Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York Page B

severe. “We would have to spend much time together, though. There is much work to do.”
    Lachlan gaped at her. First of all, the thought of spending time with Lana Dounreay delighted him to the depth of his being. Second, here she was, this tiny thing, so sincerely, so sweetly, offering to turn him into a savage.
    Part of him yearned for just that, but he wondered if he had the courage to let go of his cold, staid, British persona. It had protected him well.
    â€œI shall certainly consider that.” And then, much more sincerely, because he couldn’t not, “Thank you, Miss Dounreay.”
    Her smile was his reward. That and the realization that, at some point in their conversation, she had loosed her hold on the dirk.
    Surely that was promising.
    Surely that meant at some point they might actually be friends.
    A flicker of denial whipped through him at the thought. Some part of his soul wailed no . It wasn’t friendship he wanted with Lana Dounreay. Not friendship at all.
    It was a pity that was all there could be.
    *   *   *
    How odd it was, sitting here in the library having an amicable conversation with a duke—and this duke in particular. Lana was relieved to discover he wasn’t the starchy aristocrat she’d originally thought. And she was gratified at his acceptance of her peculiarities. In fact, he seemed eager to discuss her gifts.
    It was heartening because, for one thing, it reassured her that her instincts hadn’t been so very wrong. And for another, she found she liked him. He was warm, sincere, and even charming. For the first time since they’d met, she had the sense that not only would she be able to help him, to reach him, she would want to.
    And while the true reason for their interaction had not yet been revealed, she had her suspicions. She was, in fact, convinced that she was meant to change his mind about his decision to clear the land. She wasn’t sure how she would accomplish this—he did seem to be a powerful, willful kind of man—but she had some ideas. And the fact that they had something in common, a trenchant belief in the spirits, made her optimistic he would be willing to be persuaded.
    She ignored the ping of regret that his advent in her life could not have been for another reason, that her long-held and secret hope was not to be miraculously granted. That he was not the man for her.
    She forced this inconvenient desire away and reminded herself of the ways of the world.
    He was a duke.
    She was a girl with no title or land or fortune. And she was far from pretty—certainly not as beautiful as her sisters.
    A duke would want—
    â€œMiss Dounreay?”
    She blinked as his captivating voice tore her from her ruminations.
    â€œAye?”
    â€œMay I ask you more about your gift?”
    â€œCertainly.” She was delighted that he asked. For one thing, it was an excellent diversion.
    â€œWhen you speak to the spirits … do you have … conversations?”
    â€œAh. Not with words, so much as thoughts and feelings. Visions, occasionally.”
    â€œVisions?”
    â€œAye.” It was far too complicated to explain, but the duke seemed to require no detail. His brow lowered and he tapped his lip as though deep in the coils of a quandary. She set her hand on his arm, ignoring his flinch. “Your Grace. What is it?”
    He glanced at her and she was struck again by the beauty of his eyes, a deep blue, fringed in long lashes. She wanted to sink into those eyes. Soak in them.
    He stared at her for a moment, his throat working. She didn’t speak, because she sensed he required silence to form his query. To rally his courage.
    â€œIf I were to pose a question of my mother, would you be able to give me her answer?”
    She didn’t understand the raw need beneath the words, but then, it wasn’t necessary for her to understand. She nodded. “If she is willing to