Lana and the Laird (10 page)

What Lachlan didn't expect was to find Lana Dounreay already in residence. She was curled up in a chair in the far corner, reading a book. Oddly enough, she had a dirk in her hand. When she spotted him, her eyes narrowed and her grip on the weapon tightened. A pain, a deep regret, slithered through him. He didn't want her fearing him. Not this woman.

Something about her moved him in ways he hadn't ever been moved.

Yes, part of it was, undeniably, attraction—lust perhaps—but he attempted to ignore that. There was simply no point. However, curiosity swirled within him, too. Who was she … to him? Why had she appeared in his dream night after night? And why had she appeared in his life now? So close to the end?

It hardly seemed fair.

Had he met her sooner, he might still have had the hubris, hope enough, to believe they could have a future together. He would have liked that. A future with her. Hell, a night. A tryst. A kiss. A … something.

Bah. What a foolish fancy.

He thrust it away and focused on what should be a more pressing issue. Specifically, the fact that she claimed to know his dead mother.

There had been a time in his life when he would have considered a woman who insisted she could speak to the dead a deranged lunatic who needed locking up in Bedlam. But now, after suffering too many visitations of his own, such a possibility gave him pause.

He had questions for his mother, questions that had tormented him his entire life. The possibility of finally getting those answers made his pulse thrum. Beyond that, if Lana Dounreay could really speak to his dead mother—and if she was not, in fact, a deranged lunatic—he couldn't help wondering if she could speak to other spirits. Perhaps the ones who visited him, tormented him, at night. Maybe she could help him understand what they wanted. Or, more important, how to make them go away.

How wonderful would it be to have some semblance of serenity in his final days?

Therefore, upon spotting her, he did not quit the room. Rather, he affected a bow. “Miss Dounreay.”

She peered up at him, her blue eyes staring straight through to his soul. They clouded, and her brow flickered, as though she didn't like what she saw. He attempted not to flinch. “Your Grace.” She turned back to her book.

Ah. How that gored him.

He should have left. He should have taken her hint, unsubtle as it was, and walked away. But he couldn't. For one thing, he wanted to discover more about her gift—or her madness. And for another, he didn't want to leave her presence. There was something so peaceful about her, it almost made him feel at peace as well. He settled in the chair by her side and fixed his attention on her. She pretended not to notice, but she did. He saw it in the annoyed flicker of her lashes.

It was pleasant, just sitting next to her in the quiet library, staring at her countenance as she pretended to read. Her face was exquisite, familiar and fragile, her features delicate with a thread of intriguing intransigence. He quite liked it.

A woman should not be a timid mouse, he decided. She should be fierce and roar and match her man in all things. The ladies of London had not been fierce in the slightest. Perhaps that was why he'd never been tempted to break his vow.

Or perhaps he really was a Scotsman at heart—

“Your Grace.” Lana huffed a sigh and dropped her book onto her lap. He found it delightful that she glared at him.

“Yes?” Suave. Urbane. Slick.

His tone did not please her. Her nose wrinkled quite ferociously. “Did you want something?”

He wanted something. He wanted something very much. And suddenly, certainly, it wasn't information about his mother.

He wanted to kiss her nose—it was rather adorable. And also, to kiss something else—

“You've been staring at me for quite some time.”

“Was I staring? My apologies,” he said in an unrepentant tone.

“You were.” She frowned. “I find it unnerving. Did you want something?”

“I, ah, did, actually.”

She arched a winged brow, and when he didn't elaborate, she snapped, “What?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but an unaccustomed diffidence washed over him. Now that the time was upon him, he didn't know how to ask. Had no idea how to formulate his query. Or perhaps his reluctance stemmed from that prickling apprehension when he considered what the answers might be. He'd never been a cowardly man, but he'd never had the opportunity to boldly face the most terrifying truth of his life.

Did she leave because I was unworthy? Did she never love me, never
want
me at all?

Making the—cowardly—decision to dissemble, if only for a moment, he cleared his throat and tugged on his waistcoat. “I should like to apologize for Dougal.”

Her cheeks pinkened. She blinked. “Dougal?”

“My man. He should not have accosted you.”

“I dinna like that in the slightest.” Her fingers twitched around the hilt of the dirk.

“I assure you, neither did I.” In fact, it had enraged him. It still did. He struggled to keep the fury from his expression—he did not want to frighten her—but he might have failed. As she studied him, her eyes widened a tad. “I have advised him to keep his distance.”

“I appreciate that.” A grumble, at best.

“If you have any other problems of that sort, I expect you to come to me at once.” It rose in him then, the compelling need to be the one, the man she turned to. The man who protected her and kept her safe.

He didn't know why she barked a laugh, didn't know why it lanced him so.

He shot her a curious glance. “Miss Dounreay?”

“If I have any other problems of that sort, I
shall
be coming to you—”

Ah, excellent. That was—

“To ask how you would like to dispose of the body.”

Oh, holy God.
He gaped at her, this tiny mite, with delicate bones and a dainty demeanor. And ferocity. “The … ah … body?”

“He is your cousin, is he no'?”

“He is indeed.”

“Then you should be the one to bury him.” At his bemused stare, she added, “'Tis only fitting.”

“I … ah … you … Are you saying you will … kill him if he touches you again?”

“I will gut him like a fish.” Odd that, how she said it, in the sweetest tone and with a hint of an angelic smile. He had no doubt whatsoever that she would be true to her word.

He made a mental note to warn Dougal. Yes, he was annoying and a trial at times, but Lachlan did not want him gutted. It would be a hell of a mess to clean up.

Against his best intentions, despite his dismay, his lips twitched, and then, in response, hers did as well.

“Things really are different here in Scotland, are they not?”

Her brow arched again. “Are ye just finding this out?” Her tone was dry as dust. He didn't know why it made him chuckle.

“Women are … fiercer.”

“As are the men.” Her gaze flicked to his cravat. “For one thing, they doona wear
that
.” Though she muttered this bit beneath her breath, he heard. Although he suspected he was intended to.

Lachlan glanced down at the mathematical fall of his snowy cravat and forbore a grimace. “I've never really liked them myself.”

“They why do you wear it?”

He shrugged. “I'm a duke. It's expected.”

She gaped at him. “'Tis not manly in the least.”

He sat back. Couldn't help it. He was blown back by the force of her revulsion. He wasn't sure why, but a sudden desire scoured him. A formidable need to appear manly and powerful … to her. “And what would be … manly? To you?”

She surveyed his face, his shoulders, his chest. “You would look fine in a kilt,” she acceded after a moment. Something in her voice, a raw and rare tremble, made heat lick through his body.

As easily as that, a scorching arousal flared.

Good God.

He'd kept himself on a short leash for years. He'd always maintained absolute control over his emotions and his actions. But now, right now, he wanted to yank this delicious bit of froth and claws into his arms and savage her with kisses.

His gaze flicked to the knife.

Or not.

“Ah … I shall … have to wear one sometime.”

“Ye've never worn a kilt?” She gaped at him.

“I have not.” He cleared his throat. “Scots are not, shall we say,
revered
in London.” Hell, even the lowly British barons considered themselves above a Scottish duke in station.

“Is that why you speak like one of
them
?” This she said as though it tasted bad.

“Fitting in is important in the business of politics.” He'd worked hard to do so. Spent his life in the incessant study of how to be a proper British lord. Sadly, he'd never quite achieved the effect. He'd certainly never
enjoyed
it.

“Aye.” She eyed him with a considering glance. “It is important to fit in.” He hated the pity in her expression.

“You say that as though I do not.”

She huffed a laugh. “You doona. No' here.”

“I should like to.” Ah, was that a wistful note? Perhaps it was.

“Then you should wear a kilt. And smile on occasion and … get rid of that cravat. It is far too tight.”

It was, actually. It was far too tight. He could barely turn his head. But he was used to it.

She ripped her attention from his neck to some shadowed corner of the library with a heavy sigh. “It is a pity, really.”

He frowned. “What is a pity?”

“That our duke is no' more of a Scotsman.”

Ah. How her words slayed him. Probably because such a wish had flickered through his mind more than once. He set back his shoulders and caught her gaze. “I am what I am.” For good or ill.

Her vehement response startled him. “What you are, Your Grace, is a
Scotsman
. No matter how much you tried to be English in London. No matter that you want to be separate from us—”

“I most certainly do not—”

“You've Scots blood churning in your veins. Your heart and soul belong to the Highlands.” God he loved her vehemence. She was a wee wild thing and fierce in her passion. He couldn't help but wonder if she was fierce in other passions as well. “You can pretend to be an Englishman all you like—”

“I am not—”

“Deny your birthright all you like—”

“I am denying nothing—”
Good God
, she was insistent. Truculent. Exasperating. He had no idea why he liked it. For some reason, their exchange made his pulse ping, made his soul stir.

“But it is the plain truth.” She sat back and fixed him with a smile that might have been a little sad. “Your mother would want better for you. She would want you to be the man you were born to be.”

Lachlan stilled.

Again with his mother.

And yes, again, the reference stunned him.

But still, this was a perfect opening. One he couldn't afford to ignore.

“Ah … My mother…?”

She tipped her head and studied him. “Aye?”

“You … say you have
met
her?”

She sighed. “Aye. I have.”

“Her … spirit?” It was wise to clarify.

“Aye. Her spirit.”

“Do you often … speak to the dead?”

The sound she made was something between a grunt and a snort. “Every day.” Her tone was one of wary resignation. He studied her face, searching for any signs of madness. Her lashes flickered under his scrutiny. “Do you think me odd?”

He disliked the tremor of her voice. The wobble of her chin. The flicker of insecurity in a woman who was otherwise dauntless. And suddenly Lachlan realized, if she indeed had this extraordinary talent, there were probably people who had reviled her for it.

He would not be one of them.

The bald fact was, if seeing ghosts meant one was deranged, then he was deranged right alongside her.

It was a nice feeling to have something in common with another person. With her.

He cleared his throat and searched for an appropriate response. He could come up with nothing except a simple, “No. Not odd. Not odd at all.”

She set her hand on his. It sent a warm wave through to his being, but not so warming as her words. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Soft, sweet, and heartfelt. Her tone was far too relieved for comfort. He hated to think that she had gone through life worried how every person she met would react to her gift. He hated to imagine the rejection, the isolation she'd endured. Because in truth, he'd spent his life in isolation from the world. He knew how cold it felt. “It means so much to hear you say that,” she said. Then she leaned closer and confided, “Many people are afraid of me.”

He winced at her wounded expression.

“Some call me wicked.”

Unthinkable. He couldn't silence his burble. “What? Why?”

She shrugged. “Obviously I must have made a deal with the devil.”

“Did you?” He softened the question with a smile. There was nothing evil about this woman. She was nothing but light. And claws.

“No' that I'm aware of.” This, she said with a decidedly wicked glint in her eye.

“Well,” he said. “If you are wicked, I'm right there with you. I have seen a ghost or two myself, in my time.”

She blinked. “You have?”

“My castle is quite haunted.”

“Ooh. I should like to visit it some time.”

Her simple statement sent shards of excitement whipping through his body. He could envision her in his home, in his room, in his bed.

The vision stole his breath.

From where had this sudden and potent
desire
come?

Oh, he wanted her, the way a man wants a woman, but there was more to it than that. This yearning went far deeper. It was a hunger, a need for camaraderie, connection. With her.