Hannah and the Highlander (32 page)

She wanted, needed, to speak with him. Worry for him wracked her.

She couldn't imagine what he was going through, being commanded to give up everything he believed in—or lose everything that mattered.

Och, just thinking of it again made her furious. She stormed through the bailey and headed for the terrace overlooking the sea, to the one view that always calmed her.

How naïve they'd been, she'd been, to think they could reach such an obdurate man. Nothing could reach him. She was certain of it.

She passed through the arbor and turned onto the terrace and stopped short.

Oh, bother.

He
was there. Leaning against the balustrade and staring out at the bay. Wreathed in lace. Perhaps if she backed away quietly—

But no. He saw her and straightened.

Hannah blew out a breath and stepped forward, ignoring his little bow. She saw it for what it was, a pointless gesture.

“Lady Dunnet.”

“Your Grace.” She tried not to spit the words. Really, she did. She was still shaking with ire over the conversation she'd witnessed. “Have you … settled in?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“And your accommodations are to your liking?” They had housed the duke's party in the east wing. His Grace's rooms were opulent and grand, indeed fit for a king. Though they were, by far, the finest in the castle, Hannah understood why Alexander had not taken them as his own, as they had once belonged to his uncle. Her and Alexander's suite was situated in the west wing, far away from old ghosts.

“The rooms are comfortable. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” She wound her fingers together. It was a challenge holding a civil conversation with a person one wanted to throttle. With all her heart, she wished he would return to England and never come back. “Well,” she gusted. “I suppose I should see about dinner—”

“Lady Dunnet. A moment if I may?”

She fought back a grimace. The last thing she wanted to do was
talk
to this man.

“Certainly.”

“I, ah, have a question about your husband.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes. She didn't like the duke's tone in the slightest.

Was there a capital punishment for smacking one's overlord? Probably.

Pity, that.

When he seemed disinclined to continue, she prompted him with a cold, “Aye?” Although encouraging the conversation was probably unwise.

“Something has been perplexing me.”

“Aye?”

“When I met your husband in Ackergill, he seemed like a reasonable man.”

“He
is
a reasonable man.”

“Yes. Of course he is.” The man's crisp English accent was starting to grate on her nerves. Hannah tried very hard not to grit her teeth. “He didn't seem like a man who was prone to disloyalty—”

“Alexander is the most loyal man you will ever have the good fortune to meet.”

“Or violence—”

“He is as gentle as a lamb.”

The duke ignored her interjections. She was not surprised. When one was exceedingly stubborn, one recognized the same in others.

“Yet he battered Olrig—”

“Olrig deserved it.”

“And he met with Stafford's son to foment insurrection.”

“Nonsense. Dunnet explained that was a chance meeting.”

The duke's sharp gaze landed on her. “How do you know this?”

Hannah gulped, realizing her mistake at once—she'd been excluded from the discussion. She should have no knowledge of what had transpired. She decided to be truthful because she didn't want Caithness to labor under the misapprehension that Alexander had scurried back to her telling tales. Aside from which, she no longer cared much what this man thought of her. She tipped up her chin. “I was eavesdropping.”

For some reason this made him smile. She disliked his smile. It was far too charming and she wasn't in the mood to be charmed. “Do you eavesdrop often, Lady Dunnet?”

“As often as I need to.” She crossed her arms and glared at him. His smile widened and irritation trickled through her. She tried to hold her tongue, but the urge to take him down a peg overwhelmed her.
Ah well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“And frankly, you werena fair in the least.”

Caithness' eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“You dinna give Alexander a chance to explain his side. For heaven's sake, you have a handful of loyal barons left, Dunnet and my father to name two, and this is how you treat them? Given that and this”—she waved disdainfully at his person—“it is no wonder your lairds are turning to Stafford.”

He frowned. “What do you mean …
this
?”

“Your costume.”

He tugged on his waistcoat. “Whatever is wrong with my costume?”

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
“You are wearing
lace
.”

“It is the fashion in London.”

“Aye,” she snarled. “But ye are no' in London. This is Scotland, where men dress like men.”

“This is perfectly manly.” He fluttered a frilly cuff.

She nearly snorted. “Ye should try wearing a kilt when you meet with your lairds.”

“How on earth would that help?”

“They would see you as one of them, a Scottish laird, rather than as an English lord.”

He frowned. “I
am
an English lord.”

“Aye. And therein lies the problem. You've spent your life in another country, another world. You know nothing of Scotland, of our way of life. What we value, what we deplore. How can you lead men you doona understand? How can you expect them to follow? How can you demand their loyalty?”

“I'm … the duke.” A simple statement, one wreathed in his hubris and naivety. But there was, threaded in it, a hint of contemplation. Then the glimmer flitted away and his expression darkened. “You say your husband remains loyal to me?”

“Aye. He is.”

“Yet he has refused my order to clear the land.”

“Aye.”

He barked a laugh; it held little humor. “In the face of that evidence, how on earth can you insist he is a loyal man?”

“Because he
is
loyal. To his people. To his home. To his title. As baron he is responsible for making sure the clachans doona starve in the winter. He's responsible for making sure the clans doona fight. He's responsible for keeping his people safe from all threats. And this, Your Grace, is a threat. If you had any idea what horror and desolation the Clearances have wrought, you would never command them. No man with a heart and a soul would.”

A muscle in his cheek bunched and Hannah wondered if she'd gone too far. But she hardly cared. There was nothing left to lose.

“You realize every lord in London has ordered them. Are you implying the House of Lords is soulless?” Infuriatingly, his eyes danced with humor.
Humor.

“Aye,” she snapped. “It is easy for
English
lords to clear the land. They doona care. They doona see the impact this policy has on people. On families. On children. Why, there are twenty Clearance orphans living here—”

“Clearance orphans?”

“Children. Babies. Orphaned when their crofts were cleared.” When the confusion still clung to his features, she added, “The children of the people killed in the course of these
Improvements
.”

The duke shook his head, a refusal of the cold, hard facts.

Anger and frustration swelled. Hannah forced it down. If she was to be the voice of reason here, if she had any chance of convincing him of the sheer immorality of his plans, she needed to remain calm and rational. It cost her, but she drew in a deep breath and said, “For example, Fiona's mother was evicted from her home in the winter. She and her newborn and the wee lass of five. When she refused to leave, they set her home on fire. Destitute and starving, she brought her family here. She died at the gates, and her baby with her.”

The duke made a slash of denial with his hand. “A woman with small children tossed out in the snow? That could not have happened.”

“It did happen.”

“Her tale must have been embroidered. No man in good conscience would burn a woman out of her home.”

Hannah snorted. “Yet there are hundreds of like stories.
Hundreds
.”

His chin firmed. “Those were brutal men. Our Clearances will be orderly. No one will be harmed. I promise. On my honor.”

“Still, even if they are not harmed, where will they go?”

He shrugged. “To the cities, I suppose.”

“To live in filth and squalor? Having left everything they know behind? With nothing to sustain them? Only imagine how devastating that would be to one person. One family. Much less an entire parish. The county. How many souls are you willing to sacrifice for your profit?”

This question made him visibly uncomfortable. Hannah didn't care. She pressed on.

“Your Grace. You are a powerful man. You have the ability to make a difference. Your decision will affect thousands of lives—”

“Surely not thousands.”

“Thousands. Because you are creating a legacy here. One that will ring through the ages long after you and I are gone.” He paled. His fingers clenched. She thought she might be reaching him, but whether she was or not, she had to continue. “Your one decision can save your homeland, or destroy it. Please.” She set her hand on his arm. “Please think about it.”

Hannah's heart lifted as a flurry of emotions flicked over his face. She thought he might be softening, thought he might be willing to relent, just a little. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a harsh voice rang out from the garden.

“Your Grace! Where have you been?” Dougal strode toward the duke, as though a man on a mission to save his lord from a vile villain. The look Dougal shot at Hannah made clear
she
was the villain.

She offered him a glowing smile. Just to be contrary.

“Ah, I was just taking a walk. I needed it after our journey.”

Dougal's brow furrowed. “Are you … feeling all right, Your Grace?”

“I'm feeling fine. Fine.” He swept out his arms. “What do you think of this view, Dougal?”

Dougal glanced at the bay and frowned. “It's water.”

“Ah, but it's a magnificent view, is it not?”

“Your Grace, you really must rest.”

Hannah nibbled on her lip. Dougal was treating the duke as though he were an invalid. Which made no sense. He seemed healthy as a horse.

The duke clapped his cousin on the shoulder. “If you need a rest, do go on, Dougal. Lady Dunnet and I are having a chat. And I fancy a stroll. Will you accompany me, Lady Dunnet?” He offered his arm.

Why Dougal sent her another blazing glare she had no clue. She responded with an even more brilliant grin. “I would be honored, Your Grace. May I show you around the castle grounds?”

“I would like that.”

As they walked away, Hannah shot a look over her shoulder at Dougal, who had clearly been dismissed. She didn't imagine his glower. And oddly enough, it wasn't aimed at her.

It was aimed at the duke.

“So something else has been plaguing me, Lady Dunnet,” Caithness said as they made their way into the bailey.

“What is that, Your Grace?”

“If Dunnet is not a violent man … why on earth did he beat Olrig?”

“Have you met Olrig?”

Caithness chuckled, perhaps his first hint of humanity. “I have. But still … Englishmen do not resort to savagery to resolve their conflicts.”

“Do they not?”

At her frank assessment his ears went pink.

“Aside from which, it was hardly savagery. Alexander punched him once. That was all. T'was Olrig who came at him first.”

“I expect better than petty squabbles from my barons.”

“The Scots doona live by the same rules as the English, Your Grace.”
Thank God.

“I've noticed.”

“But we do have our codes. Verra strong and deeply rooted traditions. Scots are passionate men, but reasonable at their core.”

“Like your husband?”

“Aye.”

“And about your husband … What happened to make this reasonable, nonviolent man break Olrig's nose?”

The stables came into view just as he asked; a sudden resolution flooded her and she shifted her course to head in that direction. “I shall show you.”

Caithness shot her a curious glance but followed.

The stables were cool and shadowed. Hannah made her way to the back toward the stall where Brùid and the bitch were healing. Several steps in, she realized she'd lost the duke's attention. He'd stopped at the first stall and was patting a mare on the muzzle.

With a sigh, Hannah headed back.

“This is a beautiful beast.”

“Aye, she is. Alexander has some excellent horseflesh.”

The duke glanced at her. “Arabian?”

“Aye. And a mix of his own. Horses need to be strong and fleet in the Highlands. One of his hobbies is breeding them.”

“I shall have to discuss this with him.”

“Do.” She took his arm and guided him farther in, though it was a challenge, as he wanted to stop at each stall and inspect the stock. He was particularly entranced with Beelzebub, who was not flattered by his attention in the slightest. In fact, the horse took a swipe at the duke. It was probably beneath her, that trickle of glee as Caithness leaped back.

They finally made it to the last stall and Hannah opened the gate. “Here.”

The duke peered inside and froze. His cheek bunched. His eyes glimmered.

Aye.
What Olrig had done to these poor creatures was truly monstrous. Hannah stepped in behind the duke … and froze herself. The animals were in there, curled up in the straw, but something else was curled up with them. Or someone.