Lana and the Laird (17 page)

“What has happened here?” he asked as they picked their way through the seared remains of a once productive croft. The desolation reached as far as the eye could see.

“'Tis common practice to burn out tenants who willna leave,” Dunnet gritted.

They came to the village of Tain, which had been burned out as well. Several of the buildings were nothing but charred husks and a dead dog lay on the side of the road. There wasn't a soul about; the village was deserted. Lachlan couldn't help thinking that this was what a cold hell might look like. A nightmare, certainly.

As they headed south through the woods, which were eerily silent, he attempted to quiet the shiver scudding up his spine.

Dunnet spotted a plume of smoke through the trees and his muscles clenched. “Bluidy hell,” he snarled, and he launched forward with Lady Dunnet on his heels. Lachlan, perforce, followed.

They came to a croft in a clearing, and the cause of the smoke became apparent. The barn was afire; flames licked hungrily at the thatch. Six men stood in the yard, laughing and joking as though they'd just emerged from a brothel. They were doing nothing to stop the fire, the bastards. Anger howled through him. This was
his
land,
his
property, and they were just letting it burn.

Ah. But there was more. As Lachlan dismounted and prepared to rip into the laggards, one of them snatched up a cat escaping from the inferno, and with a chuckle, made to toss it back into the barn. Bile surged in his throat. Outrage blinded him. He couldn't move fast enough, but Lady Dunnet did, snatching the kitten from the man and setting it free.

As the spared cat scampered away, the brute issued a roar of fury, bunched his fist, and flattened the baroness with a brutal blow.

Lachlan blinked, too stunned to react. No one hit a lady. No one.

That the blackheart had pummeled Lady Dunnet—brave, fierce Lady Dunnet—was unconscionable.

This lowlife need to die. Or, at the very least, be taught a painful lesson on how to treat a lady.

Lachlan drew his sword, in concert with Dunnet, whose face was a ruddy red. The veins on his neck stood out. “I will fooking kill you for that,” he roared at the man who had struck his wife.

In response the other men drew their weapons.

Ah. Lovely. Six against two. He did love a challenge. He glanced at Dunnet. “Shall we?”

Dunnet nodded and Lachlan leaped into the fray with a roar.

It had been a long while since he'd fought, but it was bloody invigorating. His pulse surged in his veins and his being hummed with excitement. These bastards, men who had set this croft on fire with absolutely no compunction, needed a trouncing, and he was the man to do it.

It was glorious, savagely meeting the thrusts of their claymores with his sword, spinning and whirling and executing flawless ripostes, feeling ferocious and wild and
right
, growling and grunting with each lunge.

From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the men pick up a flaming cudgel and toss it onto the roof of the cottage, setting it ablaze as well. His fury spurred him on, and between them he and Dunnet battled the men back and cornered them. Four of them exchanged frightened glances and skittered away, leaving the two in front alone and unaware that their compatriots had abandoned them.

Lachlan nearly chuckled, but then his blood went cold at Dunnet's anguished bellow. And then it curdled as a wail rose … from inside the cottage. These men had set the thatch aflame … and someone was still in there. He turned just in time to see Lady Dunnet dash into the flaming hut.

“Can you hold these two, Your Grace?” Dunnet called.

“Yes. I've got them.”

As he knew he would, Dunnet followed his wife into the conflagration.

There was no time for chagrin at the sight of his friends being swallowed up in thick roils of smoke as the villains advanced on him in a rush. But damn it all, he'd liked Hannah and Alexander. It would be a shame if they both should perish.

The thought sent a new and potent wrath through him; he turned it on the men who had caused this horror, pricking them one after the other with the razor-sharp tip of his blade. A warning, perhaps, but maybe not. He'd never killed a man, but he'd never felt the need before now. Certainly never felt this seething desire to do so.

As a red rose blossomed on each chest, the men's eyes flared. They dropped their swords and scuttled to their horses. Just as they disappeared into the woods, Dunnet emerged from the house with an old woman in his arms and his wife at his heels. Seconds later the flaming hut collapsed with a whoosh.

Lachlan sagged with relief, thankful beyond bearing that they had escaped without injury, though Lady Dunnet's silky black hair was singed and her gown was charred in places. God bless her, she was so fearless, so brave. No doubt she'd saved this woman's life.

No doubt Dunnet had saved hers.

He was surprised then when, once Hannah had tended to the old woman, she whirled on her husband and smacked him.

Lachlan's jaw dropped.

Had she really?

But that was the least of it. Lady Dunnet proceeded to yell at her husband, berating him for running into a burning building when, honestly, she had done precisely the same thing. As flabbergasting as this scene was, it was touching.

It was clear she loved him with every fiber of her being. It was clear he loved her with the same intensity, given the fact that he allowed her to rail at him until her fury wore out. It was clear that these two shared something special. Something lasting. Something Lachlan yearned for.

He couldn't help thinking of Lana, just then, couldn't help wanting something like this with her, but he pushed the thought away. He was the Doomed Duke. As sweet as she was, as fragrant, as perfect, he couldn't pull her into his hell. It would be unfair. It would be morally wrong …

His thoughts stalled.

Morally wrong.

That was what Dunnet had insisted these Clearances were. Lachlan's gut tightened as he recalled everything he'd witnessed today. The scorched field. The deserted village, the flaming croft. A burning cudgel, tossed onto the roof of a hut with a woman still inside.

All on
his orders
to clear the land.

Had this woman died, had Alexander and Hannah died—it would have been on his soul.

It was undeniable. Dunnet was right. The Clearances were an abomination.

It became clear to him, in that moment, that the burden of his curse was nothing compared with this. Today a woman could have
died
because of his command. If he continued on, demanding that the crofters be evicted so he could bring in more profitable sheep, many more could die. Would die.

If he did this,
he
would be the villain in this piece.

His fingers clenched as he suddenly saw it, the future, reaching out before him, a long and desolate road, and the consequences of this decision weighing on him forever. Yes, he might be able to rebuild the castle and save his ancestors from their screaming hell, but would he ransom his own soul in the process?

And while he wouldn't have descendants to revile him in future, his name would go down in history as a heartless, avaricious laird nonetheless, one who had ended centuries of history in Scotland. And all for gold.

Yes, he needed the money. Yes, he needed to reclaim his family's honor, but he couldn't do it like this. He couldn't do it at the cost of so many others.

As they rode back to Dunnet's land, he was silent, digesting the harsh truth that he would need to call a halt to this practice at once, his mind spinning with the implications. It meant he would fail to save his father, fail to save the souls of the dead Caithness dukes.

It meant he would carry the weight of that failure through all eternity.

But it didn't matter. If he was destined for such an onus, he would at least carry it with honor. He had to make the right choice here, even if he suffered for it forever.

By the time they returned to Lochlannach Castle, he'd come to terms with it. Accepted the conviction that his course, like a river around a tor, had shifted irrevocably.

Oddly enough, the thought pleased him. It felt right.

Once in the bailey, Dunnet handed the old woman into his factor's care and the three of them trooped inside the castle. Lana met them in the foyer. Again, as always, the sight of her lit a flame in his chest.

“How did it go?” she asked with a bright smile. Then her gaze landed on her sister and her eyes widened. “Whatever happened to you?”

“Olrig's men burned down Agnes's cottage,” Dunnet said in a dark voice.

“While she was in it,” Lady Dunnet added.

Lana paled. “How horrible. Is she all right?”

“She's fine.” Dunnet frowned at his wife. “Hannah ran in to save her.”

Lana gasped. “You dinna!”

Lachlan chuckled. “And then Dunnet ran in after her.” He gazed at them. “You were both lucky. I shudder to think what could have happened.”

Lady Dunnet tipped her chin at an intransigent angle. “We're fine.”

Lord love her, she was fierce. Even bedraggled and sooty and singed around the edges. It hit him again, the truth of it, the horror of it, and he raked his hair. “I don't know about you, Dunnet, but I should very much like a drink right now.” He was, at best, feeling wobbly. And not just because of the adventure they'd had. His world had tilted on its axis. Yet again. He needed to regain his balance. He was certain a whisky would help.

Dunnet grunted his assent and they made their way into the parlor. Lady Dunnet collapsed on the divan while her husband poured three healthy draughts. When she tried to refuse the one he offered, he insisted. “You've had a shock.”

She glared at him. “Caused by you.”

“Me?”

“When I realized you'd followed me into that inferno … Honestly, Dunnet. What were you thinking?”

He sat beside her and pushed the drink into her hand. “I was thinking, perhaps I might save my wife from burning to a crisp.”

Lachlan bit back a smile. “Are we going to start with this again?”

In tandem, they glared at him. Though when Lady Dunnet turned her attention to her husband, her expression softened. “You were wonderful in the fight,” she murmured.

“Ooh. There was a fight?” Lana leaned forward.

Lady Dunnet nodded. “A brutal battle between Dunnet and Caithness, and Olrig's men. They trounced them.”

“Did they?”

“Aye.” Lady Dunnet smiled at Lachlan. “You were rather impressive as well,” she said, which pleased him mightily. But then she went and ruined the effect by adding, “Which was a surprise.”

He reared back. “A surprise?”

“Your sword is quite … tiny.”

He forbore glancing at Lana, though he could
feel
her grin. “It is nothing of the sort,” he grumbled as he resettled himself. “I'll have you know, fencing with an epée is a time-honored sport. And I'm known to be one of the better swordsmen in England.”

“As I said, you were impressive.”

He tugged on his plaid. “Thank you.”

Lana's gaze landed on him, assessing him, burning through him. Her lips quirked and heat crept up his nape. “We must find His Grace a real sword.”

Lachlan choked on his indrawn breath. First of all, his epée was the best money could buy. And second of all, the light in her eye gave a man … ideas.

“Indeed,” Dunnet said. “It would be an honor to spar with someone of your skill.”

Lachlan perked up. “Oh, I should enjoy that.” He loved his epée, but the thought of wielding a savage claymore excited him, especially in testing his mettle against a man of Dunnet's prowess.

“Perhaps this afternoon we can visit the armory.”

“Excellent.”

Lady Dunnet frowned at her husband. “Is that all you men think about?”

Dunnet chuckled. “You know it is no'.

“Honestly. We just got back from a melee and you want to go the armory and play war again?”

“'Twas hardly a melee,” Dunnet said.

“Only six men,” Lachlan added.

He loved that Lana's eyes widened and fixated on him. “You fought off six men?”

“Well, Dunnet and I.”

“His Grace got most of them.”

“They were terribly fierce.” There probably was no need to brag. She already seemed impressed enough.

“That sounds awful,” Lana cooed. To him.

“It was,” Lady Dunnet responded, sadly stealing Lana's attention. “But as awful as it was, I'm glad we were there. I canna imagine what would have happened to Agnes had we not been there to rescue her.”

Dunnet nodded and squeezed her hand. They stared at each other for a long, long while. When he was finally able to tear his gaze from his wife's face, he turned to Lachlan. “So, Your Grace, what do you think of the Clearances, now that you've see the truth of it?”

Lachlan scrubbed his face with his palms. “It is a horror. Not what I imagined it would be. Not what the lords in London claimed it was. Not in the least. But then…” His attention flickered back to Lana. “Nothing here has been.” It had not.

“Have you … reconsidered your decision?” she asked in a soft voice.

Lachlan set his teeth. His fists tightened. “Yes. Indeed I have. I cannot be a part of what we saw today and I certainly do not want to be the cause of such suffering. I shall have Dougal send missives to all my barons, ordering them to cease and desist all Clearances immediately.”

Lady Dunnet and her husband shared a smile, but Lana leaped to her feet with an exultant cry and twirled around. And then she beamed at him.
Beamed.
It made his heart flutter. Why, he had no earthly idea. It was only a smile, after all, but something in it … hell, something in it
touched
him.

“And Dunnet?” the baroness asked. “Will he remain as laird?”