Lana and the Laird by Sabrina York Page A

his eye. “I am Lana Dounreay, daughter of Magnus Dounreay, Baron of Reay, and sister to the Baroness of Dunnet.”
    As impressive as this pedigree was, this man was not impressed. In fact, he snorted. “Well, Lana Dounreay, daughter of Magnus Dounreay, Baron of Reay, and sister to the Baroness of Dunnet, what are ye doing out here all by yourself?”
    She glanced meaningfully at her plate.
    â€œâ€™Tis a shame for a wee dove like you to be alone.” He edged closer. His energy darkened.
    Lana had no doubt where this was heading and she didn’t want to go there. So she stood to head back to the kitchens, where it was safe.
    As she did, he grabbed her arm, stopping her in her tracks. “Doona go.” Not a suggestion. More of a command. She didn’t like being commanded so she pulled her arm free and headed toward the portico leading to the castle. He followed.
    Mercy. She did not want to stab him with her fork—she deplored violence above all things—but she would, if he didn’t leave off.
    But before she could make her escape, he grabbed her again and whipped her around, into his arms. Her plate went flying, but she had the presence of mind to keep hold of the fork. As she hit his chest, she poked him. To her consternation, he glanced at the inadequate weapon and laughed. “Yer a wild one, are you no’?”
    â€œLet me go,” she snarled, pushing away.
    â€œI think not, my dove.” His tone made her belly roil, made the blood in her veins go icy. He pushed her back until she hit the stone walls of Lochlannach Castle, and then he closed in on her, pressing against her. His body was hard and gouged her uncomfortably, but that was nothing compared with the discomfort that shot through her at his expression.
    His breath washed over her face. She turned away as he came in for a kiss. He growled his displeasure and captured her chin in his hard hand, forcing her to face him. His hold was so brutal, she worried there would be bruises in the morning. “It would behoove you to be nice to me,” he said. “I am an important man.”
    â€œRelease me at once,” she demanded.
    His chuckle rippled through her. “Or what, pretty dove? Will you gore me again with your fork?”
    She did just that. It amused him. Or maybe not. His hold on her tightened. “Little lady, the world is changing. Your father, your brother-in-law, every man who has kept you safe will no’ be able to do so in the future. ’Tis men like me you will turn to.”
    Good lord. Never.
    He narrowed his gaze and came in again, holding her still as he prepared to kiss her. Lord in heaven above, she’d never wanted so much not to be kissed. It was a pity she couldn’t wriggle free.
    â€œDougal!” An incisive voice rang off the walls, and the man blocking her in leaned back and glared over his shoulder. Lana peeped, too, and relief gushed through her as the duke stepped into view, a stern frown on his countenance.
    Ah, but it was more than a stern frown, wasn’t it? It was a hint, a whiff of him . Of the Scottish warrior from her dream. His expression, the fire in his eyes, the savage jut of his chin. It sent a resonance, a shudder through her.
    The duke set his fists to his hips and pinned this Dougal person with a glower. “What the hell are you doing?”
    Lana took the chance to wriggle free. It was a relief to escape the beast’s hold.
    Dougal grinned cockily. “Stealing a kiss, is all.”
    The duke glanced at her, at the fork held tight in her grip, and a muscle bunched in his cheek. “We are guests here,” he said in something of a snarl.
    Dougal forced a laugh, though Lana could hear the tension in it. “’Twasn’t nothing,” he said, but his glance at Lana was sharp, and in it, a warning. Keep silent.
    Bluidy hell. She would not be warned. She would not be silent.
    â€œKeep yer distance,” she barked at