So much for his hopes that the ghost didn't like to travel.

His temper didn't improve as Dougal dressed him for the day. For one thing, as he was to arrive at Lochlannach Castle, he had to be dressed in full ducal regalia, which Lachlan found annoying. He understood the reasoning for it—Dunnet must be made to see and accept the consequence. Dunnet must be made to understand that Lachlan wasn't a man to be trifled with—or betrayed.

But the coat and the vest and, for God's sake, the cravat were annoying.

Lachlan had always hated cravats, but he was a lord, and in London, if one wanted to be up to snuff, one wore a cravat. To fit in, one had to adhere to English conventions. And he had. Had for years. No matter how galling it had been.

It hadn't made a whit of difference.

The harpies of the ton would always see him as a lowly
Scottish duke
. Despite the fact he'd spent nearly his entire life in London, despite the fact he had attended Eton and Cambridge, despite the fact that he owned a
castle
 … he wasn't considered worthy to as much as glance at their daughters. Although, to be fair to the harpies of the ton, that might be more due to his reputation as the Doomed Duke than to his Highland roots.

The irony was, it hardly mattered. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife on the marriage mart. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife at all.