Hannah and the Highlander (21 page)

“You're the baroness.” He chuckled. Unwise.

“I'm bored out of my mind.”

“You should talk to Alexander.”

“He isna here.”

Andrew shot another longing glance at the door. “He'll be back soon.”

“Perhaps.” Hannah took a sip of her wine. It was a lovely red. It did not calm her mood. “Fiona took me on a tour of the castle today.”

His pout reminded her very much of Isobel's. “You've already had a tour of the castle.”

“A
real
tour.” They both knew his tour had been sadly lacking, and his sudden flush proved it. “She showed me where Dunnet's study is.”

Andrew garbled several words that might have been English.

“It doesna seem to be a very convenient location for him to work.”

“He doesna like to be disturbed.”

Balderdash.
“Why is his office in a turret?” There had been several rooms she'd seen today that would have suited his purposes just fine, rooms that weren't up a daunting curling staircase.

“I, ah, couldna say.”

Hannah stilled and fixed him with a solemn look. “You could,” she said softly.

He raked his fingers through his long white-blond hair. “This is something
you
should ask him.”

“I should ask him many things. However, he isna here, in the event you haven't noticed. And aside from that salient point, you and I both know Alexander doesna do well with questions. Or answers. I would very much appreciate it if you could shed a glimmer of light on this aspect of his character.”

Andrew signaled the footman for more wine. Once reinforcements arrived, he shrugged. “It's quite simple. He likes that room.”

Likes that room? “It's ancient, for one thing—”

“Not so very ancient. It only dates back five hundred years.”

“For another, it's three hundred steps to it—”

“Three hundred and twenty-five.”

“Up a spiraling staircase with no railings—”

“Those staircases were all the rage in the days of old. Quite providential for fighting off enemies.”

“I am not his enemy.”

Andrew stilled with his glass halfway to his mouth. Hannah saw the inner battle reflected on his features. He took a resolute swig and set his goblet down with extreme care. “It has always been his favorite room.”

“It is a rather romantic spot,” Lana said. “I imagine he can see for miles from up there.”

“I wouldna know,” Hannah grumbled. “The door was locked.”

Andrew's brow rumpled. “He doesna like his office disturbed. Aside from that, the turret has always been his … sanctuary.”

There was a tremor of something in Andrew's voice, something that captured Hannah's attention. “His … sanctuary?”

Andrew tossed back his wine and the footman refilled it. “The turret was always a … safe place.”

A safe place? Alexander was the Baron of Dunnet. Why would he require a safe place?

Andrew caught the question in her eyes, but before she could ask it he blew out a breath and said, “Our parents died when we were very young. Our uncle was our guardian. He was … not a kind man.”

Lana tipped her head to the side and studied Andrew's face. A flicker of comprehension flared. Hannah tried not to be bothered by the fact that her sister could sometimes see things that were obscured to everyone else. “Not kind?”

“He drank.” Andrew set down his glass and pushed it away. It was not refilled. He flicked a glance at Hannah. “The turret was the safest place to hide, because he didn't like to bother with the steps.”

Hannah closed her fingers into a fist in her lap. “I see.” She did. She'd seen many brutal men doing many brutal things in her life. The thought of a young Alexander at the mercy of such a monster made her blood run cold. And it explained much. Not everything, but enough. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

He nodded. “Our … past is something he would rather forget.”

Lana tipped her head to the side. “The past isna something you can run from. It follows you. The only way you can conquer its ghosts is by facing them down.”

Andrew issued a harsh snort and reached for his glass again. “There are no ghosts here.” But his tone was less than assured

If Lana's sniff was any measure, there were scores of ghosts haunting this castle … and Hannah's husband. Hannah vowed to do whatever she could to help him heal from that unpleasant past.

*   *   *

Alexander made it to Caithness Castle, on the outskirts of Ackergill, in a day and a half. He'd cut across the moors rather than taking the well-traveled and rutted road.

He saw the castle, looming on the horizon, long before he reached it. It was a desolate piece of architecture—the dream of some long-dead Sinclair—perched on the cliffs overlooking Sinclair Bay. As he came closer, he noticed the sad state of repair. In fact, parts of it were nothing but crumbling ruins, barely habitable.

Irritation rippled through him. It was the laird's place to tend his ancestral home. For his sons and his sons' sons—if not for the well-being of his people. Clearly, the duke felt no such obligation.

Though Alexander was exhausted, he handed Wallace's reins to a groom in the castle bailey, grabbed his account books, and made his way over the uneven cobbles into the keep as quickly as he could.

Whatever business the duke wanted to discuss, Alexander wanted it over and done. He toyed with the idea of sharing what he'd learned about Stafford's plan to convince the prince to grant him the duke's lands but decided to wait and see how the meeting went. He'd never met Caithness and had no idea how the man would take such news. If the duke was a complete ass and appeared to be the type who shot the messenger, Alexander might hold his tongue; it was all only supposition and rumor anyway.

It appeared the duke was a complete ass.

Despite the urgency of his missive, Caithness wasn't in a hurry. He allowed Alexander to cool his heels for several hours.

A dour butler seated him in a dour parlor in a dour wing of the castle that had been ignored for decades. Pity sake, it had not even been cleaned. Motes of dust billowed with his every move. As though that were not insult enough, a reed-thin maid brought him a delicate silver tray with tea—
tea
—and infinitesimal nibblettes of cake.

What he wanted was a slab of meat and a whisky.

One did not offer a Scotsman tea and cakes.

One offered little old ladies tea and cakes.

As he sat in the hazy parlor, belly growling and resentment boiling, Alexander fumed. By the time Lachlan Sinclair deigned to make an appearance, Alexander was ready to throttle him.

Still and all, Alexander sprang to his feet in deference as the duke breezed into the room.

He was a large man, tall and broad shouldered, but a tad pale, as though he'd never spent a day of his life out of doors. Alexander should have expected as much. The man was practically British. He was dressed as a lord—not a laird, as he should be. He wore tight breeches and gleaming Hessians with gold-tipped tassels. His tailcoat was damask and intricately embroidered with shiny brass buttons. At his neck there was a ridiculous froth of snowy linen, which made him appear to have a severe case of goiter. A flutter of lace sprouted from each of his sleeves.

Lace.

“Ah, Dunnet. Thank you for coming.” Caithness held out his hand and winced as Alexander took it.

Ye Gods.
Not only did he dress like one; the man was as tender as a lass as well.

Caithness pulled away and flexed his fingers, studying Alexander from beneath his lashes. “That's quite a grip.”

Aye. Earned through good, clean, honest work. Not prancing about in London in breeches so tight a man's privates were displayed for all to see.
But perhaps the duke felt the need to proclaim his manhood thusly. On account of the
lace
and all.

Caithness pursed his lips. Alexander wasn't sure if this was displeasure or petulance. Or perhaps a bit of both. “So,” the duke said after a long, uncomfortable moment, peering at his prey through narrowed eyes. “What kind of Scot are you?”

Alexander tipped his head to the side and remained silent. The question didn't warrant a reply, as inane as it was. A Scot was a Scot. And an Englishman was a worm.

“You know.” The duke flourished a hand; his lace fluttered. “Are you of Norman stock? Or Pict? You have the look of a Viking about you. Norse?”

Alexander grunted.
Aye.
His ancestors had been ravaging brutes sweeping down from the north and planting their seed in good Scottish bellies.

“Ah yes. Norse. We're alike in that. Kin, one might say.”

Bluidy fucking hell.
What was he nattering on about? Of course they were kin. They were clansmen for God's sake.

But they weren't
alike
.

Not by a damn sight.

“Please. Have a seat.” Caithness plopped down and was promptly surrounded by a billow of dust. He waved a hand in front of his face. “I must apologize for the condition of my parlor.” A chuckle. “But in truth, this is one of the few rooms with furniture. My personal effects have yet to arrive from London and the servants have been focusing their cleaning jags on my private quarters. Not many guests coming to the castle these days.” He shot what might have been an accusatory look at Alexander.

Though why the lack of visitors would put him out Alexander had no clue. The duke's thirty-year absence, and recent flurry of outrageous missives, had gone a long way toward provoking the lairds in the county. Incomprehensibly, Caithness seemed unruffled by that fact. As though he were above their disdain.

He had a lot to learn about Scotsmen, this young laird.

“I have plans to refurbish the old keep and reconstruct the east wing altogether.” The duke waved his lace in a vague direction. “I had hoped to finish it all before the end of summer, but there have been … delays. Castles are so very costly,” he added with a sigh. “But I'm sure you know that.”

He peered at Alexander as though he expected a reply. None was forthcoming, so the duke babbled on.

“And servants! Don't get me started on the trials of finding good help. Didn't have that problem in London. Had them lined up out the door for the opportunity to work for a duke. But here … God have mercy. They see me coming and they run for the hills. But it's probably not me.” His lashes flickered. “Do you know, they say this castle is haunted? Haunted!” The word ended on a high pitch. The duke's eyes narrowed. Silence bubbled and then he asked softly, “Do you believe in ghosts, Dunnet?”

Alexander opened his mouth to answer and then settled for a quick shake of his head.

“Bah. Me neither. Oh, ancient structures like this have their creaks and … groans. It's nothing but settling. Or the wind. I'm sure of it. Once the refurbishment is finished, everything will be just right. I'm certain. Quite certain. It will all stop.” He tendered what might have been a hopeful glance, but when Alexander was not quick to concur the duke slapped his knees and fixed a composed expression on his face, one that did little to obscure the apprehension hovering beneath the surface. “Surely all old castles wail on occasion.” He gored his guest with a gaze that was a tad more intent than it should have been. “Does your castle wail, Dunnet?”

It most certainly did not.

But to appease the duke, he nodded.

“Ah yes. Of course it does. They all do. What I should do is tear the whole damn thing down and start fresh. Out with the old, what?” He chuckled, as though the thought amused him, but Alexander found it a bit offensive. There was nothing wrong with the old. Scotland was steeped in old. Scotland reveled in old. And there was nothing wrong with this castle that a little attention wouldn't solve.

As for the ghosts, likely Caithness would benefit from a haunting or two. Visitations from his long-dead ancestors might put some starch in his spine, or knock some sense into his empty head.

“The overhaul will be costly of course. The coffers will need to be plenished.”

Ah. The reason for this meeting at last.

The duke paused to select a cake. He chose a pink one and took a dainty bite. It was an incongruous sight. He was a handsome man, as men went, large boned and braw, with a noble brow and the dark hair of the Sinclairs of Wick. Alexander could imagine him standing on a windblown tor, hands fisted on his hips, the Garb of the Auld Gaul flapping about his legs. It was a damn shame the duke couldn't be such a man.

Somewhere along the line, Lachlan Sinclair, Duke of Caithness, had been ruined.

Life in London had turned him into a pansy.

His face was sickly and wan. In addition to his mincing ways, there was a guarded vulnerability in his eye and a troubled turn to his lips.

Alexander had known he wouldn't like Caithness. He just hadn't realized how much.

Best to end this interview quickly. Without a word, he thrust his account books at the duke.

Caithness appeared slightly surprised, but he dusted the powdered sugar from his hands and took them. He flicked through the pages, scanning the neat columns, but with such casual brevity Alexander knew he couldn't be
seeing
anything.

After a moment or two of such study, he snapped them closed and sighed. “I think it would be best,” he said in that crisp, soulless English accent, “if we improve the land.”

Alexander's jaw dropped. He gaped at the duke in shock.

His heart thrummed in his throat, his temples.

Surely Caithness hadn't just
said
that.

The words were a death knell. They meant the end of all Alexander held dear. Everything.

“Well, Dunnet? What do you say? How long will it take you to evict your tenants?”