Lana and the Laird Read Free Page A

wanted at a given dining table.
    The limitations of his life grated on him.
    Even more so now.
    Surely he had not expected, imagined, hoped that once he returned to his homeland he would somehow magically be free of all that?
    Ah. But perhaps he had.
    â€œCan we not find something not quite so…” He flourished a hand.
    Dougal’s brow lowered. “Not quite so what?”
    Constricting?
    â€œImposing?”
    The response was a wet snort. “You have to be imposing with these bastards. Impress them with your station—”
    â€œI’m a duke. I don’t need to impress anyone.”
    â€œYou yourself said they’ve been truculent.” Aye they had been. “These men are savages. They respond to one thing. Power. You must exude it.” Dougal whipped out the tailcoat and set it on the bed. The breeches and the cravat followed.
    Lachlan glanced away from Dougal’s intent stare and huffed out a breath. “All right.” But bedamned, when this meeting was over, he was dressing in something comfortable.
    He tried to hold still as Dougal shaved him, combed his hair, and dressed him in formal garb. All the while he couldn’t help thinking, as he had many times, he was not a patient enough man for such nonsense. He would much rather tug on a pair of breeks and a shirt and be on his way.
    But he couldn’t. He was a duke. There were expectations.
    Expectations that had been hammered into him since he was a boy.
    When all was finished, he struck a pose before the glass. A magnificent lord stared back. “How do I look?” he asked, though he knew.
    â€œFine. You look fine.” Dougal took the precaution of brushing the lint from his shoulders, although there was no lint.
    â€œIt seems a bit much for the wilds of Scotland,” he muttered.
    Dougal frowned. “It’s important that you make a proper impression on Olrig. He carries weight with the barons to the west, and you need their cooperation.”
    There was no good argument to that. Lachlan couldn’t tolerate yet another baron flouncing away without a word. He needed to fill his coffers so he could finish refurbishing this damn castle so his father could rest. And so could he.
    â€œYou know these Scots, Your Grace. They can be difficult. Campbell had a hell of a time convincing his barons to cooperate. Although I have no idea why. It makes perfect sense to rent their lands to sheep farmers. It is far more profitable.”
    Lachlan shrugged. “Scots don’t like change.”
    â€œAye. But you are the Duke of Caithness,” Dougal said as he tweaked one last pleat. “If they doona cooperate, you simply order them to do your bidding.”
    True, but somewhere deep within, Lachlan didn’t want to resort to orders or threats. He would much rather have his barons work with him willingly. Yes, he could order them all to comply—including Dunnet—but Lachlan preferred to ask first.
    And then, if they didn’t accede to his commands … then he would resort to threats.
    With one last glance in the glass and a minor adjustment to his cravat—surely not to loosen it a tad—Lachlan made his way downstairs. He sent Dougal to the kitchens to prepare a tray of tea and cakes. Though this task was below his station, they could not hire a maid from the village, and the cook preferred to bake her wares from home and have them delivered each day, rather than spend any time in the keep.
    The more he thought on it, the more Scotland befuddled him. Everything was so much more difficult here. Even a thing as simple as tea and cakes.
    It was most likely because Scots excelled at being difficult.
    The Blue Salon was the singular habitable chamber on the ground floor of the castle. It wanted cleaning, but it was warm and devoid of those chilling drafts, and it was bedecked with actual furniture—though the style was that of the last century.
    Lachlan swept in as dukes are