frowned. Or Lachlan assumed it was a frown. A slightly more dour expression at least. "Ah. I see. I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace, but you have a visitor."

"A ... visitor?" Few visited Caithness Castle. If the desolation didn't deter them, the ghosts certainly did. With few exceptions, most of the servants had fled in the face of the nightly howls and suspicious "accidents." Residents of the nearby village, well aware of the family history, could not be induced to serve their duke in any capacity — especially now.

It was damn annoying.

McKinney cleared his throat. "'Tis the Baron of Olrig, Your Grace."

"Ah yes." Lachlan's belly sank. Upon his return to Scotland, and eager to launch his plans for the restoration of his crumbling holdings, he'd called hisbarons to Caithness Castle. Though he had been anxious to meet these men, his vassals, and issue his orders to their faces, he wasn't in the mood for an altercation today.

Thus far, the encounters had not gone well. Bower, Halkirk, and Wick had been truculent, and Dunnet ... well, Dunnet had been downright rude. He had simply stared as he listened to Lachlan's commands and then turned around and stormed away without a word. Indeed, his barons were a stubborn, cantankerous lot who didn't seem inclined to follow any orders at all.

No doubt this was a Scottish trait. Lesser lords in London seemed to understand the consequence of a duke, even a duke from the wilds of the Highlands. And while he was used to the thinly veiled