CHAPTER ONE
July 1813
Ackergill, Caithness Shire, Scotland
A familiar sound, rumbling through the bowels of the night, woke him. A sound familiar and chilling.
Lachlan Sinclair froze as a well-worn horror crept up his nape. His pulse thrummed and a cold sweat erupted on his brow. He steeled his spine and forbore hunkering deeper in the covers, because he knew damn well hunkering would do no good.
“Lachlannnn.” A wail, accompanied by the clank of chains. “Lachlannnn.”
His lungs locked as the sound wound through the room, a slithering wraith. He struggled to release himself from the clinging tendrils of sleep, a tantalizing dream that still clutched at his heart. He didn’t want to wake. Certainly not to this.
Stiffening his resolve, he opened an eye. Though it was a sight he’d seen many times before, it hit him and hit him hard, a fist, a twist to his gut.
A man stood over his bed, looming and dark, with ashen skin and empty eyes. He was tall with broad shoulders and long, sturdy legs. His hair was short, dark curls. He was dressed in tattered rags and draped in chains. Though he seemed solid, he wavered in the glow of the night lamp.
His features were familiar. They mirrored those Lachlan saw each day in the glass, though these were weary, wan, and lined with creases.
It was his father. William Sinclair.
Or what was left of him.
“Lachlan. You must save me.”
He tried not to wince at the command. It was a heavy weight to carry, the responsibility for the immortal souls of one’s ancestors, but it was one Lachlan bore. It ate at him that this father, and his father before him, rotted in hell.
Lachlan was the only one who could put their spirits to rest.
All he had to do was accomplish an impossible feat.
“Please.” The specter held out his hand, beseeching. The chains clinked. His father glanced over his shoulder. A look of sheer terror passed over his face and then, with another wail, he was gone.
When the howling, clanking, and moaning ceased, when the room was once again wreathed in silence, Lachlan let out a breath, though he couldn’t stay his shaking. It always affected him like this, wrapped him in a panic so profound he could barely move. He didn’t know why. It was only a ghost.
Ah, but it wasn’t only a ghost. It was more than that.
It was a reminder that his time was running out.
And the closer he came to his thirtieth birthday, the more frequently the specter visited. The more adamant his pleas. As though he, too, knew time was short.
Far too short for the luxury of sleep.
Lachlan tossed back the blankets; when they coiled around his legs, he kicked them off. The movement made his head spin. He paused, waited for the world to right itself. It was always like this when he woke. His brain in a fog. His consciousness in the claws of some deep, dark dread.
Now that he was here, home again in Scotland, closer to his doom, it had gotten worse. The fear was sharper, the panic more profound.
Though it was the middle of the night, there would be no more sleep for him. He glanced at the bottle of laudanum, the one the doctor in London had prescribed to help calm his nerves.
What a fucking joke.
If anything, the drug made him more susceptible to the torment of his own dread. Opened him up like a raw oyster and exposed him to a scalding trepidation.
He couldn’t help but think there was salvation in that bottle as well, for a man courageous enough to take it. All it would take was a steady hand, a deep breath. A few quick swallows. And he would lie down and sleep. Forever.
The screams, the ghosts, the demons would be silenced at last.
Tempting, certainly.
A pity he wasn’t that courageous.
Aside from that, there was far too much to do before his time here on earth was done. He was the last of his line. He owed it to his ancestors to make things right. As much as he could.
Determinedly, he thrust the impulse away. Lachlan knew he was going to die, and soon, but it would not be by his own hand. This, he vowed.
Though his legs were shaking, he stood and made his way to the wardrobe. He dressed in a pair of breeches and a simple shirt, something for which he required no help. The servants—those who were left—were undoubtedly deep asleep at this hour. Even Dougal, as faithful and ever-present as he was, would not want to be woken.
These hours were for Lachlan and Lachlan alone.
He lit a lamp and made his way through the empty, echoing hall of Sinclair Keep, skirting the sections where the walls had crumbled into piles on the old stone floor and hurrying through the corridors where the cold bite of the wind sliced through cracks in the ancient fortress. He headed, as he always did, for the gallery, which held the portraits of his ancestors.
There were many long-dead Sinclairs on these walls, all portraits of young men in their prime. There wasn’t a gray hair among them, because, as a rule, the Sinclair lairds never lived past thirty. Lachlan stopped before his father’s portrait, the newest in the series, and stared at the familiar face. The face that visited him every night. He couldn’t bear to look at it for long—it was far too painful—so he moved on, to the portrait around the corner and tucked in a niche, as though hiding his likeness could make anyone forget what the villain had done.
Contrary to the others, this man was aged; his skin was wrinkled, his face weathered, and his hair flecked with silver. Unlike each and every one of his descendants, the Baron of Rosslyn had lived to the ripe old age of sixty-five. Dressed in the costume of the early 1300s, he stood, tall and proud—too proud, it turned out—staring out at the world with a slight smirk on his lips. Mocking his progeny perhaps. In his hands, he held the MacAlpin Cross, an ancient relic hewn of gold and jewels, emblazoned with the Red Stag of Clan Sinclair.
Some said the relic had been brought from the holy lands on some long-forgotten crusade, and others insisted it had been created by a druid witch. But everyone agreed, it represented the heart of Scotland and had been entrusted to the Sinclair clan for safekeeping.
And everyone agreed, the Sinclairs had failed in this task.
Rosslyn had been the last of the line to hold it. Incited by greed, the bastard had traded the icon to their greatest enemy, the brutal English king Edward I, in exchange for a great treasure and the title of the Duke of Caithness.
Little did Rosslyn know, in doing so, he had incurred a deadly curse. Oh, not on himself. As the portrait showed, he lived a long and prosperous life. The curse was on his son. And his sons. And his. On all heirs of the Caithness title until the end of time. Or until the cross returned to Sinclair hands.
But the cross would never be returned. It could never be. In the manner of the Hammer of the Scots, the man who wanted nothing more than to crush the hearts and spirits of the northern-dwelling clans, Edward had smashed the cross into three pieces and thrown them into the sea.
At the time, no one paid any attention to the ramblings of the old crone who lived in the woods, the one who called herself the Keeper of the Cross, as she wailed her grief over the loss of the icon. No one paid any mind to the curse she levied. Not even when the famously tainted Rosslyn Treasure, which had been the duke’s “thirty pieces of silver,” mysteriously disappeared.
But when the second Duke of Caithness, Rosslyn’s son, died on the eve of his thirtieth birthday, and then the third and the fourth dukes suffered similar untimely deaths … people started paying attention. Dukes and their minions began madly searching for the shards of the cross.
No one had ever found it. Not so much as a sliver.
A logical man didn’t believe in curses and, indeed, Lachlan had scoffed at the notion most of his life. Living in London, far removed from the dreary reminders of the past, steeped in decadent youthful pursuits, it had been easy.
Until the visitations had begun. There was something about a voice from beyond the grave that made one perk up and listen.
Now his thirtieth birthday approached, and with each successive day Lachlan could feel the walls closing in on him. Each day was a count of hours, the constant tick in his head, the ceaseless refrain of so little time and so much to do. With a relentless advance, his options steadily shrank and with them, his world, his universe, and his lung capacity. He didn’t know why, but when he thought about it, sometimes it was difficult to breathe. As though the weight of his eternal soul and all those who came before him were sitting on his chest.
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.
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 liked 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.
“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.
Copyright © 2016 by Sabrina York
