Hannah and the Highlander (37 page)

A muscle worked in his cheek. “Concessions?”

“Aye. Most importantly, you agree to reconsider the Clearances of Dunnet and Reay.”

Oh holy God.
Alexander stared at Lana, a woman who, until now, had always struck him as charming, demure, and … pliable. She was nothing of the sort. He'd had no idea she had it in her to be so ruthless.

Caithness sat back and fixed Lana with a daunting stare. She was undaunted. She shot him a cheery smile back. It was not a sign of weakness. It was a sign of certitude.

Then again, Caithness' pose was intractable as well. “My dear, I am a duke.”

“I'm aware of that.”

“Do you realize how much power I have over you? Your circumstances? Your livelihood? Your very life?”

Lana blew out an incongruous derisive snort. “Your Grace. You canna threaten me.”

He reared back. His nostrils flared. “B-but I'm a duke!”

Her eyes narrowed. Her charming, demure, and pliable expression faded, replaced with something hard, cold, and wounded. “You have no power over me. You have already threatened everything I value in this world. My family, my clan, my way of life. I have nothing left but this necklace, and I would sooner throw it back into the sea than give it to a man who is bent on destroying the lives of everyone I love.”

Caithness' features tightened as he studied her obdurate expression, searching for weaknesses. There were none. Lana was indomitable. Magnus had mentioned his daughters were all stubborn, but in truth, Alexander had not seen the trait in Lana … until now. Apparently, she held it at bay until she really needed it and then wielded it with the skill of a master swordsman.

The duke didn't stand a chance.

At long last, Caithness sighed. “I could just take it.”

“You willna.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Your mother told me you are a man of honor. And a man of honor would not stoop to such villainy.”

Caithness stilled. “My mother…?”

“Aye. Lileas.”

He paled. His throat worked and then he huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “You, Miss Dounreay, do not play fair.”

She fluttered her lashes. “Life is unfair.”

“Yes. It is at that.” The duke was silent for a long while, occupying his attention with the aspects of his fork. When he spoke, his voice was low and soft. “If I can reunite the cross and break the curse, there will be no need for me to clear the land at all.”

“So you will reconsider your decision?”

“Yes.” The duke nodded. His gaze locked with Lana's and they stared at each other for a long moment. “Yes. I will reconsider my decision.” His chin firmed. “But I make no promises, Miss Dounreay. I make no promises at all.”

*   *   *

It was agreed that in light of the duke's concession, Alexander would arrange a tour of the neighboring lands, so Caithness could witness the effects of the Clearances for himself. Olrig had just begun the process, so the impacts there were still raw. It would allow Caithness to see the true horror of the decision he'd made.

Hannah hoped the evidence would change his mind, and though Alexander tried to talk her out of coming—claiming things were too unstable in Olrig's land right now—she would not be deterred.

They planned to ride out at first light, the three of them, Hannah, her husband, and the duke. Lana didn't ride and professed she had no desire to see the destruction. Dougal had elected to stay behind as well.

Alexander looked magnificent in his kilt, with his sword at his side as he strode through the bailey to the stables. The duke was impressive as well, kitted out in full kilt. Although his sword was much smaller. In fact, when Alexander saw it he gave a snort and asked, “What the bluidy hell kind of weapon is that?”

The duke bristled. “It's an épée.”

“An épée?”

Caithness pursed his lips. “It's French.”

Alexander narrowed his eyes and leaned in to peer at it. “It's verra small.”

“I assure you, it is quite deadly. And I am an accomplished swordsman.”

To which Alexander grunted.

They mounted up, Hannah astride Beelzebub and Alexander on his beloved Wallace, while the duke selected one of the stallions he fancied in Alexander's stable, and they headed through the misty morning to the southwest. As they passed through Dunnet land, Alexander showed the duke some of the prosperous crofts, mills, and villages. There was great pride in his voice as he described all of the improvements they had made to the land—improvements that did not involve evicting tenants. Though Caithness seemed engaged and interested, he was reserved in his responses.

When they crossed over onto Olrig's land, the contrast was sharp. The first evidence that all was not well was a blackened field. It was a harsh and visual reminder, juxtaposed to the verdant bounty of the land they'd left. The desolation reached as far as the eye could see.

“What has happened here?” Caithness asked as they picked their way through the seared remains of a once-productive croft.

“'Tis common practice to burn out tenants who willna leave,” Alexander said between his teeth “This croft belonged to Jamie Kirk. He inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father before him. He and his wife lived here with three small children.”

Hannah's heart lurched as her gaze fell on the scorched remnants of a cottage and barn. The duke was similarly affected. He paled and a muscle worked in his cheek. “Where have they gone?”

Alexander shrugged. “I doona know. But away from here. He was a good man. A loss for certain.”

They continued to the south and came to the village of Tain. It was eerily quiet. A shiver walked down Hannah's spine as they passed through the deserted streets. Some of the cottages were burned and the inn showed damage. Not a soul greeted them.

Caithness said nothing, but he blew out a breath and his brows knit. While Hannah was hopeful this desolation would show him the truth of the Clearances, the sight of such bleak wreckage, the knowledge of the pain and suffering that had occurred here, made her chest ache.

“I'd like to stop by one more croft before taking you to see Castletown,” Alexander said. “I often visit Agnes when I'm on my rounds and I'd like to check on her.” It was clear from his tight tone that he was worried all would not be well when they arrived.

And it was not.

As they emerged from the woods near Agnes' croft, Hannah's pulse stalled. A large angry plume of black smoke curled high into the sky. There was no doubt Agnes' croft was on fire.

Hannah glanced at Alexander. He frowned at her. A muscle worked in his cheek. In tandem, they charged forward. Hannah's heart hammered as Beelzebub flew for the croft, pounding as though the hounds of hell were on his heels. The old woman was bedridden; she couldn't escape from a blazing hut if she crawled.

Fear clutched at Hannah, making her breathless. The dear woman was aged, and but for her son, who came to work the land, she was all alone in this remote spot.

Ah, but she wasn't alone.

As they barreled into the clearing Hannah saw a group of burly men and horses milling about. Relief gushed through her as she realized it wasn't the house that was ablaze but the barn. At the same moment, she noticed the men were doing nothing to stop the licking flames.

The panicked lows of the cattle were a testament to that. Above them, she could hear Agnes' pleas coming from her tiny house.

Alexander threw himself from his horse and stormed up to one of the men. He was a muscled brute, with craggy features fixed into a scowl. “What are you doing?” Alexander snarled. “Set those animals free.”

The brute's response was naught but a chuckle.

As Hannah dismounted and made her way to his side, with Caithness behind her, a fat ginger cat darted from the barn, the singe of smoke trailing from its fur. The man scooped it up and, to Hannah's horror, he hauled back, as though to toss it back into the flaming structure.

Oh. Hell no.

She dove forward, even as he prepared to make a fatal throw, and snatched the yowling cat from his hands. In its panic, the frightened creature scratched and clawed its way free and leaped to the ground; it was clever enough to skitter away from that vile man and disappear into the woods.

Hannah was not.

Clever enough.

To skitter away.

The man rounded on her, and before she had a chance to react he snarled a word—one she'd never heard before and, from the sound of it, wouldn't care to hear again—and he landed his meaty fist in her cheek.

Agony exploded. The impact blinded her.

She flew back, into the hard dirt. The shock of the landing was a mercy because it distracted her from the searing pain in her face. She was certain he had shattered her jaw until she managed to make it move.

A sound, low and feral, something that caused a shiver to walk up her spine, echoed through the croft. It took a moment for her to realize this terrifying sound came from her husband's throat.

The second sound that registered on her dazed brain was the unmistakable hiss of his sword sliding from the scabbard.

“I will fooking kill you for that,” he roared, charging the man who had hit her.

In response, all the men drew their swords.

Hannah watched in terror as her husband threw himself into battle. The other men were large, and there were more of them. Indeed, three of the men rushed Alexander with their weapons raised, as another three rushed Caithness. Her heart lodged in her throat as frustration roiled. She had no weapon, other than her dirk, which was pathetic in contrast to their great swords. Still, she unsheathed it. She needed to be ready if there was a chance, any chance, to help.

The battle raged in the yard, hidden at times by the great roiling clouds of black smoke. Hannah desperately tried to see what was happening, but the occasional glimpses she caught were not forthcoming. Grunts and howls and thuds and great clashes of metal hung in the air. They gave her no clue to what was happening, either.

Acid churned in her belly. She couldn't bear it if Alexander was hurt. She would simply curl up and die. He was her heart, her everything. And the duke … with his dainty little épée? What would become of them, of all of them, if the curse held true and he died today?

They should never have come. They shouldn't have risked it. Alexander had been right; it was too dangerous. Ah, she only hoped she would have the chance to tell him so.

A gust of wind blew through, wafting the smoke away, and Hannah scraped her hair from her face and focused on the scene. Her heart lifted as she saw two of the brigands had fallen, and then the breath lodged in her throat as she realized Alexander was still battling two large men. Though it was clear he far outclassed them, her heart still pounded with worry.

Hannah's gaze was drawn to his body, his powerful muscles, the unrelenting swing of his sword arm. His movements were like a magnificent, savage dance. The men he was battling didn't stand a chance. A glimmer of delight glinted in Alexander's eyes as he beat the second man to his knees and sent his sword flying out of reach. Then he turned to his final rival.

Caithness was still in play as well. The duke was as large as his opponent but far more fleet of foot. He danced around his foe with elegant parries and thrusts that made the other man dizzy. Occasionally he whipped his slender blade around and jabbed at the man he was fighting, resulting in a yelp and a blossom of red on his shirt. What stunned her was the smile on Caithness' face. It shocked her to realize he was enjoying this ferocious battle.

In fact, they both were, the duke and her husband.

Hannah set her hands on her hips and glared at them—though neither was paying her any mind. How like a man to enjoy something so—

A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and her blood went cold. One of the men had slunk over to the burning stable. As she watched, he picked up a flaming cudgel and tossed it onto the thatch of Agnes' home.

It burst into flames.

With Agnes still inside.

Hannah screamed, though she had no intention to do so. The sound wrenched from her in a feral howl. “She's still in there!” she bellowed, and launched herself toward the cottage.

The man caught her. His hands were bony and hard and they cut into her flesh. “Damn her, the old witch.” His snarl rumbled through Hannah even as the foul skeins of his breath surrounded her. “She has lived too long. Let her burn.”

Something bitter and nasty tickled the back of Hannah's throat. Her pulse thudded in her temple. Her vision blurred. She wasn't quite certain if this scorching emotion was panic or fury, or both.

Frantic to break free, to save Agnes, whose frightened cries were rising, Hannah fought his grasp, and when that didn't help she turned and plowed her knee into his groin. He sucked in a pained wheeze and sank to the ground, releasing her.

She bolted into the burning hut.

It was dark and a pall of smoke hung heavily on the air. Hannah covered her mouth with her shawl and made her way through the murk; Agnes' cries were a beacon. Still, it seemed to take forever to reach the bed.

The crackling overhead, the occasional drop of embers as the fire consumed the thatch, was like a ticking clock. Sweating, quivering with fear, Hannah lifted Agnes from the bed. She was old and frail but heavy. Hannah staggered under her weight.

Making her way to the door, blinded, choked, she stumbled and nearly dropped her fragile bundle. She despaired she wouldn't have the strength to carry Agnes to safety, though it was not far. It was not far at all. Yet it might as well have been a league.

Oh, how she wished she were stronger.

The flames had spread now. They licked at the walls and gobbled up larger and larger chunks of the roof. The scent of baked dung and scorched hair clung to her nostrils. Heat singed her cheek. Glowing embers fell all around them, catching her clothes with a sizzling sear. Hannah ignored it all and fought her way for the door. So far. So far …