Lana and the Laird Read online

  Hannah crossed her arms. “Well, Lachlan has given orders for Dunnet to clear the land. And if he refuses, he will be replaced as baron. Most likely, your Lachlan has sent the same orders to Papa.”

  Lana shivered at the phrase. Your Lachlan. Then she blinked and gaped at her sister. “Do you really think he has?” Oh. How disappointing that would be. More than disappointing. Devastating. If Dunnet lost his station, he would lose his home, and Hannah with him. And if Papa lost his station … Where would she live? Where would they live? A skitter of trepidation walked up her spine.

  “Indeed.” Hannah frowned at her. “Do you still think he is a good man at heart?”

  Lana firmed her lips. He was. She knew he was.

  Hannah issued a snort. “Well, the next time you speak to Lileas, ask her if she knows how to change his mind.”

  Lana stilled as a vision flashed through her mind. A smile curled her lips. And when her sister asked what Lana thought of her outfit, she suggested a piece of jewelry. A necklace.

  One in particular.

  She bustled across the hall to her rooms and brought back the necklace that had been her mother’s. It was a lovely piece hewn of gold on a thick-linked chain. It was intricately carved and had a small stone mounted on the bottom. It was quite grand and, Lileas assured her, perfect for dinner with the duke.

  * * *

  Lana was chatting with Hannah and Dunnet in the parlor, awaiting their guests, when a frisson walked up her spine. She glanced up, and her breath caught in her throat.

  He stood in the doorway, dressed in the Sinclair Blue. His hair was an inky fall of curls and his eyes, piercing. And his body, wrapped in the kilt? Heavenly Mother. His body was magnificent. Tall and braw and muscular.

  It was, indeed, the man from her dream. The sight of him, like this, set her heart and soul aflame.

  This man, who had stepped from the swirling fog of her dreams … was Lachlan.

  The Duke of Caithness.

  The two men met and merged in that moment, and the force of her emotions knocked her askew. She could only stand and gape as he stepped toward her, his eyes locked on her face. His expression hit her hard in the gut. Made her numb. Made her speechless. Made her … hungry. And not hungry for dinner. Hungry for something else entirely.

  “Miss Dounreay.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Holding her gaze, he kissed her.

  Lana wasn’t a swooning type of woman, but at the touch of his soft, warm lips on her skin, she nearly collapsed. A thrill ran through her belly, lighting a blaze at her core. A river of fire surged through her veins when he smiled at her; the heat of his gaze made her flushed and flustered.

  And ah. Had she thought him reserved and proper?

  Dressed like this, with that flame in his eye? Not a bit of it.

  She knew she was meant to help him change his mind about the Clearances, but honestly, she couldn’t stay the flicker of excitement spurred by the feelings she’d had in her dream.

  She wanted this man.

  And she wanted him badly.

  Maybe it could be both.

  * * *

  Ah yes.

  That was the reaction he’d been angling for. That was the expression he’d ached to see on her face.

  It was all Lachlan could do not to chortle with delight at the way Lana’s delicious mouth dropped open and her eyes glazed over. He loved how her gaze raked his body and then flickered back up to his face. The way her tongue peeped out as though she might like to taste him.

  He shuddered at the thought.

  It was probably a reflection of his overblown ego that it meant so much to him to be attractive to her, he’d dressed in the kilt. Left his hair out of the queue. Eschewed the cravat. But it had been worth it. Just to see this desire in her eyes.

  But even as a blinding satisfaction blew through him, he was slammed with the painful realization that her interest did not signify. It could come to nothing. There could be nothing between them. Certainly no tasting. His stomach plunged and his heart clenched. He drew in a breath as he stared into her azure eyes, racked by a familiar regret. And though it was familiar, it seemed harsher now.

  He would have to be satisfied with the fact that, in this moment, she saw him as a desirable man. It was a thin satisfaction and a far cry from what he would like to have claimed, but there it was.

  Lady Dunnet said something and the small part of his mind that was still functioning reminded him of his manners. Apparently there were other people in the room besides himself and Miss Dounreay, and they needed to be greeted as well. With great reluctance, he released her hand and turned to his hosts.

  Dunnet’s grin stunned him. For one thing, Lachlan had never seen Dunnet grin. For another, he quite liked the way it softened his demeanor. “Your Grace,” he said with an uncustomary note of humor. “You wore it.”

  “I did.”

  “You look verra … impressive.”

  He ignored Dougal’s snort.

  “Lordly enough, Dunnet?”

  “Lairdly.”

  A chuckle. From Dunnet. Astounding. Then he clapped Lachlan on the shoulder. It was an affable gesture, though it caught Lachlan unawares. He stared at the paw in stunned silence. No one had ever clapped him on the shoulder in friendship before. It sent an odd trickle of pleasure through him.

  Dunnet stilled, as though he realized he’d stepped over the line. His jovial expression began to fade and his hand dropped.

  Lachlan would not allow that. Could not allow that. He needed to hold on to this thread of congeniality. Desperately wanted it. So he returned the gesture. The tension shattered as Dunnet grinned again.

  Lachlan then turned to Lady Dunnet, who looked lovely in a green gown with a plunging neckline that drew the eye. She wore a necklace with an elaborately carved pendant. The stone embedded at the end glinted in the light. Something about it captured his attention. A familiarity that made his breath stall, his heart hum.

  Surely it couldn’t be what he imagined.

  In a daze, he kissed her hand as well and murmured a greeting, but his mind was beset by the sight of that pendant.

  He had spent countless hours staring at the portrait in the niche of the gallery, studying the MacAlpin Cross. Memorizing each and every line. Mentally, he compared this chunk to the whole of the cross. It very much resembled the bottom portion of the relic.

  Foolish exhilaration swelled. It was highly unlikely that this was a piece of the cross. Surely it couldn’t be. He leaned closer.

  Dunnet cleared his throat, although, to be honest, the sound he made was something closer to a growl, and Lachlan realized it might have appeared that he’d been gaping at Lady Dunnet’s bosom. Not the best way to foster friendship. He straightened and forced himself to look away, but it took an effort. Dougal’s gaze was locked on the piece as well. His expression made clear the same suspicion had occurred to him.

  “Shall we go in to dinner?” Lady Dunnet said in her most hostessy voice. “Morag has made a roast.”

  “Indeed,” Lachlan said. He offered his arm to Lana and followed the baron and baroness into the dining room.

  Lady Dunnet waved Lachlan to the head of the long table and he was pleased that, in a nod to informality, she sat on his left and Lana to his right. He did deplore long tables and meals spent bellowing at one’s companions. Also, the closeness allowed Lachlan the occasional opportunity to study the necklace and, if he was being honest, occasionally nudge Lana’s foot with his own.

  He pretended it was an accident, but it wasn’t.

  He rather enjoyed the fact that, on occasion, she “accidentally” nudged him back.

  As far as the quality of the food, he was oblivious. He was utterly unable to focus on anything else with Lana at his side. But he did eat and make appropriate grunts of pleasure and even managed to keep up with the conversation. Thankfully, Lady Dunnet and her sister carried the weight of it, telling tales of Scottish lore—no doubt for his benefit—and amusing anecdot
es from their family history. It would have been quite entertaining, had he not been utterly distracted.

  He kept sneaking glances at the necklace, trying to decide if the resemblance to a piece of the cross was a coincidence or not, but without a closer inspection it was impossible to tell. By the end of the meal, he could no longer rein in his curiosity. Aside from that, if he didn’t ask, he would never know for sure.

  He turned to Lady Dunnet with a courteous smile and said, “I say, I’ve been noticing your necklace all evening.” He was certain his manner didn’t reveal his snarling anxiety. “It’s rather stunning. Where, ah, where did you get it?”

  Lady Dunnet’s fingers fluttered over the piece. “It’s Lana’s.”

  His heart leaped. His tension flared. His gaze snapped to Lana. Under his steady attention, a flush rose on her cheeks. “And where did you get it?” he asked.

  Her lips tweaked in something of a knowing smile. “It’s been in the family for ages. My mother gave it to me. Her mother gave it to her and her mother before her.”

  “Interesting,” Dougal said. Everyone ignored him.

  “It’s said to have belonged to the MacAlpin,” Lana added.

  Ah. God. Yes.

  “Which one?” Dougal asked.

  Lana straightened in her chair. “The MacAlpin. Kenneth.” Was there really any other? All clans were said to have descended from him. “The first king of Scotland.”

  It was imprudent to entertain this shaft of optimism, but the excitement surging in his veins was unquenchable. Lachlan cleared his throat. “May I … see it?”

  “Of course.” Lady Dunnet leaned closer and he look the pendant into his hand, being careful not to brush her bosom, aware of Dunnet’s intense stare.

  The moment he touched it he knew. He didn’t know how or why, he just knew. This was it. This was a piece of the ancient cross. Something for which the Sinclair dukes had been searching for centuries. Fingers trembling, he turned it over and traced the rune-like markings on the back. His conviction swelled.

  His vision blurred; the hope nearly blinded him.

  Dougal leaned forward. “Is it the one?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Is it the piece you’ve been looking for?”

  Lachlan nodded. “It is.” A sigh. “This is it. A piece of the cross.”

  “What cross?” Lady Dunnet asked. She pulled back and, reluctantly, Lachlan released the pendant, but he couldn’t stop staring at it. It lured him, like a moth to flame. The desire to claim it, hold it, have it, racked him.

  “The MacAlpin Cross. The one that belonged to my ancestors. The one Longshanks broke into pieces and tossed into the sea. The reason for the curse on my family. I’ve been searching for this. Searching my whole life. It is my duty to reunite the cross.” He turned to Lana, that lovely perfect angel. He’d wondered why he’d dreamed of her. Wondered why she’d appeared in his life at this time, and now he knew. Now he understood. His heart filled with gratitude, certitude, and a welling faith. Tears pricked at his lashes. She would save him. In addition to the peace she’d given him with the revelation about his mother, she was the one who would help him break the curse, finally and forever. “May I … have it?” A whisper. A plea. Although he knew, he knew, she would acquiesce. He knew she would grant him his salvation. He knew—

  “I doona think so.”

  Lachlan’s gut lurched. He gaped at her. Surely he had heard her wrong? Surely she misspoke?

  Or not.

  She fluttered her lashes. “It’s been in my family for ages,” she said. “I’m no’ eager to give it up.”

  Again, shock rocked him. “Miss Dounreay. I don’t think you grasp the consequence of this piece.”

  “Oh, I think I do.” Her calculating tone sent a cold shard through him. “Correct me if I have this wrong. It’s a piece of the MacAlpin Cross. The one you believe might break the curse on your family—if indeed such curses exist—and could, in your estimation, possibly save your life.” She smiled sweetly. “Did I get that right?”

  He clenched his jaw. “You did.”

  “How badly do you want it?”

  What?

  Had he really thought her an angel? At the moment, he wasn’t sure if he should throttle her or spank her … or yank her into his arms and kiss her. “I want it very badly,” he gritted through his teeth.

  “Excellent.” Her tone was threaded with resolve. “Then perhaps we can discuss concessions.”

  “Concessions?” His lungs locked. Had a vision of her, in his bed, beneath him, really just popped into his mind? His hands curled into fists. “What kind of concessions?”

  She leaned closer. The conversation, the room, the world narrowed down to them. Nothing but them. The union of their gaze. The connection flowing between them. The sizzle of expectancy arcing from one to the other.

  “I am simply asking that you reconsider this Clearance nonsense,” she said in a dulcet tone.

  “It is not nonsense,” Dougal snapped. His harsh ejaculation shattered the mood. Lachlan glowered at him.

  He attempted to soften his expression when he turned back to her, but was not sure he succeeded. “What do you mean, reconsider?”

  Vehemence rose around her like a cloud. Oh, yes. She was an angel. An avenging one. “Speak to the people. Listen to their stories. Visit the sites that have been devastated by this plague. Look at the consequences of your decision, the true and real effects of your command. Feel the weight of that and then tell me if you believe this is the right thing to do. If this is the decision your father would have made.”

  Good glory. She was splendid.

  And terrifying.

  “Miss Dounreay.” Dougal’s words were filled with vitriol. He practically spat bile. “Do you have any idea who you are talking to? His Grace is a duke. Do you know how much power he has over you? Your circumstances? Your livelihood? Your very life?”

  Before Lachlan could unleash his fury over Dougal’s outburst, doubly repulsive because it was aimed at her, she turned to his cousin and sniffed. “He has no power over me.” Ah, God. Her words gored him. “He has already threatened everything I value in this world. My family, my clachan, my way of life. I have nothing left but this necklace, and he will not be getting it unless I get what I need in return.”

  Put like that, he felt like a worm. Or maybe it was something more that crawled through his gut with a sizzle of chagrin. A bone-deep remorse that this was how she saw him.

  “I would sooner throw it back into the sea than give it to a man who is bent on destroying the lives of everyone I love.”

  Panic wrapped cold fingers around his soul and squeezed. He could not lose the piece. Not now. Not after all his anguish. After years of pain. Certainly not after this dizzying waft of hope. He needed it. It was a matter of life and death. And more. “I could just take it.” He did not know from where the words sprang, unless it was the well of his desperation.

  She turned to him with an expression of resolute certitude, and smiled. A smile that gutted him … like a fish. “You willna.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Nearly a whisper.

  “Your mother told me you are a man of honor. And a man of honor wouldna stoop to such villainy.”

  Hell.

  All his venal intentions crumbled like a sandy cliff beneath the crash of the sea. Something not unlike amusement nudged him. He fought back a laugh because, frankly, the situation did not call for one. But seriously, the woman had no shame. He had no idea why he found her enchanting. But he did. “You, Miss Dounreay, do not play fair.”

  She fluttered her lashes. “Life is unfair.”

  “Yes. It is at that.” If life were fair, parents would not die before their time. Children would not be raised by uncaring uncles. A man would not be denied something as simple as love.

  If life were fair, he would not be compelled to renovate a castle he deplored, would not be haunted every night by the specters of the dead.

  If life were fair, maybe there could hav
e been something between them. Something lasting. Something real.

  He flicked a glance at Lana, skewered by her expectant expression. He couldn’t give her what she really wanted, but he would give her what he could. His chin firmed. “Yes,” he said. “I will speak to the people and listen to their stories.”

  “And visit the villages and crofts that have been cleared?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will ask yourself if that is what your father would have wanted?”

  Ah. A much more painful promise. “Yes.”

  “And when you have done that, when you’ve done all that … you will reconsider your decision?”

  “I will.” In exchange for the shard.

  The irony was, if he could reunite the cross and break the curse, there would be no need for him to clear the land at all.

  The light in her eyes made him weak at the knees. At the same time, it filled him with trepidation, because he knew, in the end, he would likely disappoint her. Given what he knew of the Clearances, given what his fellow lords had told him, things were not as dire as she seemed to think. Tales had been carried and embroidered by disgruntled crofters. The Clearances were nothing more than simple and legal evictions.

  Ah, but she seemed so happy. So hopeful and trusting. He had to add, to cushion the inevitable blow when it came, “But I can make no promises that I will change my mind, Miss Dounreay. I make no promises at all.” Because, in truth, he couldn’t. A man in his position couldn’t afford promises.

  He needed the money.

  It was a pity the Rosslyn Treasure had disappeared centuries ago—if it had ever been more than a legend. It would have come in handy about now.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After dinner, the ladies retired and Dunnet invited Lachlan to his study for a drink. Lachlan agreed, because he really wanted to strengthen their bond of friendship and they did have some unfinished business … but damn, had he known that Dunnet’s study was in the turret tower, he might have suggested the library instead. By the time they reached the top of the winding staircase, his thighs ached. Still, the view from the windows was inspiring. From that eyrie, he could see far and wide.