Lana and the Laird Page 2

  “Bad dreams are better than no dreams.”

  No. They were not.

  They most decidedly were not.

  “You canna stop taking it.” This Dougal muttered beneath his breath.

  Lachlan merely grunted—neither assent nor dissent. He would do as he pleased. He was the bloody duke after all. What was the point of being a duke if one couldn’t do what one wanted?

  “We should consult another doctor,” Dougal insisted.

  Annoyance lanced him, and Lachlan lifted a finger. “Enough, Dougal.” Displeasure flickered over his cousin’s face and Lachlan offered a small smile to ease the sting of his command. “I have a visitor. I need to dress. Can you fetch Tully?” In London he would simply have rung for his valet, but if he tugged on a bell pull here, it would shred and flutter to the ground. He’d tried it.

  But Dougal didn’t go fetch Tully. Rather, he grumbled something beneath his breath and made his way to the wardrobe and began riffling.

  Lachlan frowned. “Where’s Tully?”

  Dougal cleared his throat. “I will be dressing you today.”

  “Where is Tully?”

  “Tully, ah, quit.” This, Dougal said in a gruff voice. He tucked his chin so Lachlan couldn’t see his expression, but there was no need. He was pretty certain it was a pitying look. It so often was.

  “Quit?” Lachlan blinked away a sudden and surprising pain. Surprising, because he should be used to the desertion by now. All the servants he’d brought with him to Scotland had, one by one, fled the gloomy castle on the bluffs. But he’d thought Tully—the valet who had served him for years and was a veteran of the war—had been made of stronger stuff.

  Lachlan was used to feeling alone, but he had, at least, always had servants.

  “Aye. Like the others … he dinna want to stay in a castle he swears is…” Dougal didn’t finish the sentence, but then he didn’t need to. Lachlan knew what everyone was saying.

  The castle was haunted.

  He couldn’t argue with them.

  The bloody thing was.

  Had he a choice, he would tear the hideous thing down brick by brick and build something new. Something modern. Something that didn’t creak and moan and wail. But he didn’t have a choice. His father’s ghost had been very clear. He must refurbish the castle. Redeem the family honor before he died. Leave something to speak for the generations of dukes who had ruled this land. Something magnificent …

  But damn, it was frustrating. Each time he made a stride forward, something set him back. A collapsed scaffold; workers who didn’t show up as promised, or who disappeared altogether. Sometimes it seemed as though the harder he tried, the more God fought against him.

  He should be used to that by now, too, God fighting against him.

  Dougal and McKinney were the only two who stayed loyal—ever at Lachlan’s side, encouraging him, cheering him on, leaping into the fray to help when something else went sour. He was lucky to have them. Without them, he would be utterly alone.

  Still, he grimaced at the costume Dougal pulled out. It was the standard garb a duke might wear in London, the tight breeches, embroidered tailcoat, and choking cravat. It was something he’d worn a hundred times—more—during his time in England. His uniform. And an onerous one at that.

  But now, now that he was here in Scotland, something in his soul rebelled.

  He’d always hated the constraints of his life, the demands, restrictions, the fucking politesse. He hated that a duke was expected to behave, to dress, to live according to specific conventions. Hell, he wasn’t allowed to sit where he wanted at a given dining table.

  The limitations of his life grated on him.

  Even more so now.

  Surely he had not expected, imagined, hoped that once he returned to his homeland he would somehow magically be free of all that?

  Ah. But perhaps he had.

  “Can we not find something not quite so…” He flourished a hand.

  Dougal’s brow lowered. “Not quite so what?”

  Constricting?

  “Imposing?”

  The response was a wet snort. “You have to be imposing with these bastards. Impress them with your station—”

  “I’m a duke. I don’t need to impress anyone.”

  “You yourself said they’ve been truculent.” Aye they had been. “These men are savages. They respond to one thing. Power. You must exude it.” Dougal whipped out the tailcoat and set it on the bed. The breeches and the cravat followed.

  Lachlan glanced away from Dougal’s intent stare and huffed out a breath. “All right.” But bedamned, when this meeting was over, he was dressing in something comfortable.

  He tried to hold still as Dougal shaved him, combed his hair, and dressed him in formal garb. All the while he couldn’t help thinking, as he had many times, he was not a patient enough man for such nonsense. He would much rather tug on a pair of breeks and a shirt and be on his way.

  But he couldn’t. He was a duke. There were expectations.

  Expectations that had been hammered into him since he was a boy.

  When all was finished, he struck a pose before the glass. A magnificent lord stared back. “How do I look?” he asked, though he knew.

  “Fine. You look fine.” Dougal took the precaution of brushing the lint from his shoulders, although there was no lint.

  “It seems a bit much for the wilds of Scotland,” he muttered.

  Dougal frowned. “It’s important that you make a proper impression on Olrig. He carries weight with the barons to the west, and you need their cooperation.”

  There was no good argument to that. Lachlan couldn’t tolerate yet another baron flouncing away without a word. He needed to fill his coffers so he could finish refurbishing this damn castle so his father could rest. And so could he.

  “You know these Scots, Your Grace. They can be difficult. Campbell had a hell of a time convincing his barons to cooperate. Although I have no idea why. It makes perfect sense to rent their lands to sheep farmers. It is far more profitable.”

  Lachlan shrugged. “Scots don’t like change.”

  “Aye. But you are the Duke of Caithness,” Dougal said as he tweaked one last pleat. “If they doona cooperate, you simply order them to do your bidding.”

  True, but somewhere deep within, Lachlan didn’t want to resort to orders or threats. He would much rather have his barons work with him willingly. Yes, he could order them all to comply—including Dunnet—but Lachlan preferred to ask first.

  And then, if they didn’t accede to his commands … then he would resort to threats.

  With one last glance in the glass and a minor adjustment to his cravat—surely not to loosen it a tad—Lachlan made his way downstairs. He sent Dougal to the kitchens to prepare a tray of tea and cakes. Though this task was below his station, they could not hire a maid from the village, and the cook preferred to bake her wares from home and have them delivered each day, rather than spend any time in the keep.

  The more he thought on it, the more Scotland befuddled him. Everything was so much more difficult here. Even a thing as simple as tea and cakes.

  It was most likely because Scots excelled at being difficult.

  The Blue Salon was the singular habitable chamber on the ground floor of the castle. It wanted cleaning, but it was warm and devoid of those chilling drafts, and it was bedecked with actual furniture—though the style was that of the last century.

  Lachlan swept in as dukes are meant to sweep, intending to impress Olrig with how imposing he was.

  Olrig, however, wasn’t cooperating. He had his back to the door and was gazing up at the portrait over the mantel. It was a lovely woman holding a tiny child. Lachlan had no idea who the woman was—one of his long-dead ancestors, no doubt—but when he’d returned to Caithness Castle, he’d left the painting there because he liked the look of it. He liked the look of her. Something about the glint in her eye, the way she gazed at the babe in her arms, touched him. He li
ked the prospect that one woman, somewhere in time, had not abandoned her child.

  A bitterness rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, forcing his gaze from the painting. Thrusting thoughts of mothers who did not abandon their children—and those who did—from his mind, he struck a ducal pose and cleared his throat.

  Olrig spun around. He was a man of substantial proportions, with a face so round it seemed to swallow up his eyes. His bushy brows were flecked with gray, and his thinning hair was the color of mud. His nose was crooked, as though it had been battered in an unseemly scuffle, and there were bruises around his eyes, as though said scuffle had happened recently. His lips were troutlike; they curled up when he saw Lachlan.

  “Ah! Your Grace,” he gusted as he rushed forward.

  It was somewhat alarming, being rushed by a rhino, but Lachlan held his ground. Olrig skidded to a halt—far too close, close enough for Lachlan to catch the stench of rotting teeth—and he bowed. It wasn’t much of a bow, as bows went, because the girth around his middle wouldn’t allow it. But at least it was a bow.

  “Olrig.” Lachlan extended his hand and allowed his baron to kiss his ring. “Shall we sit?”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” His chins wobbled. “I must say, I was verra pleased to receive your invitation to visit.”

  Pleased? A Scot? Well, there was a novelty. Lachlan wanted very much to like this man right off, but couldn’t shake the fact that something about Olrig set his teeth on edge. He wasn’t sure if it was the way the man’s gaze darted incessantly about the room or the smile that seemed far too cheery to be sincere. “And you brought your account books?”

  “Of course.” Olrig took the lesser seat next to the king’s chair and slid his books across the table. Lachlan opened them and scanned the pages. He’d always had a head for numbers and quickly assessed the figures. It was clear the books were a mess, nowhere near as meticulous as Dunnet’s had been. It was also clear that Olrig wasn’t as effective an estate manager as Dunnet.

  With a scowl, Lachlan forced all thoughts of Dunnet from his mind. It was foolish of him to obsess. The lingering resentment was beginning to burn.

  Although, if he was being honest, it wasn’t resentment of Dunnet’s defiance that burned as much as the seething bitterness of the bonds that conscribed Lachlan’s world. That he truly was not free to do as he liked.

  Dunnet was wild and free. Clearly, he did as he liked at all times. Even it if meant defying his overlord.

  There was no call for this irritating slither of jealousy.

  “Is everything in order?” Olrig asked with a worried glance at the tomes.

  Lachlan closed the books with a snap. While he was interested in evaluating the financial status of his barons, he was far more interested in assessing their loyalty. “It is fine. Fine. But I think it would be best if we improve the land. What do you say, Olrig?” No point in beating around the proverbial bush.

  Olrig blinked. “Improve the land? Ye want to clear it?”

  Aw, hell. Lachlan didn’t like the waver in the man’s tone. He steeled himself for an obstreperous response. “Yes. I think it would be best. More profitable, wouldn’t you say?”

  His baron observed him with a sharp stare, and then his face broke into a smile. “Aye. I do.”

  Lachlan tried not to gape. Indeed, Olrig was the first of his vassals to respond with the slightest enthusiasm. “You … do?”

  “Aye. Of course.” The man rubbed his hands together; Lachlan couldn’t help noticing that his fingers resembled sausages. The thought made him hungry. “I’ve heard great things from other lairds who have implemented the practice. Stafford for one.”

  Lachlan tried not to wince. The second Marquess of Stafford was one of his peers—and an old nemesis. The two of them had had more than one nasty altercation while attending the Prince Regent at court. Between the two of them, they governed the bulk of the northern Highlands—Stafford to the west and Lachlan to the east. They’d never seen eye-to-eye on political issues and seemed to be in constant competition for the prince’s favor. Although, to be honest, it was Stafford’s success with the Clearances that had incited Lachlan to attempt the same. By clearing the land of crofters and leasing to sheep farmers, the marquess had trebled his revenues. While Lachlan’s lands were vast, they were not profitable enough to fund the renovations he required and be sure he paid the Crown its due. His personal fortune was unequal to the task as well. That left him with few options.

  It was a pity the Rosslyn Treasure had been lost to the mists of time. It would have come in handy about now. Such wealth would allow him to do what he needed to do without worrying about getting anyone’s bloody cooperation. But he had no fortuitous treasure and he required the support of his barons.

  Here, at last, was a glimmer of hope. If one fell in line, the others would soon follow. “Very good.” He smiled at Olrig. “And how long will it take you to evict your tenants?”

  The baron chuckled. “Not long. A month at most.”

  “Excellent.” A movement at the door caught his eye. “Ah. Here is Dougal with the tray. Would you care for tea, Olrig?”

  The man’s nose curled. “Have ye no whisky?”

  Lachlan blinked. Whisky? It wasn’t yet noon.

  These Scots.

  Ah well, the man deserved some compensation for his hasty cooperation. He was the first to agree with any alacrity. Lachlan waved a hand at Dougal, who headed for the breakfront and poured two glasses. Olrig accepted his with a glittering eye and raised his glass.

  “To profitability.”

  “Yes. To profitability.” Though it wasn’t his custom to take spirits at this hour, Lachlan drank. It behooved him to seal this connection. Olrig had the ear of the other barons and would be an excellent ally in his campaign to convince the others to fall in line. “I must say, Olrig, I am rather impressed with your eagerness.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes. The other barons were not nearly as willing to accede to my request.”

  Olrig quirked a brow. “Who have you spoken with?”

  “Dunnet for one.”

  A wet snort, accompanied by a twist of his lips.

  “Do you know him well?” Lachlan asked.

  “Do I. We are neighbors. Never met a more churlish creature.”

  Churlish? Yes. That described him. Rude. Sullen. Surly. Lachlan ignored the little voice that whispered, Strong, principled, admirable, but only because the whispers annoyed him. He leaned forward. “Do tell.”

  Olrig studied Lachlan, then he edged closer. “Ye want to keep a close watch on that one.”

  A ribbon of unease swirled in Lachlan’s gut. “Do I?”

  “Aye. I’ve heard…” Olrig trailed off and looked away.

  “Heard what?”

  The baron lifted a shoulder. “I shouldna say.”

  “I am your overlord.” Whatever Olrig had to share, he knew it would be unpleasant. But he needed to know.

  “I’ve heard he isna … loyal to you.”

  Bile crept up Lachlan’s throat. Bloody hell. He had no idea why the revelation pierced him as it did. “How so?”

  Olrig’s piggy little eyes narrowed; he took another sip of his drink. “There is a plot afoot, Your Grace. One orchestrated by the Marquess of Stafford, with Dunnet as his agent.”

  Oh, fuck.

  “What kind of plot?”

  “To incite revolt among your barons.”

  Revolt? He hated the thought that Dunnet could be so duplicitous, but could not deny that it tallied with the man’s insolent behavior. “To what end?”

  “From what I understand, the marquess aims to undermine your standing with the prince.”

  That was hardly a surprise. Stafford had been working on that for years. That, and petitioning the prince to make him a duke as well. Word was, he was making progress with the Regent.

  “The marquess is hoping to position himself to claim your lands when…” Olrig’s stubby lashes flickered.

&n
bsp; “When…?”

  “Beg pardon, Your Grace. When you die.”

  Ah yes. That old chestnut. His curse, and impending death, was hardly a secret. It was all the rage in London salons. And in the betting book at White’s as well.

  “And you say Dunnet is in league with Stafford?” That concerned him more than any plot to claim his lands when he died. He would be dead then; he shouldn’t care who held the parishes of Caithness. But the knowledge that his vassal had joined forces with his enemy incensed him. And for some reason, the fact that it was Dunnet incensed him more.

  “Aye, Your Grace.” Olrig finished off his drink, and Dougal refilled his glass.

  “Is this rumor?” Lachlan deplored hearsay. Especially when a man’s reputation—and possibly his neck—was at stake.

  Olrig leaned closer and whispered, “Not rumor. I saw him myself.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Meeting with Stafford’s son. At the inn in Bowermadden. Plotting. Just last week.”

  Lachlan stilled as a cold fist clutched his chest. Damn it all. Why was he disappointed? Dunnet had never tried to hide his disrespect. But blatant rebellion? It was untenable. Absolutely untenable.

  “He tried to drag me into this plot, but I refused.” Olrig’s eyes gleamed. He gestured to his squashed nose. “When I refused, he did this.”

  “He hit you?” How savage.

  “Aye. He … has a temper, that one.”

  A temper, indeed.

  Lachlan glanced at Olrig. Something that seemed like glee flickered over his expression, but it was fleeting, and it quickly melted into an obsequious concern. “I … Thank you for sharing this with me, Olrig. I appreciate your honesty and your loyalty.”

  “I am a verra loyal man, Your Grace.”

  “Your fidelity shall be rewarded.” Lachlan believed in rewarding loyalty … and punishing betrayal.

  Swiftly and without mercy.

  He shot a speaking glance at Dougal. Though he hated leaving his castle in the midst of repairs, he had to. He had to go to Dunnetshire at once and rip out this insurgency at its roots.

  CHAPTER TWO