beforeâ¦â Dougal finished with a shrug, but they both knew what he intended to say. Before the end. The reminder was grating. For a brief while, Lachlan had forgotten his curse and the weight of his burden.
He turned back to the passing scenery and tried to recapture the glory of the morning. It was a sad thing that he could not.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Much to Lachlanâs consternation, his ghost returned that night, in the inn in Rester. He didnât stay long, just long enough to reproach Lachlan for leaving Ackergill. But it was enough to keep Lachlan from sleeping anymore.
By the time morning broke, he was in a foul mood. So much for his hopes that the ghost didnât like to travel.
His temper didnât improve as Dougal dressed him for the day. For one thing, as he was to arrive at Lochlannach Castle, he had to be dressed in full ducal regalia, which Lachlan found annoying. He understood the reasoning for itâDunnet must be made to see and accept the consequence. Dunnet must be made to understand that Lachlan wasnât a man to be trifled withâor betrayed.
But the coat and the vest and, for Godâs sake, the cravat were annoying.
Lachlan had always hated cravats, but he was a lord, and in London, if one wanted to be up to snuff, one wore a cravat. To fit in, one had to adhere to English conventions. And he had. Had for years. No matter how galling it had been.
It hadnât made a whit of difference.
The harpies of the ton would always see him as a lowly Scottish duke . Despite the fact heâd spent nearly his entire life in London, despite the fact he had attended Eton and Cambridge, despite the fact that he owned a castle  ⦠he wasnât considered worthy to as much as glance at their daughters. Although, to be fair to the harpies of the ton, that might be more due to his reputation as the Doomed Duke than to his Highland roots.
The irony was, it hardly mattered. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife on the marriage mart. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife at all.
If there was anything in this whole debacle he regretted, it was that.
Why she came to mind just then, his angel, he had no clue.
She was nothing but a dream, a drug-induced hallucination. She wasnât real.
For the rest of the journey, Lachlan struggled to wipe all thoughts of her from his mind. He needed to focus on the coming confrontation. He needed to be on point. He ran through his arguments in his head, planning and replanning what he would say to Dunnet and in which particular tone.
It didnât help that all the while, Dougal incessantly peppered him with ominous warnings about dark betrayals, poisonings, and the propensity Scots had for tossing their enemies from the ramparts with impunity.
When Lochlannach Castle appeared in the distance, Lachlan stared at it. It was enormous and grand, with stately silver spires reaching for the sky. Situated at the curve of the bay, as it was, it was an impressive sight. He tried to ignore the lance of displeasure that Dunnetâs castle wasnât a pile of rubble.
By the time they pulled into the bailey, Lachlan was ready. Ready to go to war.
He wasnât in the mood for pleasantries. It was irritating then that Dunnet had gone to the trouble to prepare a grand welcome. When he emerged from his carriage, he was greeted by the skirl of the pipes and the curious stares of Dunnetâs peopleâit seemed as though each one of his clansmen had turned out.
The baron himself stood at the front of the crowd, looking lordly and proud in full formal kilt. For some reason, Lachlan found it irksome, this not-so-subtle reminder that Dunnet was a Scot, and Lachlan, to his mind, was not.
The man was tall, taller than Lachlan, which was saying something, but he was brawnier and harsher by far. He exuded all the wildness of Scotland and then some. His hair was long and dark, his features sharp and craggy, and there was a
He turned back to the passing scenery and tried to recapture the glory of the morning. It was a sad thing that he could not.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Much to Lachlanâs consternation, his ghost returned that night, in the inn in Rester. He didnât stay long, just long enough to reproach Lachlan for leaving Ackergill. But it was enough to keep Lachlan from sleeping anymore.
By the time morning broke, he was in a foul mood. So much for his hopes that the ghost didnât like to travel.
His temper didnât improve as Dougal dressed him for the day. For one thing, as he was to arrive at Lochlannach Castle, he had to be dressed in full ducal regalia, which Lachlan found annoying. He understood the reasoning for itâDunnet must be made to see and accept the consequence. Dunnet must be made to understand that Lachlan wasnât a man to be trifled withâor betrayed.
But the coat and the vest and, for Godâs sake, the cravat were annoying.
Lachlan had always hated cravats, but he was a lord, and in London, if one wanted to be up to snuff, one wore a cravat. To fit in, one had to adhere to English conventions. And he had. Had for years. No matter how galling it had been.
It hadnât made a whit of difference.
The harpies of the ton would always see him as a lowly Scottish duke . Despite the fact heâd spent nearly his entire life in London, despite the fact he had attended Eton and Cambridge, despite the fact that he owned a castle  ⦠he wasnât considered worthy to as much as glance at their daughters. Although, to be fair to the harpies of the ton, that might be more due to his reputation as the Doomed Duke than to his Highland roots.
The irony was, it hardly mattered. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife on the marriage mart. A man with his pedigree did not hunt for a wife at all.
If there was anything in this whole debacle he regretted, it was that.
Why she came to mind just then, his angel, he had no clue.
She was nothing but a dream, a drug-induced hallucination. She wasnât real.
For the rest of the journey, Lachlan struggled to wipe all thoughts of her from his mind. He needed to focus on the coming confrontation. He needed to be on point. He ran through his arguments in his head, planning and replanning what he would say to Dunnet and in which particular tone.
It didnât help that all the while, Dougal incessantly peppered him with ominous warnings about dark betrayals, poisonings, and the propensity Scots had for tossing their enemies from the ramparts with impunity.
When Lochlannach Castle appeared in the distance, Lachlan stared at it. It was enormous and grand, with stately silver spires reaching for the sky. Situated at the curve of the bay, as it was, it was an impressive sight. He tried to ignore the lance of displeasure that Dunnetâs castle wasnât a pile of rubble.
By the time they pulled into the bailey, Lachlan was ready. Ready to go to war.
He wasnât in the mood for pleasantries. It was irritating then that Dunnet had gone to the trouble to prepare a grand welcome. When he emerged from his carriage, he was greeted by the skirl of the pipes and the curious stares of Dunnetâs peopleâit seemed as though each one of his clansmen had turned out.
The baron himself stood at the front of the crowd, looking lordly and proud in full formal kilt. For some reason, Lachlan found it irksome, this not-so-subtle reminder that Dunnet was a Scot, and Lachlan, to his mind, was not.
The man was tall, taller than Lachlan, which was saying something, but he was brawnier and harsher by far. He exuded all the wildness of Scotland and then some. His hair was long and dark, his features sharp and craggy, and there was a
Similar Books
