Hannah and the Highlander (8 page)

Lana's eyes glimmered. “How could I not come? Someone from our family had to see you wed the Wolf.”

Hannah winced. “Oh, please doona call him that.”

“Why not? That is what they call him, is it not?”

“It is. But heavens. It makes me…”

“Makes you what?”

Hannah shuddered. “Terrified.”

Lana chuckled. “You? You're not terrified of anything.”

“I'm terrified of a lot of things.”

“I think we both know only one thing makes you quake in your boots.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes. “And what is that?”

“The prospect of not having complete and utter control over everything.”

“That is ridiculous.” But in her heart she couldn't deny the truth of it.

Lana lips quirked, as though she saw Hannah's denial for what it was. Utter ballocks. “But other than that tiny thing, you are fearless. Nerid thinks you're fearless too, do you no', my wee beastie?” He was hardly a
wee
beastie. She lifted the cat to her face and nuzzled his fur, placing noisy smooches on his muzzle.

By some miracle, Nerid allowed this. If Hannah had dared to do such a thing, she would have lost an eye.

Hannah crossed her arms and tried not to glower. Neither Lana nor Nerid deserved to bear the brunt of her foul mood.

Well, maybe Nerid.

But she held her tongue and tried to calm her skittering nerves. For she had spoken the truth. She was terrified. At least a little. She would see
him
again, and soon. Her intended. Her groom. She hoped to God she had not made a monumental mistake.

Oh, certainly he was pleasant to look at and he smelled wonderful and he kissed … Well, she didn't quite know how he kissed, but she certainly knew how he tasted—hunger simmered at the thought. However, simply because she found the man passably attractive didn't mean they would suit. She knew so very little about him. He could be surly and mean, or he could be domineering like Meg Taggart's man. He could be jealous or cold. And her greatest fear? He could certainly refuse her the liberties she'd so enjoyed at home.

She was far too independent a woman to live under some man's thumb, but in her observations of so many married women that was exactly the case.

The fact was, until she met him, spoke to him, she couldn't make a determination on what kind of husband he would be.

His note to her was not forthcoming.

I am pleased to welcome you to Dunnet. Our wedding shall take place forthwith.

Forthwith.

The word made her hackles rise.

The entire missive annoyed her. It was far too commanding, for one thing. Beyond that, it was cold, clipped, dispassionate. Well in keeping with the man she'd met, she supposed, which was a little distressing, because, in truth, she didn't want a cold and dispassionate marriage.

She hoped with all her heart that they would suit, but she feared they would not.

According to Papa—whom she trusted—Dunnet was a good man. He was strong and handsome and not terribly old. He would not be onerous to bed. But there was no doubt this was a marriage of convenience. She'd agreed to wed a warrior to protect her people and he'd chosen her to expand his fortunes. It was unrealistic of her to expect anything more. She resolved to face this marriage with a positive outlook and be happy with what she got. To be very careful not to expect too much of him.

And as for those wayward desires his touch incited? Those she would keep to herself.

Rory rode by and peered into the window. His smile at Lana made Hannah's stomach clench. While she was delighted her sister had come along on this journey, Hannah couldn't help but feel … responsible for her. Not that she was being controlling. She wasn't. She absolutely wasn't. But Lana was her baby sister and far too innocent and trusting. It was up to Hannah to shield her from the harsh realities of the world.

In Hannah's estimation, Rory's too-ardent attention was one of those realities.

She issued a growl and he yanked his focus from Lana's face to Hannah's. His smile dimmed at her expression. “I, ahem … We're close now,” he said.

A new tension coiled within her. It was clear from his tone he had no idea of the maelstrom those simple words set up in her heart and soul. She sucked in a breath and tightened her hold on the straps. With another glance at Lana he spurred his mount forward.

Hannah nibbled on her lip, wondering if she should say something to Lana now or later. It was a conversation that needed to be had. But the decision was taken from her as Lana leaned forward to peer out the window and gasped. “There it is,” she said.

Hannah followed her gaze and her heart stalled as the full force of Lochlannach Castle hit her.

Dounreay was an attractive keep, but this was stunning. The castle rose, grand and glorious against the backdrop of a robin's-egg-blue sky. Hewn of granite, the high walls gleamed a smoky silver. Tall turret towers flanked all four sides, connected by ramparts decorated with crenellated stone. While they had kept the ancient fortifications in place, there had also been modernizing work. The windows glittered with new glass. Bright banners, bearing the Wolf of Dunnet, flapped in the breeze.

“Oh, look!” Lana cried as they crossed a bridge over a picturesque lake, bespeckled with swans as it was. Lana had always had a fascination with swans, although why Hannah couldn't say. Hannah found them irritable and fierce. More than once, she'd been chased by the cygnets roosting near Dounreay. She made a mental note to avoid strolling by this loch. “Isn't it lovely?” Lana said.

Hannah grunted an assent. Everything was a wondrous discovery to Lana—it was part of her charm—but at present Hannah wasn't in the mood to be charmed. Her heart thudded and tension sizzled through her.

She would see
him
again soon.

Her breath caught as the carriage rolled beneath an ancient portcullis into an enormous bailey, large enough to house an entire village. Every stone was in place, every cobble swept. There was no doubt Lochlannach Castle was very well kept. Some lairds neglected their ancestral homes and let them fall to rack and ruin. Some tore them down. It was clear that generations of Lochlannachs had loved this place.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, a trumpet sounded and servants flooded from the entrance and into the bailey.

Hannah steeled her spine and peered out the window, searching the faces for her betrothed. When she didn't see him, her mood plummeted.

Where was he?

This was one of the most important occurrences in her life, her welcome to her new home. The least he could have done was
be here
.

A tall behemoth with blond hair bounded through the crowd and wrenched open the carriage door. His gaze landed on Lana, sitting there with Nerid on her lap, looking like a princess, and his face split in a too-charming grin. “Welcome, my lady,” he said with a little bow.

Annoyance riffled through Hannah's belly. Of course he would assume
she
was the laird's betrothed. Next to her, Hannah looked like a dowdy companion. She cleared her throat. “I am Hannah.” She tried to keep the irritation from her voice but failed miserably.

The ripple of glee at his dismay was probably beneath her, but she enjoyed it anyway.

“My apologies, my lady.” He affected yet another bow, this time in her direction, although his gaze lingered on Lana. It was far too ardent.

Hannah frowned meaningfully at him, but he pretended not to notice. Instead he smiled again—at both of them—and said, “I'm Andrew Lochlannach, Dunnet's brother. Welcome to Lochlannach Castle.” He held out his hand to help her down.

“Thank you,” she said as she stepped from the carriage onto the soil of her new home. “I'm Hannah Dounreay, and this is my sister Lana.”

“Ah.” Turning his back on her, he reached for Lana with far too much zeal. Displeasure flared; Hannah narrowed her eyes as he handed Lana from the carriage. She wasn't a fool. She'd seen the way Andrew was ogling her sister and she didn't like it. Not in the slightest. She resolved to keep a close watch on him while Lana was here. Not that she was being controlling. She was simply being prudent.

Once they were both on terra firma once more, Andrew turned to the assemblage and launched into a pretty welcome speech, after which everyone burst into a round of applause.

Hannah was not pleased. It shouldn't be Dunnet's brother offering this welcome. It should be her groom himself. “Where is he?” she asked, but Andrew pretended not to hear.

He was quite good at pretending, she decided.

Blissfully unconcerned with her displeasure, Andrew introduced her in turn to the housekeeper and the cook and the butler and the upstairs maids (there were ten of them) and the downstairs maids and the footmen and—Mercy, there were a lot of them.

More servants than they'd ever had at Dounreay.

She had to wonder what she would do here, as there appeared to be a person for every job.

She would ask Dunnet.

If she ever saw him.

She would see him at some point. Wouldn't she?

Her heart stilled and she forgot her worries as a clutch of adorable children rushed up, thrusting bunches of wildflowers into her arms. “Welcome, my lady,” one of the older ones said with a gap-toothed smile.

Hannah couldn't help but smile back. She loved wildflowers. And children. “Thank you,” she said. Then she leaned over to Andrew and whispered, “Who are they?”

“The orphans.”

Her smile dimmed. “The orphans?”

“Of the Clearances. We took them in, of course.”

This revelation warmed her heart and eased her trepidation. How a man treated the helpless was a good measure of his mettle; it was a telling clue to Dunnet's character. These children were plump and clean and looked very well. The mischievous glimmers in their eyes spoke volumes about their contentment here.

But—

Through the sea of smiling young faces, her attention snagged on a glower. One child who wasn't content in the slightest. In fact, she seemed very put out.

One of the smallest girls, a tiny thing, glared at her with arms crossed.

Hannah knelt before her. “And who are you?” she asked.

The girl pressed her lips together.

“That's Fiona McGill,” one of the boys said. “She doesna t-t-t-talk much.”

Fiona's ears went red.

The boy laughed and the some of the others laughed too, but the older girl jabbed the boy with an elbow and barked, “Doona make fun of her.” And then said, to Hannah, “Fiona has trouble speaking sometimes.”

“Oh, darling. That's all right. We all struggle with something,” Hannah said, tucking a curl behind a tiny shell-like ear. “But why are you so unhappy?”

Fiona's eyes narrowed.

“She thought the laird would marry her,” the brash boy crowed.

Hannah silenced him with a frown, but it was too late. Fiona whirled on him and kicked him in the shins before scampering away. Hannah stared after her, clutching her flowers and ignoring the pounding thud of her pulse. Why that adorable little face had touched her so she couldn't say.

Perhaps it was because Fiona was an orphan. That was heartbreaking in itself. Or perhaps it was because she was Isobel's age and reminded Hannah of her beloved niece. But most likely, it was because the poor mite was besotted with an aloof and surly man. That was a dismal fate indeed.

Hannah decided, once she was settled into her new home, she would find Fiona and try to make friends with her. The last thing she wanted to do was begin her new life here with an enemy.

Oh, certainly Fiona was only five, but Hannah knew well what mischief five-year-olds could wreak. She had one at home.

As Hannah stood, a man in an austere tunic with a bleak expression stepped forward and pinned her with a cold gaze. She didn't wince, but just barely. Aside from his inhospitable air, the man had a savaged visage. The entire right side of his face was a puckered burn scar, so tight it tugged the tip of his eye downward and froze his mouth in a permanent scowl. But it wasn't the scar that startled her; it was the hostility in his eyes.

Incongruously, Andrew clapped him on the back and offered a broad grin. Apparently, Andrew had failed to notice the daggers. “Ah, Fergus. There you are. This is the Honourable Hannah Dounreay, soon to be Lady Dunnet. My lady, this is Fergus, our factor here in Dunnet.”

“Miss Dounreay,” he said with a tight bow. “Welcome.” His tone implied anything but.

“Fergus manages the running of the castle and much of the estate,” Andrew explained, smiling as though the factor wasn't trying to murder her with his glare.

“I see.”

“You may feel welcome to ask him anything.”

That word again. Did they understand what it meant?

Hannah nibbled her lip. “Ask him anything?”

“Of course. Anything.” Andrew fixed his intent blue gaze on her.

“Where is Dunnet?”

Andrew blanched. “I … ah.” His gaze whipped to Fergus.

The factor's throat worked. “He's … sleeping, my lady.”

Hannah's eyes widened.
Sleeping?
When his bride arrived? She wasn't sure if she should be infuriated or insulted. Or both. Nae, this didn't bode well for their marriage. Not at all.

“He left orders, my lady,” Fergus said, as though it justified a nap … in the middle of the day. “I'm to show you to your room, and introduce you to your lady's maid who shall prepare you for the wedding.”

Hannah's heart gave one dull thud.
Ah.
The wedding.

She swallowed heavily. This was it. Her new home. For the rest of her life. She glanced around at the milling throng, all of whom were watching with glimmering interest.

Fergus noticed her attention on them and frowned. He clapped his hands and bellowed, “Everyone back to work!” and, in a trice the staff melted away. Hannah set her teeth. That was not how she would have handled it. The barked command was far too gruff and dictatorial. She made a mental note to speak with Fergus about his demeanor with the staff as soon as she found her bearings.