Return of the Scot

by Eliza Knight

  Was he a pauper now, too? What other reason could Gille have had to sell the property than for want of money? A vein pulsed in his temple as he wondered about the fate of his other properties and the fortune he’d left behind. Lorne closed his eyes to breathe in deep. This was not the homecoming he’d expected, not by half.

  But at least he was in his home country. As bad as this news was, it didn’t compare to the hell of France. And he had the freedom to undo what his idiot half-brother had wrecked.

  “We’ll fix this.” Lorne gritted his teeth. “I’ll fix this. Send for my solicitor in Edinburgh. Immediately.”

  “Aye, Your Grace. Right away.”

  “And ready a bath in my chamber. Or is that also no longer mine? Dear God, is the new owner here?”

  Mungo thankfully shook his head.

  “We’ll make up another room for ye right away for your bath and then prepare your chamber for tonight.” Mrs. Brody, roused from her faint, came toward him. She’d been the castle’s housekeeper for as long as he could remember, ever since he was a bairn. Since Lorne was motherless, Mrs. Brody had stepped in to clean up his scrapes. She touched his cheek, squinting as she stared into his eyes. “Is it really ye?”

  “Aye.” He smiled softly, feeling emotion tighten his throat.

  She nodded, pressed her lips together, and blinked away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “Welcome home, Your Grace. We’re all happy to have ye back.”

  Lorne cleared his throat, standing tall and glancing at the people he loved most, there in support of him. “Thank ye, Mrs. Brody. Mungo. Everyone. Ye’ve no idea how much I’ve longed for this moment. Albeit under different circumstances.” He let out a short laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

  “As have we all. Lassies,” Mrs. Brody clapped her hands, “a bath for the master and a hot meal.” She glanced behind him. “And dredge up some of his old clothes that Gille had sent to the attics.”

  Gille had his things removed? Of course, he had. Gille had thought him dead. That still didn’t explain what possessed his brother to abandon their heritage. Nor did it explain what had happened while Lorne had been gone.

  Shortly, he would get to the bottom of this predicament. As the people around him moved in swarms, the exhaustion he’d felt on the road swooped in tenfold, and he gripped the wall to keep from swaying.

  Mrs. Brody ushered him up the stairs and into a guest chamber. He could only assume that Gille had taken his room—well, the new master now, he supposed. And just as well. He couldn’t blame his half-brother for believing him dead, for assuming the title and taking what he thought was rightfully his.

  But he did blame him for selling their birthright. For absconding with the ancient sword that belonged to Lorne.

  Gille had always been jealous of him. Once in a fit of rage, he’d mentioned that he no longer wanted to be in Lorne’s shadow. The comment had confused Lorne, for he’d always considered his brother to be his close confidante, despite there being five years between them.

  When Lorne was a wee lad, his mother passed from a fever and his father had remarried a bonny lass—Catharine. She’d been sweet and kind to him, and Lorne had loved her. But she’d died soon after birthing Gille, and their father never remarried, often lamenting that two wives gone in half a decade only meant a third would also be sent to an early grave.

  Lorne walked to the window and glanced out over the back garden and the sea beyond. The beach where he’d played with his brother, taught him to swim. To skip rocks. Despite their having different mothers, Lorne had always considered Gille to be his full brother. Loved him as such.

  “Thank ye, Mrs. Brody.”

  “Och, but there is no need to thank me, Your Grace.”

  Lorne glanced over his shoulder at the older woman, who fretted with the corner of the bedspread.

  “I thank ye all the same.”

  She opened her mouth and closed it several times before saying, “Well, ’tis my duty, that’s all. I’m just grateful ye’re alive and have returned.”

  Lorne grinned and turned back toward the garden and the lush maze he and his brother had raced through countless times. The same maze where he’d first kissed a lass… Beside it was a graveyard full of beloved animals. Gille had begged their father to bury his favorite dog there, right beside the warhorse their father had taken into battle. The memories made his heart twinge. When at one time it had been the three of them against the world, now he was the only one left standing in this castle that was no longer his.

  Where the hell are ye, Gille?

  It was hard to imagine that this was what Gille wanted. That he could be so filled with hurt and anger, he would want to leave it all behind.

  When their da died in a hunting accident three years prior to Lorne leaving for France, he’d asked Gille to work with him on maintaining their holdings. To be a part of the clans’ daily processes, the judgments. But Gille wanted nothing to do with any of it.

  Instead, his brother became quite adept at racking up gambling debts and had a string of scorned lovers, along with their angry fathers, knocking down Lorne’s door. Lorne had done his best to keep them all appeased. Paid off debts. Got his brother out of many a scrape.

  Lorne finally had to draw a line, hoped that taking Gille in hand would bring the man to some sense. But his plan backfired. When a local lord had come to claim the coin Gille lost at Edinburgh’s gambling tables, Lorne had denied the payment, and his brother had been arrested. Lorne could still hear him shouting, “I’ll never forgive ye for this. Ye’ve betrayed me. A curse on ye! Ye’re no brother of mine!”

  Lorne had ignored the words of an angry lad. But perhaps he should have listened. He hoped his actions would have taught his wayward brother a lesson, that he would return to Dunrobin a new man, a matured young lord. That was not the case, it seemed.

  Was this Gille’s revenge—getting rid of what he knew Lorne loved?

  A bevy of servants carried in a large tub, then poured bucket upon bucket of steaming water inside. Mungo remained behind to assist in his bath, but Lorne sent him away. He wasn’t ready yet to reveal the scars on his body from his suffering. Over the weeks, the bruises had faded. His tormentors had been kind in leaving him with all his fingers, toes and teeth, but they’d not been so kind in other ways.

  Lorne tossed off his clothes and climbed into the tub. He leaned his head back on the rim. The last time he had a warm bath might have been the last time he was home—two years shy of a decade, when it had felt as if his world was falling apart. The very reason he’d accepted his commission overseas. A time he preferred not to remember.

  A soft knock interrupted his darkening thoughts. Mungo entered, carrying a tray of food that smelled as though it had come straight from the king’s finest chef. He set the food on the table, then handed Lorne a cup smelling of spirits.

  “Nay, thank ye,” Lorne said, pushing the liquor away, even as he sank deeper into the water to keep his scars hidden.

  “Drink. It’ll make hearing the truth no’ sting as much.”

  Lorne didn’t have the energy to argue. He downed the dram in one swallow. “What else do ye have to say, Mungo?”

  “As I mentioned, Gille sold the castle.” Mungo moved to the far wall, leaning against the stones outlining the window.

  “My hearing is just fine.” Lorne massaged his temples.

  “He has also absconded with the funds, my laird.”

  Lorne gritted his teeth, having surmised as much. “Has he sold my other holdings as well?”

  “I’m no’ certain, but your solicitor will be able to tell ye more. I’ve already sent a man to summon him.”

  “Who owns my castle?” Lorne bit out, imagining some pompous windbag coming in and desecrating the place that had been in his family for generations.

  “J. Andrewson, my laird.”

  Andrewson. Lorne tried to hide how startled he was at hearing the name, but water sloshed over the side of the tub. It fell into the grooves be
tween the wooden planks of the floor in long, wet lines. Was his past coming back to haunt him—or was it just a coincidence?

  “That is a common name, is it no’?” Lorne asked hopefully.

  “Aye, Your Grace. I’ve a cousin in Edinburgh by that name.”

  “No’ J?” Lorne asked, half-jesting.

  “No relation, I swear it.”

  So, it was possible it did not belong to that family of which he did not want to think about, the one he’d separated himself from, though he hated the coincidence of it.

  “When does Mr. Andrewson take residence?”

  “He has no’ said, sir. But he did mention we could stay in the meantime.”

  Lorne jerked forward, hands on the rim of the tub, as he met Mungo’s gaze. “Does that mean there is an expiration date on everyone’s occupancy? That I am at his mercy, accepting charity from a stranger?”

  “There were no specifics.” Mungo glanced toward his boots. “But some of the clan have already found work with relations, and others are making preparations. The clan is worried, my laird. I’d no’ wanted to tell ye this so soon after ye’ve returned, but I did no’ think it could wait.”

  “Ye’re right. I will write to Mr. Andrewson straight away. Fetch me paper, ink and quill.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Mungo headed for the door, but Lorne stopped him. “I will fix this.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  “Tell everyone no’ to…worry.”

  “I will. We trust ye. And know that ye have only to ask anything of us, and we’ll see it done.”

  As soon as Mungo was gone, Lorne dried off and dressed. He’d not worn a plaid in years, and the feel of being unrestricted on his legs was a welcome comfort to the tight breeches he’d worn when confined. The shirt, however, was snug nearly everywhere and made up for the comfort of his kilt exponentially.

  Mungo came back with the writing implements as Lorne was finishing up his food and downing a mug of ale.

  “Do we have a new cook?”

  “Nay, Your Grace.”

  “Huh,” he mused. “Well, send my compliments.”

  “Aye, I will. Will there be anything else?”

  “Join me.” He indicated the empty chair opposite him. “There’s plenty here for us both.”

  Mungo looked as if he was about to hesitate. “Master Gille did no’…”

  “I am no’ my brother, and whatever heinous acts he wrought on ye, on anyone else, can no’ have erased how I treated ye in the past. I might be a duke, but that does no’ mean I’m no’ one of ye. Ye’re my oldest friend, Mungo. Sit. Drink. Tell me what I have missed, besides my…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to mutter the word “brother” anymore. Not when Gille had done just about the worst thing Lorne could think of. “Besides the most recent shift of ownership, which I will soon rectify.”

  While Mungo spoke about the thriving crops, the new pier on their beach giving them access to the North Sea and the marriages and deaths that Lorne had missed, he imagined the many ways in which he’d surprise his half-brother. The dangerous smile he’d flash at Gille. The way he’d like to take his sgian dubh from his long sock and use it to peel back the skin from Gille’s arms slowly. How he’d flick the flesh to rabid dogs if any were near.

  When his bloodlust seemed mostly quenched, then he imagined what he’d say to Mr. Andrewson to convince him that reversing the sale without the funds readily available to compensate him would be in the man’s best interest. That part proved harder to imagine than the many ways he would torture Gille for his treachery.

  “Then we discovered the sword gone,” Mungo said, and Lorne realized he’d missed what the man had been talking about.

  “Why would he take it?”

  “We all thought to put at his new residence.”

  But Lorne didn’t believe it. Nay, his brother wanted to make sure his betrayal hit Lorne hard. Selling the family seat was a knife to the throat, but stealing the family relic was twisting that knife. But that didn’t make sense because, at the time, as far as everyone knew, Lorne was dead.

  Lorne gritted his teeth. He’d left one hell only to fall into another.

  2

  One week later

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  * * *

  Jaime leapt to her feet at the sound of a knock at the door, followed by her butler entering the drawing room.

  “Miss Andrewson, pardon my interruption.”

  “Aye, MacInnes?” She wiped at her lips to make certain she didn’t have any stray crumbs.

  “There is a gentleman here to see ye, my lady. He has asked me to give ye this.” He held out a silver tray with a crisp white envelope on it, addressed to “Sir Jaime Andrewson.”

  Sir? She rolled her eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time some ignoramus thought her to be a man.

  “He does no’ know I’m a woman?”

  “Nay, miss, and given he did no’, I have yet to correct him.”

  Thank heavens for small favors. “What would I do without ye?”

  MacInnes nodded, his lips twitching into the only grin he’d give her. The man had been with her family since she was a lass, and she looked up to him as though he were an uncle rather than her servant.

  She took the envelope, running her thumb over what looked like a hastily scrawled script.

  “Shall I wait for your reply?”

  Jaime hesitated. “He is downstairs?”

  “Aye. ”

  “Please wait, then.” Breaking the unstamped seal, Jaime pulled out a card that said “Lorne Gordon, Duke of Sutherland.”

  “Impossible.” Jaime swayed on her feet, grabbing the back of a chair to steady herself. She lifted her gaze to MacInnes. “Did ye recognize him? Or is it an imposter?”

  MacInnes nodded. “’Tis the former Duke of Sutherland. Well, the rightful duke, I suppose.”

  “How?”

  “A miracle?” MacInnes kept his face blank of any expression.

  “There is no such thing as miracles. Men do no’ die and come back to life, MacInnes. He was never dead. The entire thing has been a great farce played on all of England and Scotland, which I would no’ put past him, given his propensity for falsehoods.”

  MacInnes did not answer but patiently waited as she resumed her pacing, the card crumpled in her fist.

  He was supposed to be dead.

  Jaime stared down at the letter in her trembling hand, trying not to toss it into the fire.

  How in Hades could a dead man be paying her a call?

  Why now? Dead for two years, and just as she was about to complete what she’d been working toward, he’d decided to show his face.

  Oh, dear heavens—had her sister run into him? Jaime had gifted her sister and nephew Dunrobin Castle a week or so ago, and they’d left right away, though she still held the deed in a locked drawer in her office. Had poor Shanna been subjected to a specter? Was that why her sister had failed to report on the castle in the Highlands? She’d sworn to write Jaime as soon as they arrived. That had been days ago.

  Jaime paced her drawing room, certain she would wear a path into the beautiful silk Persian rug in light blue, gold and rose medallions.

  Lorne Gordon, the Duke of Sutherland—former duke—alive? No. His title had been given to his half-brother upon his death. She’d read all about it in The Edinburgh Advertiser. The only Duke of Sutherland was Gille Gordon.

  There had been some kind of mistake. Lorne was supposed to be dead. She scoffed.

  This was a cruel trick. A scam from someone jealous of her. Someone who wanted her out of the way, perhaps to sabotage all she’d worked for these past years. MacInnes was getting older; his eyes must have deceived him.

  Without a doubt, purchasing the Highland castle had been about revenge. Revenge against a dead man who’d scorned her family. She’d felt satisfaction in holding the deed to his home. Despite her motivation, the move had brought about something else—her plans to build a great port in the n
orth to expand the Andrewson shipping company.

  So why did she feel so awful right now?

  Wasn’t revenge supposed to feel better than this? It was supposed to leave a gleaming satisfaction that rippled through the veins and a permanent smile on the face of the victor.

  Scowling, Jaime marched over to her teacup and sipped. Drat, it had gone cold. She set her teacup down and stared out the window overlooking the city of Edinburgh. The day was overcast, but she could still see a parade of noble ladies taking constitutionals in Charlotte’s Square. Aye, perhaps it would have been better for Jaime to have her residence near the Port of Leith, closer to her father’s—nay her—shipping company.

  But why should she not be in the center of high society? New Town was all the rage for those who thought themselves too good for everyone else. And Jaime took a perverse pleasure in snubbing her nose at those of the Scottish ton. How dare they tell her she did not belong? Now, here she was in a house sought after by many, she being the highest bidder.

  Her walls were papered in robin’s egg blue silk with silver-trimmed flowers in a deep rose, and the crystal chandeliers sparkled when they caught the light. The furniture was the most fashionable, and the walls were covered with artwork that she’d slowly acquired since she’d learned the value of a fine piece as a girl of thirteen. Her cook was the finest in Scotland, her servants discreet, and her butler served as a faithful bodyguard.

  And yet, profound loneliness still filled her.

  With Shanna and Gordie no longer here, and her parents passing years ago, the house was very quiet. Jaime herself had never married. Not for lack of her mother and father trying to attach her to a man. But she always had a troublesome time with the opposite sex. Her mother’s attempts at seeing her married at the appropriate age were humiliating, at best. With a sharp tongue, a desire to be independent and a mind for business, Jaime was not a prime catch for men looking for a fashionably docile wife.

  When her father passed away, leaving her in control of Andrewson Shipping Company, Jaime threw herself enthusiastically into the business.