grave and, ignoring the rain beating on the windows, the wind howling in the eaves, and the creeping shadows, he focused on the cross until the lamp grew dim.

* * *

"Lachlan."

Lachlan jerked awake gasping and clutching the arms of the chair with a savage grip. Apprehension chilled the blood in his veins. It took a moment for him to realize it wasn't the ghost waking him, but McKinney, the longtime steward of the estate. Even then, his heart thudded wildly.

He sucked in a calming breath as he stared up at McKinney's face, struggling for purchase. The old man dropped his hand from Lachlan's shoulder and stepped back, fixing his harsh features in a conciliatory arrangement. McKinney was far from a handsome man, but he was exceedingly loyal; he,like Lachlan's cousin Dougal, came from the MacBain sept, a line of men who had served the Dukes of Sinclair for generations. "Are ye all right, Your Grace?"

No. He was not. He was far from all right. His body was sheeted in sweat. Every muscle trembled. He forced a smile. "Yes. Thank you."

"Have you been here all night?" McKinney asked, his bushy brows rising. "Ye shouldna sleep here. Ye'll catch your death." Indeed, the corridor was drafty, courtesy of the myriad gaps in the old stone walls of the decrepit keep.

"I dozed off." And it had been a relief. Between the nightly visitations from his father and a recurring dream that hovered at the edge of his consciousness, he barely slept at all. It was wearing on him.

McKinney