Lana and the Laird Read Free

said.
    Dougal reared back and gaped at him. “You mustna stop taking it. You need that medicine. The doctor said—”
    â€œGood lord, Dougal. I’m not sleeping anyway. And the laudanum … gives me bad dreams.”
    â€œBad dreams are better than no dreams.”
    No. They were not.
    They most decidedly were not.
    â€œYou canna stop taking it.” This Dougal muttered beneath his breath.
    Lachlan merely grunted—neither assent nor dissent. He would do as he pleased. He was the bloody duke after all. What was the point of being a duke if one couldn’t do what one wanted?
    â€œWe should consult another doctor,” Dougal insisted.
    Annoyance lanced him, and Lachlan lifted a finger. “Enough, Dougal.” Displeasure flickered over his cousin’s face and Lachlan offered a small smile to ease the sting of his command. “I have a visitor. I need to dress. Can you fetch Tully?” In London he would simply have rung for his valet, but if he tugged on a bell pull here, it would shred and flutter to the ground. He’d tried it.
    But Dougal didn’t go fetch Tully. Rather, he grumbled something beneath his breath and made his way to the wardrobe and began riffling.
    Lachlan frowned. “Where’s Tully?”
    Dougal cleared his throat. “ I will be dressing you today.”
    â€œWhere is Tully?”
    â€œTully, ah, quit.” This, Dougal said in a gruff voice. He tucked his chin so Lachlan couldn’t see his expression, but there was no need. He was pretty certain it was a pitying look. It so often was.
    â€œQuit?” Lachlan blinked away a sudden and surprising pain. Surprising, because he should be used to the desertion by now. All the servants he’d brought with him to Scotland had, one by one, fled the gloomy castle on the bluffs. But he’d thought Tully—the valet who had served him for years and was a veteran of the war—had been made of stronger stuff.
    Lachlan was used to feeling alone, but he had, at least, always had servants.
    â€œAye. Like the others … he dinna want to stay in a castle he swears is…” Dougal didn’t finish the sentence, but then he didn’t need to. Lachlan knew what everyone was saying.
    The castle was haunted.
    He couldn’t argue with them.
    The bloody thing was.
    Had he a choice, he would tear the hideous thing down brick by brick and build something new. Something modern. Something that didn’t creak and moan and wail. But he didn’t have a choice. His father’s ghost had been very clear. He must refurbish the castle. Redeem the family honor before he died. Leave something to speak for the generations of dukes who had ruled this land. Something magnificent …
    But damn, it was frustrating. Each time he made a stride forward, something set him back. A collapsed scaffold; workers who didn’t show up as promised, or who disappeared altogether. Sometimes it seemed as though the harder he tried, the more God fought against him.
    He should be used to that by now, too, God fighting against him.
    Dougal and McKinney were the only two who stayed loyal—ever at Lachlan’s side, encouraging him, cheering him on, leaping into the fray to help when something else went sour. He was lucky to have them. Without them, he would be utterly alone.
    Still, he grimaced at the costume Dougal pulled out. It was the standard garb a duke might wear in London, the tight breeches, embroidered tailcoat, and choking cravat. It was something he’d worn a hundred times—more—during his time in England. His uniform. And an onerous one at that.
    But now, now that he was here in Scotland, something in his soul rebelled.
    He’d always hated the constraints of his life, the demands, restrictions, the fucking politesse. He hated that a duke was expected to behave, to dress, to live according to specific conventions. Hell, he wasn’t allowed to sit where he