Hannah and the Highlander (26 page)

Heat rose on his cheeks. “She found out about the troubles in Reay before I could tell her.”

Lana patted his hand. “She does that. In the future, you'd best tell her things as soon as you know them.”

Not bad advice at all.

“At home, she knew everything. Did everything. You can see how frustrating it would be for her to have no role here.”

Alexander gaped at her. “She has a role here!” She was his wife, for pity sake.

Lana's response was a reproachful look. “She's capable of so much more. You should trust her.”

“I do.” He trusted her. Aggravation and chagrin slashed him. All right, he probably should have told her immediately about the letter from Dounreay, since it affected her family, but it honestly hadn't occurred to him to do so. He was used to managing things on his own without gaining counsel from anyone other than Andrew.

However, he wouldn't make that mistake again.

He would share everything with her—or attempt to do so.

“She managed the entire estate, you know.”

Alexander stilled. “The entire estate?”

Lana's expression firmed. “Everything.” She glanced at the sealed door once more. “So you think to calm her ruffled feathers with the gift of a book?”

“I do.” Alexander swallowed. “Do you think it will work?”

“It would help.” Lana's eyes twinkled. “The entire library would work better.”
No doubt.
“Shall I help you choose?”

Relief gushed through him. Not only because she probably knew her sister better than anyone. But also because he wouldn't have to brave the room—and its memories—on his own.

“Please.” He marveled at how easy it was to speak to her. Perhaps because she had the aura of a child, innocent and pure. And peaceful. It was easier with some people than others, he found.

“Well?” She glanced at the key in his hand. It was only a hunk of metal. Surely it didn't
mean
anything more than a means of opening a lock.

Ah, but somehow it did.

Alexander drew in a deep breath and fit the key into the lock. As though she understood his apprehension, Lana set her hand on his arm, bolstering him as it turned.

It had been a long time and the mechanism stuck. It issued a grating whine as it gave.

He pushed open the door. A familiar musty scent surrounded him. His knees locked, his gut clenched. He stood at the entrance staring in; it was dark, though not nearly as dark as his thoughts.

The room was long, running the length of the wing, with windows facing the east and west. It reached up two stories high and had a balcony ringing the second floor. With the exception of the hearth and the draped windows, shelves marched along the walls. A thick mahogany desk dominated the far corner. Alexander did not look in that direction.

The chamber was littered with filth. Old plates covered with desiccated food, tipped-over whisky bottles, tumblers strewn here and there. It looked exactly as it had all those years ago. As though Dermid would storm in and begin railing at any moment. As though he would bend a boy over that desk and proceed to bloody his back with a cane until one of them collapsed.

Alexander hovered on the threshold, but Lana was not so tentative. She marched into the room and over to the east wall and whipped the curtains open. Sunlight flooded in. Dust motes danced on the bright skeins. Like a miracle, the shadows shrank. “Where shall we begin?” she asked.

Alexander sucked in a breath, focused on his mission—books for Hannah—and stepped inside. “I do believe the histories are over here.” He led Lana to the right, away from the desk.

“Ah, aye.” She studied the spines, running her fingers along them, stopping every now and again and then shaking her head. At length, she pulled out a thick and dusty volume and opened it, reading the table of contents. “This one looks verra dull.” She thrust it at him. “Hannah will love it.”

She continued on, pulling book after book from the shelves. Many of them ended up in the growing pile in his arms. Histories, dramas, Shakespeare, and several of the scientific volumes, although, Lana averred, they were far too old to be really interesting.

“That should do,” she said when his arms were piled high with tomes. “What do you—?” Her gaze locked on something on the far side of the room. Her eyes narrowed and her chin firmed.

Alexander looked over his shoulder. There was nothing there. “What is it?” he asked.

Lana nibbled her lip. Her eyes flickered from the corner to Alexander and back again. “It's … nothing.”

It wasn't nothing. “Miss Dounreay?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I doona … like that man in the corner,” she said.

Alexander glanced at the corner. The empty corner. He blinked. “Ah … What man?”

“Och, the angry one.”

A shudder rolled through Alexander. For nearly two decades, this room had been Dermid's haunt. Even now, years after his death, the very air seemed to seethe with his vitriol.

Incongruously, Lana laughed, a melodic trill. “Why is he so angry? Does he no' know no one can hear him shouting?”

“He's … shouting?” Alexander's eyes narrowed. Dermid had shouted. A lot. “What … does he look like, this shouting man?”

“He's verra tall, though not as tall as you. He's quite ugly, though it's mostly his scowl. And he's got a red bulb of a nose.” She tittered another laugh. “He doesna like that I said that at all.”

Saints have mercy.
She'd described Alexander's uncle to a T. Right down to the bulging proboscis. He'd killed a man for making fun of his nose once, just gored him with a dirk over dinner.

“You … see
him
?” Bile swirled in Alexander's gut. He'd always sensed, felt, his uncle's presence in the castle, but he'd convinced himself it was only the memories that haunted him, not the man himself. That Dermid could be here, now, sickened him. The sudden urge to run possessed him. But he didn't. He was a grown man, not a frightened boy.

“Of course I see him. And hear him. Although who could ignore that racket?” She leaned in and whispered, as though in confidence, “The weak ones are always the loudest.”

Alexander blinked. “The weak ones?”
Weak
was not a word he would ever use to describe his uncle. He'd been vicious and brutal … and strong. Strong enough to knock a boy from one end of this room to the other.

She smiled at him, and again her eyes took on that faraway look, the one that seemed to pierce through all shadows. “He has no power over you. Not anymore, you know.”

His heart stalled. His breath locked. Thoughts whirled.
He has no power over you. Not anymore.

“No one has power over you unless you grant it. Especially ghosts. Och, he thinks he does, but he doesna. That's why he's so angry.” She gave a little sniff, as though in response to something a bellowing ghost said. She fixed her attention on Alexander. “We should just ignore him.”

He has no power over you.

He has no power over you. Not anymore.

The thought gushed through him in a wash of exultation. The claws of the past loosed their hold on his soul. He felt it in a wild rush of relief, release, and an odd brand of vindication. His head went light with a sudden rush of euphoria.

His worst experiences had occurred in this room at the hand of a truly malicious man, but somehow, now, it was just a room. The desk was just a desk.

The monster was just a man.

Alexander glanced around the chamber again, studying each and every corner, each and every mote. If Lana was not completely insane, if she did, in fact, see ghosts, his uncle's spirit was
here
, apparently ranting and raving and raging. Yet Alexander felt nothing. Not even a dribble of fear.

He blew out a deep breath and gloried in the moment; then he turned to Lana with a smile. “Do you … often see ghosts in libraries?” he asked.

She gusted a weary sigh. “Oh, everywhere.”

“Do they often bellow?”

“On the contrary, most of them are verra pleasant. I rather enjoy them. That one, though.” She waggled her fingers in Dermid's direction. “That one I shall ignore.”

“Excellent idea,” Alexander said with a chuckle. If anyone deserved to be ignored throughout eternity, it was Dermid Lochlannach.

Dermid would have hated being ignored.

“Are you ready to go?” Lana asked, taking several of the books from the top of Alexander's pile, as though she could lighten his load. Oddly enough, she had.

He grinned at her and lifted the books. “Do you think this will do?”

“Oh, aye,” she said with a nod. “This will do verra well.”

And as she closed the door on the library, he had the distinct impression she was not referring to the books.

That very day, he gave orders to have the library thoroughly cleaned. Windows thrown open. Doors unlocked.

It wouldn't scour away his uncle's fetid spirit, but at the very least, it would irritate the bastard.

*   *   *

The knock on the door was an annoyance. Hannah was busy. Far too busy to answer a door. She was pouting. Oh, she realized she was pouting—which was odd, because she'd never been much of a pouter. And she realized it was childish and pointless and probably a waste of time, but she was enjoying her martyrdom.

She'd received a letter from her father and one from Susana and Isobel as well, which had gone a long way in easing her worry for them, but her anger at Alexander had not waned.

At some point, she would need to speak to him, educate him, perhaps, on how to handle her, but she wasn't ready yet. She wasn't ready for the world to intrude on her misery, so she didn't answer the door.

The knocking persisted.

It was probably Fergus with another letter. While she wasn't in the mood to speak to anyone, she was in the mood to shred something, so she plodded to the door and opened it.

It wasn't Fergus.

It was Alexander … which surprised her, because usually when he knocked on her door it was the one from the sitting room, where he could plead with her in relative privacy. It occurred to her that he'd tricked her by coming straight at her, rather than from the side. As a tactician, she appreciated his finesse. Still, upon the sight of him, she closed the door.

Or she tried.

His foot blocked the slam.

He winced. “Hannah—”

“Go away, Dunnet.” She made it a point to spit his title, so he would know she was using it on purpose.

“I brought you books.”

She stilled, noticing the pile in his arms for the first time. For some reason, the glimpse of his face—weary and wan—had blurred out everything else. With a frown, she focused on the spines of the books. One of them caught her attention, and then another. A sprig of interest burst through her melancholy.

“May … I … come in?”

Regarding him askance, she sniffed and opened the door wider. It was the books that lured her. Surely not the deep lines around his mouth or the tight set of his jaw. Though the smudges beneath his eyes were particularly concerning.

He blew out a sigh as she stepped back, allowing him entrance. “Thank you. “I … Lana helped me choose them. I hoped … they would serve as an olive branch.”

He held out his offering. An armful of books?

She raked them with a disdainful gaze. “A library would have been better.”

“It-it is available to you. At … your convenience.” This he said with a small bow. “Once … it's been cleaned.”

“Cleaned?”
Who on earth didn't
clean
a library?
It was the most important room in any home.

He didn't respond to her squawk. He set the books on a table by the hearth and raked his fingers through his hair. She tried not to be distracted from her pique. His hair was tantalizing. Long and silky and inky black. Her fingers curled into a fist.

She'd missed him these past few days, more than she'd ever imagined possible. She'd even considered breaking down and storming into his room in the dark of night. It took every ort of discipline she had, but she'd managed to resist.

Now, in the power of his presence, her resistance flagged. She wanted to toss herself into his arms and kiss him. Crawl up his body, feel his warmth.

She turned away.

“Hannah…” His voice was low, resonant. “I'm sorry.”

“So you said.”

“Please forgive me.”

She whirled back. “You should have notified me immediately.”

“I realize that now.”

“You shouldna have kept things from me.”

“I agree.”

“And for God's sake, you shouldna have ordered your people to shut me out.”

He blanched. “What? I did no such thing.”

“They won't let me do anything. Anything! Help with laundry? ‘Oh, no, my lady. You're a baroness, my lady.' Plan the meals? One would think I had suggested sedition against the Crown. I'm not even welcome in the stables when the mares are foaling.”

He turned an odd shade of green. “Of course not. You're a baroness!”

She growled. “If I hear that again, I may be incited to violence.”

He blinked. “I, ah … What do you want?”

Honestly. How could he be so obtuse?
“I want to be happy here.”

It was a shaft to her heart, the bleakness that settled on his features. His body seemed to shrink in on itself. “You're no' happy here?”

Oh, bother.
She hadn't meant it that way. She softened and stepped closer, set her hand on his arm. “I am happy, Alexander. With many things. But I'm not the kind of woman who can simply loll around and
be
. Even if I am
being
a baroness. I must have things to do. I must have responsibilities and chores and a say in the matters of the estate.”