a disagreeable wraith took up residence behind the bookcase in his chambers and insisted on snarling invectives and tossing books at all hours of the night.

Lachlan didn't know what would have become of him if it hadn't been for Dougal and his father, Colin. Indeed, after the tragedy, it had been Uncle Colin who had taken charge of the five-year-old duke and raised him, whisking him from Scotland to London so he could take advantage of an education worthy of his station. And also, probably, so he wouldn't have to live in the castle that had driven his father mad. So he wouldn't have to live in the shadow of the Sinclair Curse.

But that was the thing about curses. They had a tendency to follow.

"Perhaps we should consultwith another doctor," Dougal said. Sometimes he could be relentless. He constantly worried about Lachlan's health, bless him. But Lachlan was tired of doctors. Tired of poking and prodding. Aside from which, he was certain his ailment was not of a physical nature. It was spiritual. Definitely spiritual. "If you canna sleep, perhaps you need a higher dosage."

Lachlan grimaced. The last thing he wanted was more of that foul mind-warping poison in his veins. "I was thinking of stopping it altogether," he said.

Dougal reared back and gaped at him. "You mustna stop taking it. You need that medicine. The doctor said —"

Lachlan merely grunted — neither assent nor dissent. He would do as he pleased. He was the bloody duke after all. What was the point of being