Lana and the Laird (2 page)

Thankfully, there were no souls following him. Thankfully the Caithness-Sinclair line ended with him. He couldn't bear any more obligation. He would shatter and collapse beneath any additional burden.

Lachlan pulled an old dusty chair before the painting of the man who had damned him to an early grave and, ignoring the rain beating on the windows, the wind howling in the eaves, and the creeping shadows, he focused on the cross until the lamp grew dim.

*   *   *

“Lachlan.”

Lachlan jerked awake gasping and clutching the arms of the chair with a savage grip. Apprehension chilled the blood in his veins. It took a moment for him to realize it wasn't the ghost waking him, but McKinney, the longtime steward of the estate. Even then, his heart thudded wildly.

He sucked in a calming breath as he stared up at McKinney's face, struggling for purchase. The old man dropped his hand from Lachlan's shoulder and stepped back, fixing his harsh features in a conciliatory arrangement. McKinney was far from a handsome man, but he was exceedingly loyal; he, like Lachlan's cousin Dougal, came from the MacBain sept, a line of men who had served the Dukes of Sinclair for generations. “Are ye all right, Your Grace?”

No. He was not. He was far from all right. His body was sheeted in sweat. Every muscle trembled. He forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Have you been here all night?” McKinney asked, his bushy brows rising. “Ye shouldna sleep here. Ye'll catch your death.” Indeed, the corridor was drafty, courtesy of the myriad gaps in the old stone walls of the decrepit keep.

“I dozed off.” And it had been a relief. Between the nightly visitations from his father and a recurring dream that hovered at the edge of his consciousness, he barely slept at all. It was wearing on him.

McKinney frowned. Or Lachlan assumed it was a frown. A slightly more dour expression at least. “Ah. I see. I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but you have a visitor.”

“A … visitor?” Few visited Caithness Castle. If the desolation didn't deter them, the ghosts certainly did. With few exceptions, most of the servants had fled in the face of the nightly howls and suspicious “accidents.” Residents of the nearby village, well aware of the family history, could not be induced to serve their duke in any capacity—especially now.

It was damn annoying.

McKinney cleared his throat. “'Tis the Baron of Olrig, Your Grace.”

“Ah yes.” Lachlan's belly sank. Upon his return to Scotland, and eager to launch his plans for the restoration of his crumbling holdings, he'd called his barons to Caithness Castle. Though he had been anxious to meet these men, his vassals, and issue his orders to their faces, he wasn't in the mood for an altercation today.

Thus far, the encounters had not gone well. Bower, Halkirk, and Wick had been truculent, and Dunnet … well, Dunnet had been downright rude. He had simply stared as he listened to Lachlan's commands and then turned around and stormed away without a word. Indeed, his barons were a stubborn, cantankerous lot who didn't seem inclined to follow any orders at all.

No doubt this was a Scottish trait. Lesser lords in London seemed to understand the consequence of a duke, even a duke from the wilds of the Highlands. And while he was used to the thinly veiled disdain with which the British treated the Scots, Lachlan was also used to being obeyed.

It would be foolish for him to harbor any hopes he could have amiable relationships with any of his vassals, but he had at least expected civility. Most certainly, obedience. He needed it. He needed them all to comply with his demands if he was to finish his business before the Grim Reaper paid his call.

Why Dunnet's reaction stuck in his craw was a mystery, but it did. He couldn't shake his indignation. Surely it had nothing to do with the fact that Lachlan had actually
liked
the surly Scot. He'd exuded an air of calm confidence, of sensible logic, the innate power of a leader. He was, perhaps, the kind of man Lachlan would have been pleased to count as a friend—had things been different.

“Aye, Your Grace. Olrig is awaiting you in the Blue Salon.” The Blue Salon was not blue. It was a gloomy gray, but likely
blue
in Scotland meant something else entirely. Most things did.

Lachlan levered himself up—it mortified him that he needed McKinney's help. “I will need to bathe and dress. Will you see to Olrig's comfort while I do so?”

“Aye. Of course, Your Grace.”

As McKinney headed off to see to their guest's needs, Lachlan made his way to his chambers. His steps stalled when he passed a pile of rubble where a chunk of a wall had collapsed. He could have sworn it hadn't been there yesterday. Each day it seemed another section of the castle started crumbling.

Dougal met him at the door to his rooms with a scowl. “Where have you been?” he growled. Dougal had a tendency to growl, so Lachlan ignored that and focused on the question.

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Again?” His lips twisted. “Did you no' take your medicine?”

“I did. It only makes it worse.”

“Ah.” Dougal's expression made clear he understood. But then, he would. Dougal knew all Lachlan's secrets. His cousin, though several times removed, he'd been Lachlan's companion since they were boys. Now that they were grown, he served as factor. Though lately, he'd acted as Lachlan's secretary as well, because the man they'd brought with them from London had spent one night in the haunted castle and scurried back to England in a tizzy when a disagreeable wraith took up residence behind the bookcase in his chambers and insisted on snarling invectives and tossing books at all hours of the night.

Lachlan didn't know what would have become of him if it hadn't been for Dougal and his father, Colin. Indeed, after the tragedy, it had been Uncle Colin who had taken charge of the five-year-old duke and raised him, whisking him from Scotland to London so he could take advantage of an education worthy of his station. And also, probably, so he wouldn't have to live in the castle that had driven his father mad. So he wouldn't have to live in the shadow of the Sinclair Curse.

But that was the thing about curses. They had a tendency to follow.

“Perhaps we should consult with another doctor,” Dougal said. Sometimes he could be relentless. He constantly worried about Lachlan's health, bless him. But Lachlan was tired of doctors. Tired of poking and prodding. Aside from which, he was certain his ailment was not of a physical nature. It was spiritual. Definitely spiritual. “If you canna sleep, perhaps you need a higher dosage.”

Lachlan grimaced. The last thing he wanted was more of that foul mind-warping poison in his veins. “I was thinking of stopping it altogether,” he said.

Dougal reared back and gaped at him. “You mustna stop taking it. You need that medicine. The doctor said—”

“Good lord, Dougal. I'm not sleeping anyway. And the laudanum … gives me bad dreams.”

“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.