Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York Page A

benign smile on his lips and turned the topic. “So, Miss Dounreay, have you always had this gift?”
    â€œOch, nae. When I was a wee lass, I fell through the ice in the loch.” She shuddered, as though in the grips of a terrible memory. He could only imagine. “I dinna drown, but it was dead winter and after the dunking, I developed the ague. A raging fever.” She flicked a look at him. “I think I did die then. I dreamed of angels singing. And when I woke, the first person I saw was my mother, standing over my bed.”
    â€œYour mother?”
    â€œShe died when I was three. She told me everything would be all right. It would always be all right. And I believed her. Since then…” She lifted her arms to encompass the room, or the castle, or possibly the world. “They are everywhere.”
    He nodded, unsure what else to do. “Scotland is filled with ghosts.”
    She snorted. “You doona know the half of it.”
    â€œIt seems like a useful ability.”
    â€œAt times. At times it is something of a curse.”
    â€œAh.” He could relate to the subject of curses. “Are there any ghosts here now? In this room?”
    She nodded. Her golden locks tumbled over her shoulders. Her fingers tightened. “Dermid is usually here.”
    â€œDermid?”
    â€œDunnet’s uncle. He was murdered.” She tossed this comment off with a nonchalance he should have found concerning.
    â€œDo you … do you know who murdered him?”
    Lana pressed her lips together and nodded. Lachlan had the sense that, though she knew, she would never tell. “He was really a horrible creature. He still is.” This last bit, she whispered.
    â€œHe sounds … unpleasant.”
    â€œExceedingly. I’ve been ignoring him. He’s fading.”
    â€œFading?”
    â€œAye.” She nodded and folded her hands in her lap. “If you give them no energy, they have no energy.”
    â€œI see.” He did not. “Is there anyone else here?” Surely there wasn’t one person in particular he was asking about.
    â€œYour mother is here.”
    Ah, yes. Yes.
    Lana’s expression softened and she murmured, “She’s always with you when you think of her.”
    Somehow, that simple statement cut through his ever-present maternal resentment and thawed his heart. He didn’t know why it felt so good.
    â€œShe’s verra proud of you, Lachlan.”
    It was wholly inappropriate for her to call him by his given name, but Lachlan could not have cared less. Indeed, he wanted to encourage her to do so.
    Beyond that, her words had knocked him askew. “Proud? Of me?” The woman who had heartlessly deserted him as an infant?
    â€œShe’s proud of the man you’ve become.” Lana’s nose wrinkled once more and she fluttered her fingers. At his cravat. “Although she’s not impressed with your costume.”
    â€œIs she not?”
    Lana leaned forward and whispered, “She’d rather see you in a kilt. Like your father.”
    Ah yes. Of course. Although his father didn’t wear a kilt when he visited at night. But then, who knew what the dress code in hell might be? Chains were definitely not optional.
    Lana tipped her head to the side and shot him a minxish smile. She was that, he decided, a minx, under her fierce exterior. “And she would like to hear you speak with a brogue again.”
    â€œA brogue?” Dear lord, he’d spent years trying to scour the burr from each and every syllable. Life was more pleasant at Eton when one wasn’t thrashed by the other boys on a daily basis.
    â€œI would be happy to coach you.”
    â€œI … ah … coach me?”
    â€œAye. While you are here, I can give you guidance. Explain how Scots think and act and, most important, why. Help you repair your ruined accent. Consult on your wardrobe.” Her expression became