Return of the Scot

by Eliza Knight

  At least she’d been forced to drop her shield of the ledger book, and he hoped that meant she’d ditch the other armor she’d erected.

  “Ye had ink on your face, and now ye’ve just added some more. I was trying to help.”

  “Oh my goodness.” Flustered, she wiped at it again, only making the spot bigger until he had to stop her.

  Lorne grabbed her hand, turning her palm upright. “Look at your fingers. They’re covered in ink, and now your entire forehead is dyed black.”

  Jaime looked stricken, so he handed her the handkerchief.

  “I do no’ think this will help ye now. Ye need a good scrubbing, I wager.”

  She let out a frustrated growl and charged back toward her office. “I’m no’ a street urchin.”

  “I’d never mistake ye for one.” Lorne followed behind, allowing her a moment to get ahead of him to compose herself. Though he shouldn’t have, for once more, he was forced to watch her retreat, which was not a hardship. But he’d regret it later when the enticing swing of her hips haunted his dreams.

  Emilia sat at her desk, glancing up when he came in, then leaping to her feet as recognition hit. “Oh, Your Grace.” She made an awkward curtsy. “Can I get ye some tea?”

  “No, thank ye. And ye need not curtsy every time I come in,” he said softly. “I’m no’ the king, and ye are no’ my servant.”

  Jaime came back into the room, her face clean, but her cheeks flushed. “Ye’re still here.” The woman couldn’t have sounded any more disappointed.

  He grinned. “I am. I came to apologize, if ye recall.”

  “Ye already did that. So be about your way. I am busy, and ye are distracting me.”

  Good. He wanted to distract her.

  She stared at him expectantly, and he found himself at a loss for words. Jaime seemed to be the one woman in all the world who didn’t find him attractive or interesting. More like a nuisance, a fly she wanted to squash, and he found himself drawn to her because of it. And he shouldn’t be. He had to focus on his goal—getting his castle back, either by negotiation or marriage, but neither of these things seemed to be working. Mostly because he’d yet to try to negotiate beyond demanding she return it. And secondly, because a marriage between them was supposed to be a business transaction, yet he felt more and more unbusinesslike every time he saw her.

  “Can we speak in private?” he asked.

  Jaime glanced at her clerk, who tried to make herself seem busy. “Anything ye have to say to me can be said before my witness.”

  “Your witness?” Lorne raised a brow at her choice of words as if he were about to do her harm.

  “Aye. We are at legal odds, are we no’?”

  “Ah, well, that is true. But what I have to say has nothing to do with that. I’ve no intention to cause ye harm. I assure ye, this is a quite personal matter.”

  Jaime’s mouth formed a little O before she clamped it shut. “In that case, I must insist that whatever it is ye want to say to me, ye say in front of my clerk. I do have a reputation to keep.”

  Lorne tensed. Had she already heard the rumors of the gentlemen’s bet? “As ye wish. I came to tell ye that there is a wager going around town of a rather delicate nature, involving both of us. And I did no’ want ye to find out about it before I had a chance to tell ye that I have no intention of doing what they say and that I have put an end to the bookmaking.”

  “What is it they are wagering?” She narrowed her brows at him, and once more, that ledger book came up like a shield.

  “That I will…” How exactly could he put this in a delicate way? Och, the hell with it. Jaime Andrewson was no gentle miss, and she wouldn’t appreciate his gentler insinuations. “Seduce ye.”

  Jaime laughed, the ledger falling as her head tilted back, and she seemed to roar with every part of her. She tossed the book onto her desk so she could wipe the tears from her eyes. Lorne wasn’t certain if he should be offended or not. He thought it was likely he should be.

  “It takes two in a seduction, Your Grace.” All the laughter left her, that serious, no-nonsense expression back. Lord, but she would make a great governess, keeping all the little hellions in line. “The seducer and the seduced. And ye can trust that I have no intention of being seduced by ye. I plan to stay as far away from ye as I can. Ye’ve said what ye came to say, now leave.”

  But Lorne wasn’t going to be deterred, as much as she had insulted him just now. He rather found it charming. “In that case, I suppose ye do no’ want this invitation.” He pulled the envelope from his coat pocket that he’d decided to deliver this morning personally.

  “What is it for?” She put her hands behind her back as if that would somehow force herself not to reach for it.

  “I’m hosting a ball.” Of all the godawful things he could have surmised in his scheme to gain her favor.

  Jaime screwed up her face, peering up at him, as shocked as he felt when he’d agreed to host one—though it had been a wager gone wrong in the ring with Alec Hay. More wagers… However, the more Lorne thought about it, the more the idea had grown on him. A ball to show everyone he was well and hearty; a ball to show he was still wealthy despite his missing brother and the woman before him stealing his birthright. A ball to stop all the gossips from guessing about him and to truly see what he was about. And now, of course, a place for the two of them to be seen together and show that he was not seducing her.

  “Why are ye inviting me?” She refused to take the offered envelope, folding her hands in front of her hips to keep them still.

  Her question was valid, and the answers he’d run through his mind this morning while Mungo gave him a shave mostly made sense to him. Mostly.

  “I thought perhaps if people were to see us avoiding each other at the ball, the rumors of my supposed seduction would temper down.” This, of course, was not the original idea, as he’d not even known about the wager until after the invitations had been written. But what she didn’t know couldn’t sway her.

  “So this is for your reputation, then, Your Grace. Clever of ye to disguise it as protecting mine.”

  Lorne was taken aback. “This is no disguise. I care no’ so much for mine, but for yours.”

  “So because ye’ve already ruined one Andrewson lass, ye hope to save the next one?” She let out a snort that would make a lesser man’s ballocks fall to the floor.

  Lorne, however, only grew irritated. He’d reached out to her repeatedly, yet she continued to jab him with a metaphorical stick. “The only one who ruined your sister was herself.” He thrust the envelope toward Jaime. “Come or do no’, I couldn’t care less.”

  Jaime reached for the envelope, taking it with a crisp snatch, more out of instinct than wanting what he offered, he suspected. “I will no’ attend. Consider that my response, Your Grace.”

  Lorne let out a short, bitter laugh. “One day, Jaime, perhaps no’ until ye’re old and gray, ye’ll realize the mistake ye made when ye considered me your enemy.”

  Lorne nodded to Emilia. “Good day, Miss Butler.” Then he turned for the door, but Jaime halted his steps with her words.

  “Ye’ve got to stop leaving me with cryptic messages. I rather tire of our verbal sparring, and I suspect ye must as well. Out with it, Lorne.”

  But he wasn’t ready to do her any favors. Without even turning around to address her, he said, “If we are no’ to be friends, then ye may address me as ‘Your Grace.’”

  Jaime, ignoring his snobbish retort, said, “How can we be friends with all that’s passed between us?”

  Lorne did look at her over his shoulder then, raising a single brow. “There has been no exchange between us, Miss Andrewson. My past dealings with your family did no’ concern ye. And the shady dealings ye had with my brother did no’ concern me as both of ye assumed, or rather greedily hoped, that I remained dead. I have come to make amends for whatever transgressions ye took so personally, and yet ye persist in forcing the issue of animosity between us. I see no furthe
r need to continue. From now on, ye will address my solicitor with any of your concerns.”

  Jaime looked stricken, and the guilt he felt at hurting her feelings stung inside his chest. But why should he care? She’d been nothing but rude, wishing him dead every time he’d seen her. Snatching his apology and stomping on it with the heel of her boot until his words held no meaning.

  This was not the welcome home he’d wanted. And at his ball in a few days, he’d set the record straight where she was concerned.

  The crisp white envelope on her dressing table taunted Jaime.

  She’d set it there after coming home from the wharf, watched it from the corner of her eye as she’d undressed and brushed her hair. It appeared to glimmer in the candlelight as she took her bath, and now from the chair where she’d curled up to read a book, the invitation beckoned her.

  “Fine, I’ll read it,” she said to no one. Slamming her book closed—a gothic romance novel she couldn’t get enough of and read six times—she marched toward her dressing table and broke the duke’s seal on the back.

  In fine, delicate scroll, she was cordially invited to the duke’s homecoming ball. Of course, even if she wanted to go, she couldn’t, for she hadn’t a gown appropriate to wear to such an occasion. All the fancy frocks she possessed were so old she’d be laughed out of the imposing house before she was even announced. And she certainly wouldn’t show up in one of her day dresses or her working dresses.

  But there was Madame Yolande that Giselle had recommended and whom Jaime had an appointment with in the morning to make her a few new day dresses. Perhaps she could convince the modiste to fashion a new ball gown too.

  Och, but nay. That was preposterous. Jaime wasn’t going to attend the duke’s stupid homecoming ball. Especially not after what the duke had said in her office. She was only to address Lorne as “Your Grace” and only to correspond with him through his solicitor. That meant she couldn’t go to his ball. Wouldn’t be welcome in his home. If she did show up, she wouldn’t be surprised if he passed his punch to his butler and hauled her out of there like a sack of potatoes and, this time, tossed her rather than placed her on his front stoop.

  Except when he’d departed earlier in the day, he’d not snatched the invitation back after she accepted it. He’d left it with her as he stalked out of her office as if he owned the place. Head held high, broad shoulders exuding power. He’d made her feel small in the one place she felt large.

  Was the wager he’d mentioned true? Were the men of Edinburgh gambling on her virtue, believing that Lorne would ruin her? Such a gamble was as much an insult to her as it was to Lorne. For he’d been nothing but a gentleman—albeit a cantankerous one—since he’d been back. Did they respect him so little?

  She couldn’t blame Lorne for his frustration with her. She’d been rude to him every chance she got, quite on purpose. A decision she would repeat if given a chance. Apologies and niceties meant nothing in the grand scheme of what he’d done to her sister.

  But still, she did feel slightly guilty for having told him more than once she wished him back in the grave. That part wasn’t true. She’d never really wished him dead, even if she did wish him to be punished. The guilt wiggled a little deeper, too, for not once had she inquired as to how he was after being imprisoned for two long years or how he’d managed to escape. Or maybe he’d been let go. She’d know if she’d bothered to ask.

  Jaime bit her lip, folding the invitation. Rather unfairly, shame pulsed in her chest. But why did she feel this way? Lorne’s troubles were not hers. The man had ruined her sister’s life.

  The only one who ruined your sister was herself.

  Lorne’s words came back to haunt her. He’d blamed her sister for her circumstances, of course. The man wasn’t willing to take responsibility for his actions. Jaime marched toward the hearth, prepared to throw the invitation into the flames, when her conversation with Giselle flashed in her mind.

  Despite his humiliating her in her office, Jaime still had way too many questions that needed answers. And if she weren’t going to be allowed to ask him to his face without permission from his solicitor, perhaps attending his ball was the last chance she’d get to settle the uncertainties that plagued her mind.

  With her decision made to acquire a ballgown and attend the ridiculous fete, Jaime tossed and turned throughout the night until it was time for her appointment with the modiste. There was a slight drizzle, and she entered the shop damp from having to cross the street, as the number of carriages in the way had not allowed her coachman to deposit her out front. She didn’t have time to wait or she’d risk losing her appointment.

  Madame Yolande, however, was waiting for her, all kind smiles and interested eyes.

  “Apologies for my state,” Jaime said.

  “You are lovely, mademoiselle. Please, do come in.”

  For a price, Madame Yolande was willing to make the ball gown in blue gossamer silk, studded with crystals. She assured Jaime the dress would make her look like a fae princess and draw all eyes. Which was not what Jaime wanted, and she’d argued the point. But Madame Yolande tsked and tutted and would hear nothing of it. Not wanting to lose the opportunity for a stunning gown, Jaime relented. Madame Yolande was also planning to commission a pair of matching slippers, new white gloves that promised to sparkle, and several new undergarments. When Jaime finally did leave the modiste, she felt more anxious than when she’d arrived.

  Back at her flat, MacInnes announced, “Ye’ve a visitor, Miss, in the drawing room.”

  The first person she thought of was Lorne, but she knew that couldn’t be as he’d made it clear he never wanted to see her again. She touched her hair, once more wet from the rain.

  “Who is it? I need to refresh myself.”

  “Mr. Bell has arrived with news from Dunrobin.”

  “Oh.” In that case, she didn’t mind presenting herself slightly soggy. Jaime rushed toward the drawing room, finding Mr. Bell standing by her window, staring down at the street.

  His face was somber, and her stomach did a flip already, knowing the news would be grim. Goodness, but she hoped it wasn’t too grim. Her hand flew to her chest as she sucked in a worried breath.

  “Miss Andrewson.”

  Jaime shook her head. “Please, there is no need for formalities. Just tell me what ye’ve learned.”

  “Your sister and her son did no’ arrive at Dunrobin.”

  Jaime sank onto a chair. “Were they attacked on the road?” Oh, dear heavens, all this time was her sister lying in a shallow grave?

  Mr. Bell shook his head. “She sent word ahead to the house that she was detained on a personal matter, and it would be some time before she arrived. I examined the letter, and it was in her hand. Did no’ appear to be shaky strokes, but rather confident ones. We also found young Master Gordie’s governess at an inn north of Edinburgh. Her rooms had been paid for the duration, and she’d expected them to return to fetch her but had no word when. I left a man with her in case your sister does return, but I have my doubts.”

  The investigator passed her the letter Shanna had written to those at Dunrobin, and Jaime stared at her sister’s elegant scroll. Mr. Bell was right; the writing was languid and well thought. Not hurried or unsteady at all.

  In her missive, she informed the household at Dunrobin that she’d gone abroad to settle some things of a personal nature, and that all employed and in residence were welcome to remain until she returned at which point they’d need to leave.

  “What does this mean?” Where could she have gone? Shanna didn’t have any errands to run abroad or scores to settle.

  “I’m no’ certain, miss. But I would suggest we hire several more men to find her.”

  “I agree.”

  Shanna would be livid when she found out that Jaime had hired men to hunt her down, but she’d never done anything so irresponsible in her life. Oh, poor Gordie! To be dragged who knew where with his mother, and his governess dropped off at an inn on the way.<
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  “I want my nephew. If she refuses to return, please see that he is brought back to me.”

  Mr. Bell nodded. “And if she refuses to relinquish the child?”

  Jaime thought about Shanna over all these years. How she’d been so happy to send her son off with tutors and governesses, of which there had been many, given Shanna’s demands. Gordie had spent more time with Jaime at the wharf than he had with his mother in the nursery. “I do no’ think she will disagree.”

  Bitterness burned in the back of Jaime’s throat. With every day that ticked by, the pieces of a pedestal she’d placed her sister on were chipping away.

  Had Shanna run away? It made no sense. Jaime had taken good care of them. Even bought her a bloody castle. She could not come up with even a single reasonable answer as to why her sister would abscond with her child to the continent or wherever it was that she’d gone.

  Unless she’d had word that Lorne was alive and well. Perhaps Shanna didn’t want to run into him at the castle. Maybe her sister was scared too, afraid of the humiliation of seeing the man who’d betrayed her. Or worse—afraid he might steal son, for as soon as he laid eyes on Gordie, he would know that the lad was his.

  That made sense to Jaime. As much as Shanna had brushed aside her duties as a mother, she did love her son, and she wouldn’t want him to be taken from her, especially by a man whom she’d trusted only to find his affection rescinded. If Jaime were a mother, she might have chosen the same path. It didn’t make it right, though, and Gordie’s place was home, not abroad.

  “If that is all, miss, I best be on my way.”

  “Aye, please keep me informed, and tell Mr. MacInnes to please give ye the envelope I prepared.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Bell tipped his head on his way out of the drawing room.

  Jaime drifted to the window, watching a few moments later as her agent disappeared down the path.

  “Where are ye, Shanna? What have ye done?” There were no answers in the empty drawing room. No magical resolutions from deep within her mind.