by Eliza Knight
Before leaving for the wharf, Jaime had sent out a hasty note to Mr. Bell. He needed to know what she’d learned from Lorne, as well as the questions she now had swirling about in her brain. Best for her investigator to be informed and get his men on the same page. Knowing such details might even change the direction they were headed with their search, and hopefully, they’d find Shanna and Gordie sooner. Jaime wanted answers, and she wanted them now.
Jaime snapped out of her head long enough to reply—relatively late—to her clerk. “Good morning, Emilia.”
Emilia’s brow wrinkled. “Ye look exhausted. Did ye dance all night?” The wistfulness on her clerk’s face was too much to dismiss.
And it brought memories of Lorne, the way her fingers had tingled when their hands touched. His arms around her. The look in his eyes when he’d finished kissing her quite thoroughly. The way he’d slid into her carriage. Oh, the headiness of it all made her breath quicken even now. “I did dance, though no’ all night.”
“With the duke?”
“One dance with the duke.” And one delicious, forbidden kiss.
“Oh, how I would have loved to be there. I’ve no’ been to a dance in months. No’ since I visited my cousin in Dumfries. They had the most charming village dance.”
“Perhaps I should arrange to have one, then,” Jaime offered.
“Oh, but I do no’ think I’d be allowed.”
“Why no’? Ye could even help me plan it. We’d host it for our clients. A real Andrewson ball, would that no’ be a delight?”
“But I’m no’ a lady.” Emilia worried her lower lip, and Jaime hated to see this smart and beautiful woman feeling incapable.
Jaime shrugged. “Oh, bother. Ye can see how much I care for such social norms, and besides, what better way for ye to find a handsome suitor? Aye, I think I should host a dance. We could even have it on one of the ships.”
Before their conversation could go any further, the door to the office opened, and they both whirled to see the Duke of Sutherland standing in the entrance. His dark hair was a bit windblown, and he’d not shaved that morning, giving him a rugged sort of look that felt almost…dangerous. His clothes were rumpled, and parts of them might even have been what he’d worn the night before, though not all of them. The man was a handsome devil, to be sure. Not an altogether unwelcome sight, though he should have been.
Not only was Jaime surprised to see him there, but she was amazed he was even awake at such an hour. The guests wouldn’t have left Sutherland Gate until the wee hours of the morning, which meant he’d likely gotten as much sleep as she had—equaling none. And judging from the look of him, he’d merely changed coats and freshened up enough not to be appalling—quite the opposite, much to her dismay.
“Your Grace,” she drawled out, her gaze taking in his entire figure from head to toe. He was striking. How many times had she been stunned into silence when he’d entered their house as he courted her sister?
That was all in the past. She shook the daze away and focused on him once more. Oddly, he carried a basket just like the one she’d dragged around the gardens as a lass to pick flowers.
“Your butler said ye’d already left for the day.” Lorne sauntered into the office, shutting the door behind him.
“Oh…” ’Had he gone to her flat?
Lorne held up the basket. “Coffee and scones. I’d have brought tea, but I needed something stronger.”
And so did she. Oh, why did he have to bring her things and be so considerate? It made hating him harder. Made it harder for her to look at him as the rogue she wanted him to be. If he had come in appearing every bit the rake, that would have made it easier to not look at him at all. Of course, that was a lie. The more of a rakehell he appeared to be, the more she seemed to like him.
The duke settled the basket on Emilia’s desk, who immediately went about setting out the food and drink. Jaime was stunned to see how thoughtful he’d been to include three cups instead of only two. As if he’d anticipated Jaime wouldn’t be at her flat and had thought of Emilia here, not wanting to leave her out.
Drat ye, duke! He needed to stop being so nice.
“What are ye doing here?” Jaime asked, narrowing her gaze. There was an ulterior motive, she was certain, and she hoped it wasn’t for him to demand she marry him again.
Lorne pointed to the items on Emilia’s desk. “Coffee. Scones.” His words were simple enough, but his eyes danced as if he waited for her to make him explain. He wanted her to ask; those eyes begged her to ask.
And she was going to. Devil take him. Och, but she was a weak woman. “Besides that. Ye know verra well I’ve a cook that feeds me.”
The corner of his mouth crooked in a grin. “A simple thank ye would suffice.”
“Thank ye ever so much,” Emilia gushed, scooping jam onto her scone.
“Thank ye,” Jaime quipped and pursed her lips, not wanting to seem overly rude—not that she should care. The scent of the warm coffee being poured from the pot had her mouth salivating more than the fruity, buttery scones.
Lorne handed her a cup, his bare fingers brushing hers, sending a tingle racing up her arm and reminding her of the kiss they’d shared the night before. Where were her gloves? She never wore them in the office, as she didn’t often have visitors, nor did she want to get any ink on them. Jaime yanked away before any more unwanted shivers could have their way with her.
“Do ye wish to speak in front of your witness?” he asked, a teasing lilt to his brogue.
Jaime nearly choked on the sip. Goodness, but was he about to demand marriage again? She couldn’t risk it. “Nay.”
Emilia perked up at that and set down her half-eaten scone. “I just realized I need to check on something. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Before Jaime could argue with her clerk, the woman had slipped from the office, closing the door behind her and leaving Jaime alone with Lorne. The silence between them pulsed with energy, likely supplied by both of them. If she was remembering the heated embrace, or even the gentle touch of his fingers on her ankle, was he?
Lorne’s gaze swept over her, taking her in. And the way his lids lowered to half-mast, eliciting that heady, sensual look he’d given her in the gymnasium before he kissed her, was answer enough. He reached forward, his fingertips grazing her—thankfully woolen-sleeved—elbow. Jaime closed her eyes for a fraction longer than a blink, savoring the carress and wishing it away all at once.
In that split-second, Lorne closed the distance between them, the heat of his large body enveloping her. He touched her chin, lifting her face toward his. Gray eyes peered into her own, gauging her interest and seemingly finding it, for he leaned down and joined his mouth to hers.
With his lips fastened on hers, he removed her coffee cup, settling it somewhere, and then his hand pressed to the small of her back, urging her closer until their bodies were flush. The hardness and strength of him lined up to her softer curves. Everything with the duke was exaggerated. His size, his presence, his intensity. And his kiss.
She was melting into him. Losing the resolve she’d set for herself last night, and again this morning. Wanting him to kiss her, to fall into his enchanting, passionate embrace. There was no one here to see—no one to know, except for herself and him, she’d let her guard down. Allowed herself tumbled once more under the luscious spell of a man she’d been captivated by for years. Worshiped him, adored him, hated him…everything him.
Lorne captured her hands in his and placed them on his shoulders. And oh…the breadth of them. Corded muscles bunched beneath the fabric of his doublet. She flattened her palms against him, her fingers spread, and she felt him, studied the swells of hardness that made up his body. Ran her hands down his arms, stopping at his elbows and coursing back up again. As she touched, the feelings inside of her whirled and bucked. Fighting against one another.
Touch him more. Nay, run away. Oh, bother, touch him, kiss him more…
This was a bad idea, and
she knew it. Had decided while rushing away from his house less than twelve hours ago that she would not, under any circumstances, allow him to kiss her again. Yet here she was. Thoroughly enjoying it. Life wasn’t fair, she decided. If she’d been a man, she could have enjoyed his kiss for hours, days, again and again, and no one would be the wiser or care. But nay, she was a lass, and lassies weren’t allowed to kiss whoever they wanted when they wanted.
And oh, how she wanted…
His tongue danced provocatively over hers, and she twirled her own inside his mouth, engaging in every bit of teasing and toying and tasting he provided. This naughty duke, full of vigor and deep wounds… His hand slipped down to her rear, tugging her tighter against him, and she gasped at the feel of him touching her in so intimate a place.
What could it hurt to allow herself a few more moments of wicked bliss? Perhaps that was the exhaustion talking. At any rate, it was what she’d blame her deranged thoughts and actions on.
Jaime leaned into him, her fingers threading in his hair.
And he groaned deep in his throat and whispered, “Marry me, please.”
That woke Jaime up. She pulled away from him, her lips tingling, her body on fire. At least this time, he’d added “please.” But no amount of manners—or fiery kisses—were going to change her mind. She was either incredibly intelligent or a great fool, and she didn’t have the mental capacity at the moment to debate herself on that, only to set her foot down.
“I must decline, Your Grace. Ye know a union between us is out of the question. And this,” she pointed between herself and him, “can no’ happen again.” She regretted it even as she declared it. Decided to back up a step for good measure and picked up her coffee as though it were a shield. She took a large gulp, nearly sputtering on the bitterness without cream and sugar.
“That bad, aye?” He chuckled. “Or was that from our kiss?”
Jaime rolled her eyes. “We will no’ be talking about kissing. No’ ever. Why did ye come here, Duke? Let’s no’ pretend it was simply to bring me breakfast.”
“What if it was for the thing we’re no’ talking about?”
The kissing… Oh, to think he’d come all this way to lay his lips on hers. Nay! She couldn’t romanticize this or him.
“Then, ye really ought to go now.” She took another step away, hoping that it wasn’t so obvious how thoroughly he’d kissed her. Her lips felt swollen from his kisses; her cheeks still flushed.
He set down his cup and stared at her seriously. “In truth, I came to repeat my offer.”
“Which ye did. And I declined.” She straightened, realizing too late that doing so pushed out her breasts, and his eyes fell to gaze at the swells. Thank goodness for her sturdy wool gown, practically buttoned up to the neck. Alas, he didn’t seem to notice her sensible dress and instead appeared to be undressing her with his eyes. Curling her back now would only show she’d noticed the swift flit of his gaze, and she refused to give him that much, so she remained as she was, hating that her breath quickened.
“May I ask why?” he mused.
“We are no’ suited. I’m a busy woman, and I’ve no’ the time to think about romance.”
His brow raised on that last word, and she was hasty to correct herself.
“And by romance, I mean courtship. Besides, many other things are plaguing me—one major obstacle that would bar me from ever standing at the altar with ye.”
“Ah, are ye referring to your sister?”
Jaime licked her lips and nodded, trying to decipher how much to tell him about what she’d thought as she tossed and turned all night. He deserved to know that Gordie was his spitting image. That if Lorne wasn’t the child’s father, Gille might be. Unless Lorne had gotten blistering drunk one night and forgotten himself or what he’d done. But from what she understood of him, before and after the war, he was a man who rarely lost control, if ever. Even in kissing her, she felt the lion being held back by a chain, waiting to be unleashed.
He stepped closer to her, and she surprised herself by not retreating—at least not yet. The nearer he came, the more her body pulsed with a throttled craving. But thankfully, he stopped, leaving some space between them for her to breathe. “Do ye still believe me?”
Head titled up toward him, Jaime took him in. Lorne was so very tall and breathtaking. A gorgeous man, with a hint of something feral. She imagined when he did finally relinquish some of the control that he kept so wound up within himself, he’d be like a storm unleashing, destroying everything in its path. That made him a risk, didn’t it? Or extremely desirable and exciting. To be on the end of that unrestrained passion. Her pulse skipped a beat. For a woman with a life was as rigid as hers, as regimented, as stalwart, he gave off the barest suggestion of unbridled enterprises that she would never dare to cross alone.
Jaime licked her lips, contemplating how she would answer. Because she did still believe him, and he deserved the truth. But he also deserved to know what troubled her mind. “Aye, but there is something ye should know.”
“What is it?” Lorne’s brows knitted together with concern.
It was incredibly hard to meet his gaze. She didn’t want to see the pain that her revelation would no doubt cause him. How had her sister ever found him lacking? The very idea that Shanna had not been head over heels in love with the Duke of Sutherland was not only news to Jaime but shocking, too. For she had found him captivating from the moment he’d first come to their parent’s townhome to call on her sister.
But this wasn’t about Jaime or Shanna’s desire for the duke, but rather the mutual subject Jaime and Lorne shared—her nephew’s parentage.
“’Tis about the lad,” she finally managed to say.
“Shanna’s bairn?”
“He’s no’ so much a bairn anymore.” Jaime held up her hand near her shoulder. “He’s almost as tall as me now, even at barely eight years old.”
The duke’s face had hardened, and she couldn’t read the thoughts that were hidden behind his stare. “What about him?”
“He…” Jaime swallowed. She needed to spit it out and be done with it. “He looks just like ye, Lorne. Everyone thinks so.”
Lorne blanched, sucking his lips back against his teeth. He let out a curse under his breath. Hands fisted at his side, he whirled from her. Walked a few paces away before turning back around, eyes blazing with expected anger—and unexpected resignation. What did he know that he hadn’t shared with her?
“Ye do no’ seem as surprised as I thought ye’d be,” she said. Jaime discarded her coffee cup onto the desk and walked a little closer to him, wanting to impart comfort, and not knowing how—or at least not in the way she suspected he would like.
Lorne exhaled loudly and ran his hand through his hair. “I did no’ suspect anything between the two of them until last night.”
“Last night?” Jaime’s brows raised in question. “What happened last night?”
Lorne grinned at her, and she could tell he was making an effort toss aside the major realizations they’d both had—and keep her from knowing what he’d discovered.
“I kissed ye.” And his words were confirmation of what she’d thought.
“No’ that, ye buffoon. Ye know what I mean.”
“Buffoon or nay, I’d much rather talk about kissing.”
Jaime crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot, trying to give him the look that made men leap to do her bidding on the docks. “Ye’d like to distract me.”
He shrugged. “Beats the unpleasantness. And I’ve had about enough distasteful, obnoxious torments in the past decade to last me a lifetime.”
She was about to beg him to explain it to her—all of it. His time away, the relationship he’d had with Shanna, the lies, the things he suspected, what he’d discovered last night. But there was a loud knock at her office door, followed by it bursting open, which stilled the words on her tongue.
Jaime leapt nearly six inches at the sudden intrusion, not understand
ing at first as three men bustled in that they weren’t being attacked. She reached for the first thing she could grab, which was a coffee pot, ready to launch it at their heads. Lorne must have been striving to discover the same thing as he stood in a fighting stance, fists out, like a professional pugilist.
The lead man cleared his throat, and then Jaime recognized him as the magistrate for the wharf. He stood there, a frown on his face, his two deputies beside him.
Jaime lowered the coffee pot and told Lorne it was all right. While the duke lowered his fists, he did not look ready to give up the fight.
“Good morning, sir,” Jaime said. “What can we do for ye?”
He handed her a folded piece of paper. “We’ve a need to search your ships, Miss Andrewson.”
“By what requirement?” Lorne demanded with all the authority of a duke.
“And who are ye?” the magistrate asked, eyeing Lorne up and down, not recognizing him since he’d been away so long.
“I’m the Duke of Sutherland.” The way he said it had both the deputies cringing and the magistrate shrinking a fraction of an inch.
“Apologies, Your Grace. I did no’ mean to interrupt the business ye have with Miss Andrewson, but we’ve a need to search the ships,” he explained. “There’s been an anonymous tip—”
Jaime interrupted the magistrate. “Sir, ye may address me as they are my ships, and the duke is but my guest.”
The magistrate looked shocked she would speak to him with such firmness, likely because she was a woman and also because she’d just discredited Lorne’s position of authority. But this was her company and damned if she was going to let two men discuss it when neither had a vested interest.
Even if Lorne had asked her to marry him—that was a request she’d denied and would keep on denying.
