Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York Page B

savage scar tracking down one cheek. His brown eyes were solemn and steady.
    Lachlan reminded himself not to be taken in. It was those eyes that had made him want to trust Dunnet. It was that sincere and serious gaze that had fooled him before.
    â€œYour Grace,” he said. “Welcome to Dunnet.”
    When Dunnet introduced his wife, Hannah of Reay, Lachlan couldn’t help but feel a prick of envy. The delicate, dark-haired beauty was besotted with her husband. And Dunnet had her.
    All the things Lachlan wanted to the depths of his being—but couldn’t have—came so easily to this man, despite his treasonous heart.
    It hardly seemed fair. But then life never was.
    Although Lady Dunnet was adequately deferential, with a curtsy of the appropriate depth, Lachlan couldn’t miss the curl of her nose as she surveyed his person.
    Damn these Scots. He was sick unto death of their irreverence.
    Likely Dougal was right when he said he wouldn’t put it past them to murder him in his sleep or poison his food.
    â€œWon’t you please come in?” Lady Dunnet said with a thin smile. “I have arranged for some refreshments after your journey.”
    Ah yes. Poison indeed. Lachlan fixed his sharp gaze on Dunnet. “I need to speak with you immediately,” he said in a clipped voice. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable.
    Lady Dunnet’s lashes fluttered. Her lips worked. She was clearly put out at his refusal to be poisoned immediately upon his arrival. “Would you care to settle into your rooms first?” she asked.
    â€œNo.” He frowned at Dunnet. “Is there somewhere we may speak? In private?”
    Dunnet swallowed heavily—apparently he’d correctly interpreted Lachlan’s tone. “Of course. The library.”
    They made their way through the bailey and into the castle in silence. Lachlan’s aggravation rose with every step. Thoughts of Dunnet’s perfidy coiled through his heart and soul, further souring an already sour mood. Lady Dunnet followed them, and it occurred to Lachlan she intended to join them in their discussion.
    This surprised him, because most of the women of his acquaintance would never consider such a thing. Business was for the men and the men alone. Most women would understand this and make themselves scarce. Hie off and sip tea or embroider something.
    Not Lady Dunnet.
    As they reached the library, Lachlan turned to her and proffered a small bow. “Lady Dunnet. If you don’t mind.”
    Her face flushed, but the baroness nodded and backed away, although Lachlan didn’t miss her scowl. But really, this was for the best. The conversation he was about to embark upon was not for tender ears.
    With Dougal at his back, he strode across the cavernous library and took a seat at the desk. Dunnet took the chair across from him. True to form, the man was silent, but he simmered with a cocky bravado, one that made Lachlan’s nerves thrum.
    Dunnet’s man, a dour Scot with a mangled visage, brought whisky for all of them and then left; with his retreat, silence blanketed the room. Lachlan glanced at his glass and his nose curled as Dougal’s dire warnings about the Scottish propensity for poisoning enemies wafted through his head. He didn’t touch the drink. Adjusting his cravat, he leaned forward and said, in the gravest tone he could manage, “I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you, Dunnet.”
    For some reason, Dunnet smiled. Smiled. It was an irreverent offering that made Lachlan’s left eye twitch. “Disappointed, Your Grace?”
    Fury rocked him at the man’s moue of innocence. He was not innocent. Not in the slightest. Not if what Olrig had told him was true. But they would come to that … “First, your failure to respond to my order for the Clearances of Dunnet.”
    Dunnet’s eyes narrowed. “I did respond. My answer was nae .”
    Lachlan’s