Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York

to the Highlands.” God he loved her vehemence. She was a wee wild thing and fierce in her passion. He couldn’t help but wonder if she was fierce in other passions as well. “You can pretend to be an Englishman all you like—”
    â€œI am not—”
    â€œDeny your birthright all you like—”
    â€œI am denying nothing—” Good God , she was insistent. Truculent. Exasperating. He had no idea why he liked it. For some reason, their exchange made his pulse ping, made his soul stir.
    â€œBut it is the plain truth.” She sat back and fixed him with a smile that might have been a little sad. “Your mother would want better for you. She would want you to be the man you were born to be.”
    Lachlan stilled.
    Again with his mother.
    And yes, again, the reference stunned him.
    But still, this was a perfect opening. One he couldn’t afford to ignore.
    â€œAh … My mother…?”
    She tipped her head and studied him. “Aye?”
    â€œYou … say you have met her?”
    She sighed. “Aye. I have.”
    â€œHer … spirit?” It was wise to clarify.
    â€œAye. Her spirit.”
    â€œDo you often … speak to the dead?”
    The sound she made was something between a grunt and a snort. “Every day.” Her tone was one of wary resignation. He studied her face, searching for any signs of madness. Her lashes flickered under his scrutiny. “Do you think me odd?”
    He disliked the tremor of her voice. The wobble of her chin. The flicker of insecurity in a woman who was otherwise dauntless. And suddenly Lachlan realized, if she indeed had this extraordinary talent, there were probably people who had reviled her for it.
    He would not be one of them.
    The bald fact was, if seeing ghosts meant one was deranged, then he was deranged right alongside her.
    It was a nice feeling to have something in common with another person. With her.
    He cleared his throat and searched for an appropriate response. He could come up with nothing except a simple, “No. Not odd. Not odd at all.”
    She set her hand on his. It sent a warm wave through to his being, but not so warming as her words. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Soft, sweet, and heartfelt. Her tone was far too relieved for comfort. He hated to think that she had gone through life worried how every person she met would react to her gift. He hated to imagine the rejection, the isolation she’d endured. Because in truth, he’d spent his life in isolation from the world. He knew how cold it felt. “It means so much to hear you say that,” she said. Then she leaned closer and confided, “Many people are afraid of me.”
    He winced at her wounded expression.
    â€œSome call me wicked.”
    Unthinkable. He couldn’t silence his burble. “What? Why?”
    She shrugged. “Obviously I must have made a deal with the devil.”
    â€œDid you?” He softened the question with a smile. There was nothing evil about this woman. She was nothing but light. And claws.
    â€œNo’ that I’m aware of.” This, she said with a decidedly wicked glint in her eye.
    â€œWell,” he said. “If you are wicked, I’m right there with you. I have seen a ghost or two myself, in my time.”
    She blinked. “You have?”
    â€œMy castle is quite haunted.”
    â€œOoh. I should like to visit it some time.”
    Her simple statement sent shards of excitement whipping through his body. He could envision her in his home, in his room, in his bed.
    The vision stole his breath.
    From where had this sudden and potent desire come?
    Oh, he wanted her, the way a man wants a woman, but there was more to it than that. This yearning went far deeper. It was a hunger, a need for camaraderie, connection. With her.
    It was far too painful to contemplate, because it could not be.
    It. Could. Not. Be.
    With great effort, he plastered a