Lana and the Laird (23 page)

Each day, he wore his kilt, and each day she taught him something about the Scottish way of life.

Some of it, such as haggis, was revolting.

Some of it was charming.

Most especially, he liked the way the clachan was an interweaving of souls. Whether they were blood or not, they took care of one another. The orphans were an exceptional example of such support. They had no one, but they had everyone.

Occasionally Lana would tell him the tales of the Ghosts of Dunnet, or the spirits who haunted Dounreay Castle. It brought home the fact that there was such rich history here, generations upon generations of history. Feuds and battles and great love affairs had taken place on these very grounds. Men had been betrayed and forsaken and redeemed.

He especially liked the stories about the men who had been redeemed.

It was a dream he held in the dark shadows of the night. He couldn't help thinking that now—now that he'd found one piece of the cross—he might find the others. He might be able to break the curse after all.

And he couldn't help thinking, dreaming, wondering—if he did break the curse, if he didn't die after all—what kind of life he would he like to have? What kind of man would he want to be? Who would he want to have by his side?

But it was hardly a mystery.

He knew.

Oh, he knew.

He would want her.

It was foolish of him to do so, but he fell deeper in love with Lana in those days, strolling through the woods and collecting shells on the beach. He fell in love with her laugh, her smile, the glint in her eye. Her fingers, twined with his, gave him a breath of peace. Her kisses were soul-salving and sweet.

But it was never more than that.

It couldn't be.

He could not allow it.

Dougal wasn't pleased with the developments. First of all, he was annoyed that they were still here in Dunnetshire. Daily, he renewed his insistence that they should return to Ackergill. Beyond that, he was horrified at how much time Lachlan was spending with
that woman
. Dougal knew of Lachlan's vow and agreed it was wise to assure there were no more Caithness dukes to bear the weight of the curse. He was convinced that in this, Lachlan was flirting with disaster.

No matter how Lachlan tried to reassure him, his cousin wasn't appeased. Probably because Lachlan did a poor job of explaining why he felt the need to spend so much time with Lana. But to be honest, his feelings for her were so tender, so raw, he simply didn't want to share them. As though bringing them out into the open, under Dougal's harsh scrutiny, might tarnish them. As a result, Dougal no doubt thought it was a case of simple lust.

There was nothing simple about it.

One morning, as they prepared for the day, his cousin was particularly unpleasant. Probably because, once again, Lachlan had eschewed the cravat.

“I doona like what I see,” he grumbled as he straightened the pleats of Lachlan's kilt.

“Oh? And what do you see?”

“I see you courting Miss Dounreay.”

Lachlan shot his cousin a smile, although it was forced. “Nonsense. You and I both know I cannot court her.”

“And you would do well to remember that. You shouldna be leading her on.”

Lachlan snorted. “I'm no' leading her on.”

Lana knew his situation. She understood completely. The two of them were simply enjoying what little time they had together. Reveling in the days they'd been granted. Reveling in the nights. They both understood there could be no real future between them, and they accepted it.

“You were kissing her in the stables yesterday.”

Ah yes. He savored the memory. It had been a lovely kiss. “It was only a kiss.”

“It only ever
starts
with a kiss. What would you do if things got out of hand? If you compromised her?”

“I will no'.” Lachlan had iron control. Iron. Control.

“What if you did? Do you no' think Dunnet is watching, too? He would demand you marry her at once.”

Marry her.

A wisp of a dream trickled through him.

Imagine how wonderful that would be. Having her by his side every day, every night, as long as they both should live. Ah …

But it was only a dream, and a short term one at that.

His soul ached as reality crowded in once more, squashing the tender wish like a juicy bug. He was swamped with a bone-deep regret that things were the way they were. He was used to the regret, but damn, how it wearied him.

And while he did have iron control—his resistance of the last few days had proved that beyond all doubt—he couldn't deny that his desire for her was growing, blossoming, pervading every thought, every breath, every waking moment. A prickling restlessness, a persistent ache beleaguered him. The urge to break free from the chains that bound him was becoming intolerable.

Dougal studied him with a frown, as though he sensed Lachlan's wavering. “I think we should return to Ackergill.”

“We are no' returning to Ackergill.”

“Then you should avoid her.”

“Avoid her?”
God.
The thought was appalling.

“I can tell you are … tempted. What man wouldna be?”

Indeed, Lana was tempting. Tantalizing. Delicious.

“Doona forget your vow. You swore never to father any children.”

Nae. He had not forgotten. How could he? It tormented him daily. But … A wicked thought flickered through his mind. It wasn't the first time he'd entertained it. “There are ways to prevent conception.”

“What?” Dougal squawked.

He squawked a lot of late.

Ah, aye. Lachlan's lips curled at the thought. When Lana had brought it up a week ago, his heart had been too hard to consider the prospect. But now?

Now something else was hard.

He was certain it was his resolve.

There
were
ways to prevent conception. What if he could have her like that? What if they didn't have to restrict themselves to impassioned kisses and furtive strokes? What if they could be together? In that way? What if he could possess her truly?

A wave of anticipation surged through his veins. It was a brilliant idea. Really it was. “Do you suppose I could find French letters in the village of Dunnethead?”

Dougal reared back, a look of revulsion on his face. An odd sound emanated from his throat, one not quite human. “Fr-French letters? Are you mad?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Aren't those for avoiding the pox?”

“They are also used to prevent conception.”

“You canna take the chance.” A hiss.

“What chance is there? If I use protection?” It wasn't as though he hadn't availed himself of them before. He was hardly a monk. But he had never, in his life, been as desperate as he was now.

“I've heard tell condoms are no' always effective,” his cousin muttered.

“Balderdash.” The more he thought on it, the better an idea it seemed.

Perhaps he could have Lana and keep his vow, too. The prospect made his head spin. It had been so easy to eschew women before. And now he knew why.

Quite simply put, the other women were not … her.

Now, now that he'd held her and kissed her and stared into her eyes, his ardor rose to irresistible heights. That there was a way he could have her, set it to flame.

*   *   *

Bloody hell, it was annoying being here in the back of beyond. In London, procuring French letters would have been as simple as sending his man to a shop. In the wilds of Scotland, it was far more difficult. To make matters worse, Dougal, in a fit of pique, had refused to help. Beyond that, Dunnethead was a small town. Everyone knew he was the duke. And they would know to what end he required these particular items.

He wasn't sure why the thought of everyone knowing his plans mortified him so, but it did.

In the end, it took a great deal of finesse, a handful of coins, and several pints of ale in a tavern off the docks to secure what he sought without the locals being any the wiser. Thank God for merchant seamen who were only in port for a day.

With his treasure in his pocket and a smile on his face, Lachlan strolled up the road to the castle on the hill. It was a lovely day. The loveliest yet. He was in a brilliant mood.

Surely it had little to do with his plans for tonight.

When he entered the bailey, he was met with a flurry of activity. Alexander stood with his hands on his hips, overseeing it all. When he caught sight of Lachlan he strode over in a rush. “Your Grace.”

Lachlan frowned at his use of the title but didn't correct him. It was obvious his mind was distracted. “What's going on?” he asked.

Alexander scrubbed at his face. “We've received a letter from my brother in Dounreay. There has been another attack.”

“Hell.” Alexander had told Lachlan about the troubles in his wife's home parish, an endless string of thefts, raids on crofters, and even an attempt on Magnus Dounreay's life. Dunnet suspected that a neighboring baron—Scrabster, Lachlan's vassal—was at the heart of the mischief and had sent his brother to investigate. Clearly, Andrew's presence in Dounreay hadn't been deterrent enough. “What happened?”

Alexander's eyes narrowed. “Someone tried to kidnap Isobel, my niece. As steward of the land, I canna let this stand. I must go to Dounreay at once.”

“Of course.”

“Hannah is insisting on coming with me. Both she and Lana are beside themselves with worry.”

“I understand why. It is their home. Their family.”

“Aye. I tried to explain that it could be dangerous, but they willna hear it.” Alexander blew out a breath. “Heaven preserve us from stubborn women. At any rate, we are leaving at once.” True regret flickered over his harsh features. “I'm sorry to cut our visit short. I've enjoyed having you here, Your Grace.”

Myriad emotions rushed through Lachlan at Alexander's sincere words. First was gratitude. Gratitude to whatever power had led him here to meet this man. A man he was proud to call his friend. On the heels of that was a flicker of shame. He was the overlord of Dounreay, and if someone was plaguing the people there, it was his responsibility to investigate and put an end to it. It was his duty to protect his vassals, and he had not. Not even once during his time as the Duke of Caithness. He'd been far too busy worrying about himself.

And finally, he felt a great wash of panic.

He didn't want to leave Dunnet. He didn't want to return to his cold, dismal castle to live amid the rubble. Alone.

And he couldn't bear the thought of leaving Lana.

That was probably the worst of it, the most painful realization of all. Which was probably why he set his jaw and said, “I shall come with you.”

Alexander stared at him. His lips worked. “Your Grace?”

“Lachlan.” He clapped his baron on the shoulder. “And I
should
go. These are my lands as well. I must make a statement to these reprobates that such nonsense will not be tolerated. That is … if you don't mind my company?”

“On the contrary, it would be wonderful to have you along.” The smile, the relief on Alexander's face was humbling. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Lachlan sighed. “Alexander, is it so much to ask you to use my given name?”

His baron chuckled. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“You shall have to practice.”

“I suppose so.”

They headed toward the castle together in an unspoken accord, walking in companionable silence. It wasn't until they stepped into the parlor, and he saw Lana sitting on the divan with her sister having tea, that Lachlan remembered the French letters in his pocket. Again he was barraged by a mélange of conflicting emotions. First and foremost was the thrill of seeing her. It always hit him like this. Then there was regret that his plans for tonight had been scuttled—for God knew how long. They were leaving for Dounreay at once. Doubtless, there would be little opportunity for the two of them to be private on the road, and who knew what the situation would be like at her home. He had to resolve himself to the fact that his sojourn of this morning had been for naught. Still, it was good to know he had the condoms. Just in case.

And finally, there was a prick of guilt. Because Dunnet was his friend and he wouldn't be pleased to know Lachlan planned to seduce his wife's sister.

It was probably for the best that there would be no chance.

But he had a hell of a time convincing himself of that.

*   *   *

When Lachlan stepped into the parlor, Lana's heart skittered. She should be used to the sight of him by now, the way something as simple as a glance at him made her pulse pound and her body liquefy. But if anything, her reaction to him was stronger than ever.

It was a shame, really it was, that the letter had come from Dounreay. And as much as she wanted to return home—she'd missed it dearly—she didn't want to say good-bye to him. The thought made her throat clog. Made her want to weep.

She forced a smile instead. “Good day,” she said with a blush. There was no call to feel shy, given the intimacy of their kisses the night before, but she did.

“Good day.” He bent over her hand, lingering longer than he should. He bent over Hannah's as well, but Lana could tell, in her sister's case, it was a perfunctory greeting.

Dougal entered the room and greeted everyone with a scowl, as he always did. Although his scowl seemed to linger on Lana. He shot a glance at Lachlan and his expression darkened even more, which was, on the face of it, astonishing. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked in a harsh tone. Odd that. He seemed almost indignant.

Lachlan didn't respond other than to level a frown on his cousin. Lana blinked. She'd never seen him look so stern. Whatever this was about, the two men definitely did not see eye-to-eye. For some reason, Dougal glowered at her again.