Lana and the Laird (11 page)

It was far too painful to contemplate, because it could not be.

It. Could. Not. Be.

With great effort, he plastered a benign smile on his lips and turned the topic. “So, Miss Dounreay, have you always had this gift?”

“Och, nae. When I was a wee lass, I fell through the ice in the loch.” She shuddered, as though in the grips of a terrible memory. He could only imagine. “I dinna drown, but it was dead winter and after the dunking, I developed the ague. A raging fever.” She flicked a look at him. “I think I did die then. I dreamed of angels singing. And when I woke, the first person I saw was my mother, standing over my bed.”

“Your mother?”

“She died when I was three. She told me everything would be all right. It would always be all right. And I believed her. Since then…” She lifted her arms to encompass the room, or the castle, or possibly the world. “They are everywhere.”

He nodded, unsure what else to do. “Scotland is filled with ghosts.”

She snorted. “You doona know the half of it.”

“It seems like a useful ability.”

“At times. At times it is something of a curse.”

“Ah.” He could relate to the subject of curses. “Are there any ghosts here now? In this room?”

She nodded. Her golden locks tumbled over her shoulders. Her fingers tightened. “Dermid is usually here.”

“Dermid?”

“Dunnet's uncle. He was murdered.” She tossed this comment off with a nonchalance he should have found concerning.

“Do you … do you know who murdered him?”

Lana pressed her lips together and nodded. Lachlan had the sense that, though she knew, she would never tell. “He was really a horrible creature. He still is.” This last bit, she whispered.

“He sounds … unpleasant.”

“Exceedingly. I've been ignoring him. He's fading.”

“Fading?”

“Aye.” She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “If you give them no energy, they have no energy.”

“I see.” He did not. “Is there anyone else here?” Surely there wasn't one person in particular he was asking about.

“Your mother is here.”

Ah, yes. Yes.

Lana's expression softened and she murmured, “She's always with you when you think of her.”

Somehow, that simple statement cut through his ever-present maternal resentment and thawed his heart. He didn't know why it felt so good.

“She's verra proud of you, Lachlan.”

It was wholly inappropriate for her to call him by his given name, but Lachlan could not have cared less. Indeed, he wanted to encourage her to do so.

Beyond that, her words had knocked him askew. “Proud? Of me?” The woman who had heartlessly deserted him as an infant?

“She's proud of the man you've become.” Lana's nose wrinkled once more and she fluttered her fingers. At his cravat. “Although she's not impressed with your costume.”

“Is she not?”

Lana leaned forward and whispered, “She'd rather see you in a kilt. Like your father.”

Ah yes. Of course. Although his father didn't wear a kilt when he visited at night. But then, who knew what the dress code in hell might be? Chains were definitely not optional.

Lana tipped her head to the side and shot him a minxish smile. She was that, he decided, a minx, under her fierce exterior. “And she would like to hear you speak with a brogue again.”

“A brogue?” Dear lord, he'd spent years trying to scour the burr from each and every syllable. Life was more pleasant at Eton when one wasn't thrashed by the other boys on a daily basis.

“I would be happy to coach you.”

“I … ah … coach me?”

“Aye. While you are here, I can give you guidance. Explain how Scots think and act and, most important, why. Help you repair your ruined accent. Consult on your wardrobe.” Her expression became severe. “We would have to spend much time together, though. There is much work to do.”

Lachlan gaped at her. First of all, the thought of spending time with Lana Dounreay delighted him to the depth of his being. Second, here she was, this tiny thing, so sincerely, so sweetly, offering to turn him into a savage.

Part of him yearned for just that, but he wondered if he had the courage to let go of his cold, staid, British persona. It had protected him well.

“I shall certainly consider that.” And then, much more sincerely, because he couldn't not, “Thank you, Miss Dounreay.”

Her smile was his reward. That and the realization that, at some point in their conversation, she had loosed her hold on the dirk.

Surely that was promising.

Surely that meant at some point they might actually be friends.

A flicker of denial whipped through him at the thought. Some part of his soul wailed
no
. It wasn't friendship he wanted with Lana Dounreay. Not friendship at all.

It was a pity that was all there could be.

*   *   *

How odd it was, sitting here in the library having an amicable conversation with a duke—and this duke in particular. Lana was relieved to discover he wasn't the starchy aristocrat she'd originally thought. And she was gratified at his acceptance of her peculiarities. In fact, he seemed eager to discuss her gifts.

It was heartening because, for one thing, it reassured her that her instincts hadn't been so very wrong. And for another, she found she liked him. He was warm, sincere, and even charming. For the first time since they'd met, she had the sense that not only would she be able to help him, to reach him, she would
want
to.

And while the true reason for their interaction had not yet been revealed, she had her suspicions. She was, in fact, convinced that she was meant to change his mind about his decision to clear the land. She wasn't sure how she would accomplish this—he did seem to be a powerful, willful kind of man—but she had some ideas. And the fact that they had something in common, a trenchant belief in the spirits, made her optimistic he would be willing to be persuaded.

She ignored the ping of regret that his advent in her life could not have been for another reason, that her long-held and secret hope was not to be miraculously granted. That he was not the man for her.

She forced this inconvenient desire away and reminded herself of the ways of the world.

He was a duke.

She was a girl with no title or land or fortune. And she was far from pretty—certainly not as beautiful as her sisters.

A duke would want—

“Miss Dounreay?”

She blinked as his captivating voice tore her from her ruminations.

“Aye?”

“May I ask you more about your gift?”

“Certainly.” She was delighted that he asked. For one thing, it was an excellent diversion.

“When you speak to the spirits … do you have … conversations?”

“Ah. Not with words, so much as thoughts and feelings. Visions, occasionally.”

“Visions?”

“Aye.” It was far too complicated to explain, but the duke seemed to require no detail. His brow lowered and he tapped his lip as though deep in the coils of a quandary. She set her hand on his arm, ignoring his flinch. “Your Grace. What is it?”

He glanced at her and she was struck again by the beauty of his eyes, a deep blue, fringed in long lashes. She wanted to sink into those eyes. Soak in them.

He stared at her for a moment, his throat working. She didn't speak, because she sensed he required silence to form his query. To rally his courage.

“If I were to pose a question of my mother, would you be able to give me her answer?”

She didn't understand the raw need beneath the words, but then, it wasn't necessary for her to understand. She nodded. “If she is willing to answer.”

“Ah.” The flicker of optimism on his face faded. He looked away.

“You willna know unless you ask, Your Grace.” And when he didn't respond, she urged, “What is your question?”

She barely heard his response; it was little more than a murmur, and his head was turned away. “I would like to know … why she left me.”

A sudden and violent pain lanced Lana's heart. It wasn't completely her own. Much of it came from Lileas. Lana glanced at her; her spirit shimmered. Denial, repudiation, and rage rippled from it. “Leave you, Your Grace?”

“Why did she kill herself?”

The question echoed through Lana's mind, as though from far away. Her vision clouded. Her hold on this world, this room, loosened. And she stepped into another.

She stood in a dark, damp chamber. The scent of brine engulfed her. The sound of dripping water echoed from the stones, resounding in the silence. She glanced at the man at her side and her heart clenched. William, her love. Tall, dark, handsome, though his features were taut, his eyes narrowed as he glowered at the men closing in on them. There were three of them, two large and burly and one no more than a boy. All men she knew. Trusted.

Tension twanged in tandem with her heartbeat as their malice swirled around them. Her breath snagged in her lungs. Fear clutched at her.

When one of the men raised a pistol, William pushed her behind him, shielding her with his body. A shot rang out, a horrifying klaxon in the empty chamber, bouncing from wall to wall. William crumpled. Fell.

She dropped to her knees at his side, clutching his limp body to hers, attempting to protect him from the advancing men, though she knew there was no hope.

She looked up to find the pistol aimed at her heart. A harsh voice grated out the last words she would ever hear.

“And now, Your Grace, you die, too.”

“Miss Dounreay?”

A warm hand on her arm snapped her from the vision, and Lana gasped. Dear lord. How dreadful. It took a moment for her to shake off the trails. She knew, without a doubt, the woman in that scene had been Lileas.

Dear sweet Lileas. Bless her heart.

“Miss Dounreay? Are you all right?”

She folded her fingers in her lap and stared at them as she struggled to find her footing in this world. Visions always knocked her askew a bit, but she'd learned over the years to calm herself. “Aye. I am fine, Your Grace. But…” She flicked a glance at him. His expression was an enormous relief. There wasn't a hint of revulsion in it. “I doona believe your mother killed herself.”

He reared back and gaped at her, his lips working. She should not, at that moment, have reflected on what lovely lips they were.

“Of course she did. She threw herself from the battlements.”

Lana shook her head. “She died in a cellar, or something like it.”

Confusion rippled over his features. “But they found her shawl and her necklace on the rocks beneath the castle. And my steward, McKinney,
saw
her jump.”

Again, Lileas's rage hit her like a wave. Lana knew without a doubt that whatever the duke had been told, it had been a lie. “She dinna. She dinna kill herself. Your Grace, your mother was murdered. And your father with her.”

*   *   *

Lachlan stared at Lana, his mind in a whirl.

He'd lived his life with the knowledge that his father had thrown himself from the battlements into the sea and his mother, weak-willed and selfish, had followed.

He'd understood why his father had taken his own life—how could he not? He'd felt the tug of temptation more than once, that and the clawing knowledge that he was slowly going mad. But his mother's final act had been one he could neither forgive nor forget. It had gnawed at his soul, like a rat on a carcass, to know she had abandoned him.

It had formed the foundation for the whole of his life. Every relationship, every interaction, every assumption that the world was a hard, cold, soulless place.

And now this. This revelation. One that tilted his world on its axis.

Neither of them had committed the unpardonable sin of suicide.

Neither of them had willfully abandoned their squalling baby boy.

Neither of them had
wanted
to die.

To her credit, Lana remained silent, perhaps sensing that he needed some time to recover his balance. Indeed, he did. There was so much to think through, so many beliefs to be reevaluated. It was almost beyond him.

It was a dizzying, confounding, poleaxing revelation. One that changed … everything.

“I … ah … Thank you, Miss Dounreay. But I need to…” He stood and brushed down his jacket. Adjusted his cravat. He waved at the door. “I need to…”

She stood as well and nodded. “I understand,” she said. “I shall see you later, Your Grace. And if you have any more … questions about your mother, please feel free to ask.”

He offered a perfunctory bow and, without another word, quit the room.

I understand
, she'd said.

He had the odd sense she did.

The thought filled him with an unaccountable joy. Because for the first time in his entire life, there was someone who understood.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Lachlan spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the grounds of Lochlannach Castle, for all intents and purposes inspecting his vassal's stewardship, but in truth, his mind was in a fog. As he examined the mill and took note of the waterwheel and the armory and the garden, he grappled with the truth that Lana had laid before him.

He didn't believe for a moment that she'd lied or was inclined to weave stories, and it wasn't just because deep in his soul he wanted to believe his parents hadn't committed the ultimate sin.

It was because his heart told him it was true.

And if it was true, that meant many other things he'd been told were not.

It also begged the question of why anyone would lie about something so profound. Lachlan had always trusted McKinney. He'd been a faithful servant. When Uncle Cedric had taken Lachlan to London so he could study at Eton and then Cambridge, McKinney had stalwartly remained as caretaker of the castle. But …