Return of the Scot

by Eliza Knight

  “Scones?” Jaime narrowed her brows at him.

  Lorne held up a box of scones from his favorite bakery. “They are quite delicious, and I assure ye, no’ poisoned.”

  Jaime rolled her eyes and passed the box to her clerk. “Poisoning me would no’ get ye what ye want.”

  “Oh, currants.” Emilia had opened the box and was taking in a deep breath, licking her lips.

  “Ye’ll find a pot of cream inside as well.” Lorne nodded toward the box and then smiled down at Jaime. “Someone appreciates my gift.”

  “I want nothing from ye, except for ye to return to the grave.”

  He gave an exaggerated wince, and for a split second, she looked as if she regretted her words.

  “Och, that’s painful, J.” He liked watching the way her eyes widened at his use of her pseudonym, and he ignored the fact that she wished him dead. He had to remain on course if this was going to work.

  “Leave,” she said, then added, “please, Your Grace.”

  Lorne chuckled. “I’ve no intention of leaving just yet.”

  “If no’ to deliver scones, then what?”

  Now to deliver the speech he’d prepared on his ride over to the wharf. “I was curious, if I may confess, about your company.”

  “My company?” Jaime cocked her head to the side.

  “Andrewson Shipping?” Lorne spread out his hands, indicating their surroundings.

  She pinched her lips closed, opened them, and then pressed them closed again.

  When she still said nothing, he continued, “I thought ye might give me a tour of the docks.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  Heavens, but this was not going at all the way he’d planned. “Is this how ye treat all of your clients?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot. “Ye’re no’ a client.”

  “But I might be.”

  “And what would ye export?”

  “Well, ye must know Sutherland wool has been coveted around the world for the last six hundred years.”

  She didn’t flinch, which meant she was well aware, and it was likely one of the reasons she’d wanted to get her hands on Dunrobin. And it was lucky for him that a decade ago, he’d moved the majority of the flock and fleece company to his holding in Dornoch. Something she might not have anticipated when she’d purchased his family seat.

  “Why would ye use Andrewson?”

  “I’ve heard ye’re the best.”

  “Flattery will get ye nowhere.”

  “Is it flattery or a fact?” Hooking a thumb in his coat pocket, he leaned against the frame, blocking her exit but giving her room to retreat backward.

  “Fact.”

  He grinned, and she grimaced in turn.

  “Miss Andrewson, I could escort the duke around the docks if ye wish,” her clerk said.

  Jaime looked ready to agree, but her words contradicted his observation. “I’ll do it. Mind, it will be quick. Come on, Your Grace.”

  She shooed him, and Lorne wondered if she would put her hands on him to shove him forward—thought about waiting long enough to see if she would. But the pained expression on her face was enough to have him moving. Why did she hate him so much?

  Sure he’d broken off the engagement with her sister, resulting in humiliation for all parties, but the deep-seated hatred within her seemed to go way beyond that. Perhaps one day, she’d find out the truth about Shanna. He could blurt it out right now, but he was certain she wouldn’t trust his word over her sister.

  “This way.” Jaime marched forward.

  He followed, watching the way her shoulders squared, and as much as she tried to be militant in her departure, there was an enticing sway to her hips that he could not ignore.

  That gentle rocking drew his eye to her arse in the soft green gown she wore with a plaid bodice. A working gown, but it didn’t matter if it wasn’t made to entice—for it was her, and not the fabric, which drew his attention. And that was a problem. Lorne hurried to walk beside her.

  Jaime glanced over at him, that same pained and pinched expression she wore every time he was around her—well, today and yesterday. It was starting to grow on him.

  “What do ye really want, Sutherland?” she asked. “Ye’re no’ a delivery lad. And I’m no’ fool enough to believe ye would use my shipping company for your exports, breaking off a long-standing partnership with your current export company, especially given our present circumstances.”

  They rounded the corner, and the docks came into view. Massive ships rocked in the quay, their high masks stabbing at the sky and their sails tied down tight. Men teemed, carrying crates and barrels. Hammering, chiseling. Busy with all that kept her company running. The salty scent of the wharf was stronger as a breeze blew in off the water.

  Lorne glanced sideways at Jaime, watching her expression soften as she took in the docks, her ships, her employees. There was pride in her face, a satisfaction that he could understand. And it made him long to be back at Dunrobin, to be back in the fields with his crofters. To be right there in the thick of everything that made the lands thrive. He might have been born a duke, but he was no stranger to work, and he’d never been one to shun the working men who made his entire existence possible. Nay, he leapt right in there with them.

  In fact, he wouldn’t have minded right then and there, rolling up his sleeves and—

  A shout came from their side as two men worked to carry a precarious crate and wavered on their feet, slanting sideways as if they were going to fall. The box started to tip.

  Lorne dove into action, picking up the leaning side until the men were steady on their feet. It’d been an age since he’d worked his muscles, and though he strained, his body remembered what it was made for, and he held onto the weight, waiting until they were ready for him to release it.

  “Good God, what is in this?” he asked, the weight of the crate all centered on that one side rather than evenly distributed. Probably had happened in the way they lifted it and was the fault of whoever had done the packing.

  “None of your concern,” Jaime quipped, waving over another dockhand to take Lorne’s place.

  “Thank ye, Your Grace,” the men speaking the words their mistress did not seem able to utter.

  Lorne nodded and stepped out of their way as they continued on the path toward the ship, struggling as they went.

  “I should help them,” he said.

  “They’ll manage.” But as she said it, the three of them wavered again, only this time they were amidst their men, who hurried forward to help them settle the awkward haul.

  Lorne raised a brow at her, but she ignored him. Why was she being so stubborn?

  “Listen, Your Grace,” Jaime said, turning to face him fully, though she stared at his forehead rather than meeting his eyes. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, and he watched its quick glide, trying not to be mesmerized. “I spoke with my solicitor this morning. He informed me that ye have the right to reverse the sale and return the funds to me for the deed. But I warn ye that I’ll fight it.”

  She looked so resolute that he almost didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t have a choice. “Ye’re verra stubborn,” he said softly.

  “I am determined. There is a difference.”

  “I recognize and admire that, for I’m the same way. But I have to ask, why?”

  Jaime’s chin lifted, her mouth clamped as tightly closed as an oyster. He waited a few moments, but she didn’t answer him, and he guessed at this rate she wouldn’t.

  “J, ye’d be the last man on the battlefield, fighting against enemies quickly closing in. Except too late, ye’d find out the ones ye were fighting against weren’t your enemies and that ye’d been stabbing a comrade in the back.”

  With those words and his irritation slowly boiling over, Lorne turned on his heel. This morning had not worked out the way he’d planned at all. Perhaps it would behoove him to pay her off and accept the loss. He’d find his brot
her eventually and squeeze out of the sapskull whatever remained from the sale.

  Mouth agape, Jaime watched the duke stride away, his shoulders broad and square, confidence oozing from every limb.

  What could he possibly mean that she’d stabbed a comrade in the back? As if they were friends. As if they should have been fighting a common enemy. He was not her comrade. He was mad. Touched in the head.

  But as she checked on her various ships and cargo, her mind kept drifting back to what Lorne had said. There had been real anger in his words and flashing in his soulful gray eyes. No. Not soulful. The man didn’t have a soul because he had sold it to the devil.

  Jaime instead rearranged her way of thinking and chalked up his reaction to being frustrated that she wouldn’t agree to give him back his precious castle.

  The more she thought of it, the more her mind, however, took wild turns. What if that weren’t the only reason he was so irate? Maybe it was because he already knew that Shanna was living in the castle. He’d not mentioned her when he came to her house the day before, but if his first stop after London had been Dunrobin, then surely, he would have run into her sister.

  Shanna, who had still not sent Jaime word.

  The messenger that Jaime had sent north should be returning in the next few days, and then she could rest easy that her sister was all right.

  Or she could ask Lorne if he’d seen her and settle her mind now that Shanna hadn’t been set upon by highway thieves.

  A prickle of nerves made her antsy on her feet. Maybe before returning to her house in Charlotte Square, she should first go to the duke’s residence and ask him.

  But would he even give her an answer after their latest encounter—probably not. She’d been rude to him since she’d set eyes on him the day before, and just as rude this morning. He owed her nothing, and from the interactions they’d been having, she wouldn’t be surprised if he would only give her the information she sought for a price.

  A price she wasn’t willing to pay.

  Under normal circumstances.

  But it wasn’t like Shanna not to send word, especially when Gordie was involved. And with such an extravagant gift given to her by Jaime. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Jaime’s sister had always been spoiled and not necessarily thankful when she thought she was owed something simply for being who she was.

  And in this case, Shanna would feel that way about Dunrobin. Which was probably why she’d not said thank you to Jaime, but she’d been appreciative in her way. Shanna had been through a lot over the last decade. It wasn’t easy to be shunned from society and bear the fruit of a man’s transgression.

  Father nearly had a heart attack when he’d found out—only a heavy dose of laudanum and twenty-four hours of sleep had ceased his shouting. Mother tried to get Shanna to have the child discreetly and give it away, but her sister had refused. In the end, the late Viscount and Viscountess Whittleburn, their parents, had shunned Shanna and her unborn child. She’d been sent away from the houses they occupied, allowed only to remain on a remote Irish property they owned, well away from both London and Edinburgh courts. Few servants had been there, and Shanna had been cut out of the will when their parents passed. It was only Jaime’s kindness that had kept Shanna from the poorhouse. And her child from starvation.

  Shanna had been disowned and essentially alone until their parents died not a year apart, her father from a heart condition, and her mother seemingly following in his footsteps. Jaime had immediately welcomed Shanna home and rejected the whispers of the women in high society. Though her father’s title and the family home had been passed on to her uncle, the shipping company had remained in Jaime’s hands, and she vowed to do right by her sister.

  Jaime bid her dockworkers farewell and headed back to her office to let Emilia know that she would be leaving for the day. Though the argument had slung itself back and forth in her mind, she’d finally settled on going to speak with the duke. To alleviate her nerves as far as Shanna’s whereabouts. It wouldn’t hurt. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It was the same motto she used in her business. And she wasn’t about to let his overbearingness get in her way.

  A short time later, Jaime sat in her carriage, staring out the window at the vast brick manse before her. The wrought iron gates with gilded spires. The Sutherland crest gleaned in the sun that peaked through the clouds.

  The duke’s house was every bit as grand as she remembered. She’d not been there since the night of the engagement ball, when she’d been on the cusp of her sixteenth birthday.

  Out the window of the carriage, she spied her groom shifting on his feet. Already, he’d tried to open the carriage door once, and she’d slammed it back shut. She wasn’t ready. But would she ever be?

  Likely not.

  Her fingers sweated in her gloves, and from all the work she’d been doing, she must look a mess. Wisps of her hair had come loose from her bun and were tickling her cheeks, no matter how many times she swiped them away. And now she’d sat there long enough that her carriage had drawn the eye of every passerby, as well as those who stared out their townhome windows watching every move on the street, especially where the duke was concerned.

  She could see what the papers would say now: Sister of Spurned Fiancée Stalks Duke.

  With an unladylike snort of disgust at herself, Jaime pushed open the door and stepped down on the walk, surprised that her legs didn’t tremble with nerves. A stray dog weaved between her and her groom, looking pitiful, and nearly skin and bones.

  “Poor hound. Put him up with ye, and we’ll see he’s taken care of. I will no’ be long,” she told her coachman. Jaime had always had a soft spot for strays.

  The iron knocker in the shape of a unicorn was heavy in her hand, but she didn’t yet let it fall. She was well aware she’d gone against the grain once more by not sending a calling card ahead. By not being issued an invitation. And even worse, by not arriving with a chaperone. All of which she didn’t care about. The duke had now shown up uninvited at her home and her place of work, so why shouldn’t she do the same? The papers were already wagging their tongues. What was one more bit of gossip?

  That thought cemented in her mind, Jaime let the knocker drop, hearing it thunder through the cavern of the inside of his house.

  A moment later, a man the duke’s age answered, examining her as if she were a rare species that he’d never encountered before. Dressed in a kilt and tails, he must be the butler.

  “Can I help ye?” he asked.

  “I’m here to see His Grace.”

  The man narrowed his eyes. “Is he expecting ye?”

  Jaime hesitated, shifting on her feet, aware of the eyes at her back. She wanted to lie but gave him the true answer. “No, but he’ll see me all the same.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, and he opened the door wider, stepping out of her way and sweeping his hand in a gesture for her to enter. Well, that was unexpected. She had truly expected him to slam the door in her face. Dukes did not take orders from mere lassies.

  “I’ll just let him know ye’re here.” The man sauntered off, leaving Jaime to stand in the grand foyer’s center, glare at the winding marble stairs to the upper floor. Polished wood floors covered in expensive rugs. Oil portraits of dukes and duchesses, ranging back hundreds of years. Overhead, a vast chandelier held two dozen candles, their wax dripping down the sides. The pure opulence and wealth in that entryway gave way to irritation. By taking the seat of his dukedom at Dunrobin, she’d still not robbed him. The man was rich beyond reason.

  “Miss Andrewson.” Lorne’s voice was soft, coming from somewhere in the shadows behind the stairs.

  He stepped out, rolling the sleeves that were halfway up his forearms back down in a gesture of propriety, but she couldn’t stop looking at the strength rippling along his exposed flesh in that brief moment. Dear heavens. There was a little flutter in her belly that she chalked up to nerves and nothing, absolutely nothing, else.

  Jaime cle
ared her throat, aware she should curtsy and not wanting to do it anyway. “Your Grace.” She settled on a slight bend of her neck.

  Lorne gave her a once over, his expression leaving his thoughts a mystery. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Pleasure? He was mad if he thought this visit was pleasant at all. His eyes danced as he came to stand a mere foot away from her. Aye, he appeared amused at her intrusion rather than irritated at seeing her again.

  “I had a question for ye.” Jaime tried to keep her voice confident. She laced her gloved fingers in front of her.

  He didn’t make a move to lead her into his drawing room or study but instead crossed his arms over his supremely muscled chest and stared down at her. How had he maintained his strength when he was “dead?”

  “Where were ye?” This was not the question she’d come to ask and had nothing to do with her sister, but curiosity had gotten the better of her. She let her gaze rove over his figure.

  “Imprisoned.” The word was curt, and all the merriment that had been in his eyes before she’d asked evaporated.

  He did not expound on the explanation, and she was too embarrassed at her forwardness to press. Her bringing it up had caused his mood to so swiftly change, leaving her with more questions. And worse—sympathy. The man must have been through purgatory. But why should she care?

  “Is that the reason ye came?”

  Jaime shook her head. “Nay, no’ at all.” She was getting flustered and hated that he was able to take away her wit so easily. Well, she might as well blurt the reason before he kicked her out on her ear. “Ye were at Dunrobin before ye came to Edinburgh, were ye no’?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at her. “What’s it any business of yours?”

  Well, this wasn’t going well at all. “I take that as an ‘aye.’”

  Lorne shrugged, moving from ire to indifference. “I choose no’ to say.”

  “Why?”

  “Many reasons.”

  Was one of those reasons Shanna, and the other Gordie? Well, she wasn’t leaving here without an answer. Jaime squared her shoulders and pressed on. “If ye did happen to be there, and for whatever reason, ye choose no’ to tell me, I would hope that ye would at least alleviate some worry I’m having.”