Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York

to his lips as a shard of pain lanced him. Or maybe it wasn’t pain. Maybe it was something else. “After me?”
    â€œAye.” Her expression faltered. “Ye doona mind, do ye?”
    â€œAh, no. Of course not. That is lovely.”
    Lovelier than he could ever have imagined. He’d long ago accepted the fact that no child would be named after him. It was a gift he’d never expected.
    So when the new father came down the stairs—looking exhausted, but beaming from ear to ear—Lachlan couldn’t help but slip the man a handful of coins. A gift in return. But again, the man’s gratitude made him uncomfortable. Lachlan was a wealthy man by accident of birth, not because of anything he had done. It was painful to know such a small gesture on his part could make a huge difference for someone else. Because he very rarely made them.
    When Dougal joined him at the table, they ate and quickly left. Lachlan made up some excuse about needing to get on the road, but that was far from true. He simply needed to escape all the good wishes. They made him feel far too raw.
    The storm hit around midday of the second day, forcing Lachlan inside. As the carriage hied to the north, he remained silent, mulling over his experiences at the inn in Howe. It occurred to him, that as duke, he could do so much more for his vassals than he had. Indeed, he’d spent most of his life carousing in London, trying to pack as much pleasure into his days as he could, knowing they were numbered. Although, upon reflection, there hadn’t been much pleasure. Simply a string of overindulgences and a litany of things he thought a duke should do. Like balls and house parties and attempting to curry the favor of the British nobles—most of whom looked down their noses at a Scottish lord. He’d spent little time doing the things he actually enjoyed, like working with his horses.
    It was a shame he hadn’t made better choices. It was a shame he hadn’t had the sense to break free of the constraints of his station.
    It was a shame there wasn’t more time to make up for it.
    He certainly had enjoyed bringing a little pleasure into the life of a man and his wife. And it had been a simple thing to do.
    And they were naming their son after him—
    â€œAre you all right?”
    Dougal’s query startled him. Lachlan shifted his attention from the passing scenery onto his cousin. “I’m fine.”
    â€œYou seem moody. Did you sleep all right?”
    â€œI slept fine.” He had. Odd that. Even the dream hadn’t bothered him as much as it usually did. In fact, it had left him feeling … excited. He didn’t know why.
    â€œWe should be in Rester soon.” Dougal leveled him with a playful glower. “Do try not to give up your rooms.”
    Lachlan chuckled.
    â€œWe will get a good night’s sleep there, and then it is a short ways to Lochlannach Castle.” Dougal’s expression firmed. “This way, you can have your meeting with Dunnet not having traveled all day.”
    A good plan. But Dougal’s mentioning of it re-woke the burn of Lachlan’s prickling irritation with his baron. It soured his pleasant mood.
    That Dunnet could be in league with Stafford—his mortal enemy—that he intended to incite treason among his loyal barons, ate at Lachlan’s soul. He’d been warned of the treasonous ways of the Scots, but truly, deep in his heart, he hadn’t thought Dunnet capable of stabbing him in the back. It rankled that he had.
    By the time he was through with him, Dunnet would be cowed. He would clear the land as his overlord commanded, or there would be hell to pay.
    Especially when Lachlan was in this mood.
    â€œIt would be wise to finish this business quickly and return to Ackergill with all haste.”
    Lachlan frowned. “We shall stay as long as it takes.”
    â€œIt shouldna take long. And you have much to do