After wearing another side of her rug down to the weave, a lemon tart beckoned, and Jaime forced herself to sit a moment and take a delicate bite if only to absorb herself in a moment of deliciousness. Frowning, she set it back on the plate, the usual clashing flavors of sweet with sour dull on her tongue.
Maybe revenge would have felt better if the man she was seeking her vengeance on had not suddenly come back to life—as though he were haunting her for having managed to purchase his birthright.
Hopefully, her sister kept the castle gates locked if and when the duke decided to return to his holding.
Jaime would not be bullied into parting with the property. That had to be the only reason he was here. All of the papers were in order. According to the War Office, Lorne Gordon had died. He’d made certain they thought so, and in his irresponsible absence, his brother had been desperate enough to sell the castle. According to Gille, Lorne had run the family’s funds and properties into the ground. There had been no other choice but to sell to save the other properties and the clan from starvation and utter ruin.
“Miss, I can send him away if ye wish.”
“Aye.” She paused, then shook her head. “Nay. If ye send him away, he will only come back.”
MacInnes gave a curt nod.
To hell with the duke. No one would tell her what to do. Not even a duke come back from the dead. Jaime was a free woman. A wealthy woman. And she could do whatever she pleased. Including buying a castle and its surrounding lands. Which she’d done.
Lorne Gordon could not waltz into her drawing room and demand she return it. And she wouldn’t, even if he offered double the money. Because buying his castle had not been about money or the ownership of a grand estate. It had been about something much deeper. Besides running the family company, one other thing had filled Jaime’s days the past nine years—a burning vengeance toward the Sutherland clan.
Perhaps there was a silver lining to the duke’s return— this would make her vengeance all the sweeter, for she desired only to watch him suffer.
Jaime moved toward the window and stared down at the street below. A carriage waited outside her house, black and shiny with the duke’s gilded crest on the side. All of New Town would be talking about his visit before high tea could be cleared. “Send him up, please.”
She waited nervously, listening to the sound of footsteps beyond the door, and when they came, she was still shocked to see the tall, brooding figure of Lorne Gordon filling the doorway.
Lorne Gordon, living and breathing—seeming to suck all of the air from the room.
He looked taller than she remembered from a decade ago. Broader. Most definitely broader and with an air of danger about him that elicited a rush in her blood. He was elegantly dressed in a kilt of green and blue, a white muslin shirt, crisp cravat, green waistcoat and tailcoat to match. Cream-colored wool socks came up to his knees, and his feet were clad in polished leather shoes. Compared to the merchants, sailors and businessmen she dealt with daily, this man cut a distracting and—dare she even think it—dashing figure. Heat flooded her face, and her belly welcomed a swarm of bees to zoom about, making Jaime feel as if she were crawling out of her skin.
Dark hair swept over his brow. While she normally preferred a man that was cleaner cut, neat and tidy, the instant attraction she found to his wild look had her mouth going dry in both shock and dismay. Murky gray eyes, the color of aged steel, locked onto her face and widened with surprise. Elegantly arched brows rose, and a frown creased the corners of his full lips.
How was it possible she was still standing when her knees felt so weak? Oh, bother, she couldn’t care! She could not allow wayward thoughts or idiotic physical impulses to sway her decision to see him suffer.
Lorne glanced at MacInnes when her butler spoke.
“Miss Andrewson, allow me to present His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland.”
“Thank ye, MacInnes. Would ye care for some tea, Your Grace?” she asked.
Lorne stared at her, speechless it would appear, and to be honest, she wasn’t certain how she was finding the strength to inquire about his interest in a drink. Without waiting for him to respond—which from the looks of it, he might never—she said to her butler, “Tea, please.”
“Right away, miss.” MacInnes bowed to the duke, backed from the room and shut the door quietly.
Lorne cleared his throat, shifting on his feet as he worried the bottom of his waistcoat.
“Miss Andrewson, have we met before?”
Jaime was proud of herself for not blanching at his question. The ridiculousness and preposterousness of his query made her want to scream. Instead, she folded her hands in front of her and met his gaze head-on, refusing to be cowed as any other woman might have been in the presence of a duke.
“We have.” She did not elaborate.
Firm lips pressed together as he nodded, crossing into the room some more but still looking quite out of place. Uncomfortable, even, in his skin.
“Please have a seat.” She swept her hand toward the finely brocaded silver-and-yellow wingback chairs.
He looked as though he would hesitate but then stepped cautiously forward and sat. Dear heavens… The man filled what she’d thought was a large chair, making it appear as though it were made for a toddler. Pretending she wasn’t so affected by his presence, Jaime took the chair opposite him, perching on the edge of it and miraculously keeping her hands from trembling.
“What can I do for ye, Your Grace?”
He narrowed his eyes, obviously not one for having to voice his desires. “I’m certain ye know.”
She gave a dainty shrug, flicked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirt. “Why do ye no’ tell me?”
His sudden shift forward had her narrowing her eyes. Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? Scared even? Clearly, he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
“Ye know verra well what I’ve come for.”
Jaime’s heart did a little skip, and suddenly, she found the silk walls of the room a bit too constrictive. What she wouldn’t have given to blow the roof off her townhouse and feel the cool air wash over her skin.
“I’m afraid if what ye’ve come for is the deed to your castle, I can no’ oblige ye.” Fabulous! Her voice did not waver at all. Soon, she’d be rid of this man—and the twisting in her belly.
Lorne’s teeth pulled back in a momentary snarl before softening into a smile. The man had amazing control of his temper; she would give him that.
“What do ye want, Miss Andrewson?”
“What I want, I already possess.”
“What else do ye want?”
As if she’d divulge that to a virtual stranger and one she loathed to boot. She smoothed a hand over the skirts of her pale blue gown. “I can no’ be bought.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“I do no’.”
“We shall see.” Suddenly he stood, towering over her.
Jaime craned her neck, marveling at the way his eyes pierced through her, but as quickly, he walked toward her window to look down below. There was a tension in his shoulders she found unnerving and alluring all at once. The urge to massage the rigidity away was intense.
Guilt riddled her. This was a man she hated. A man who had done her family wrong. Brought shame upon them. How could she possibly look at him with anything but disgust?
MacInnes reappeared with a second tray of tea, a serving lass behind him removing the set she’d been sipping before her unwanted guest arrived.
“Thank ye, MacInnes,” Jaime said, nodding when he gave her a look that asked if she was all right. Turning back to the rogue by the window, she asked, “Would ye care for some tea, Your Grace, or perhaps ye’d like to crawl back into whatever grave ye climbed out of?”
Her voice sounded jovial, welcoming, the opposite of how she truly felt. She hated this man. Had hated him for quite some time. If she had a vial of poison, she would likely pour it into his tea before serving it to make certain
he died and stayed dead this time.
Lorne turned around, his expression blank as he eyed her and the cup of tea she held out.
“I did no’ come for tea, Miss Andrewson. I came for my castle, and ye well know it. Return the deed, reverse the sale, and I’ll be on my way.”
Jaime stood frozen, afraid the trembling in her hands would translate into the tinkling of the cup against the saucer. Quickly, she set the service down, folded her hands in front of her and fixed a stare on him not unlike what she used for the shipyard men. The true Duke of Sutherland was leaking out of his cleverly disguised ruse. While she’d not had much interaction with him nearly a decade before, she’d heard enough, knew enough, to ascertain exactly what type of person he was.
“I see being dead has done nothing for your manners or incredibly selfish nature, Your Grace. But might I remind ye that ye’re standing in my house, and I am no’ one of your servants, nor a subject suffocated by feudal codes. I am a successful businesswoman, one who has had the forethought and money to purchase your property. I am no’ interested in selling it back to ye. I am no’ interested in negotiating. What I am interested in is ye taking your leave.” Jaime drew in a deep breath through her nose and slowly let it out as the man standing before transformed from one of complete confidence and scorn to utter shock.
The moments ticked by as they stared at one another. Sweat started to accumulate on her spine. Oh, she couldn’t stand it any longer. If he didn’t speak, she was going to leap out of her skin.
Jaime went to the bell pull, her hand upon the rope, when his voice, filled with misery, stopped her.
“Miss Andrewson, please.”
3
Lorne was not a beggar.
Never in his life had he pleaded with anyone.
Not even when he’d been held prisoner. He hadn’t entreated his captors for mercy. Lorne was a warrior. Bashing his head against anyone who came near, fighting until they knocked him out. Rebelling until the day he escaped.
So, what in the bloody hell was he thinking, beseeching the harpy standing a few feet from him?
Momentarily stunned by his request, by her beauty, Lorne couldn’t form a single sentence. She stared at him with wide brown eyes, the color of freshly turned peat. Even though her chestnut hair was pulled into a tight bun at her nape, he could see the subtle threads of auburn and gold, practically feel the softness. There was not a trace of the lass she’d been when he’d known her sister. If he had to guess, he would have said she was not the same person. That someone was playing a trick on him, but the way she pursed her lips at him right then, the unforgiving line of her mouth—he’d seen that same look in her father.
When last he’d seen her, Jaime had been a dowdy lass headed for spinsterhood. And not because she wasn’t particularly attractive, but for her venomous tongue, which seemed to pull a veil over everyone’s eyes. He’d heard rumors, listened to her sister complain about it. But now to be on the receiving end—to know exactly what she thought about him as each word sliced into his gut.
The woman stood rigid, hands fisted at her sides, looking as stiff and stalwart as any warrior, save for the pretty light blue gown, the womanly curves. Ballocks…
In all her goddess-like glory, she glowered down her nose at him. A lovely package filled with animosity. Despite the circumstances, Lorne was intrigued by her and unbidden sparks of desire lashed within him. Which only made him feel more disgusted. He’d had entanglements with this family before. What he wanted was Dunrobin back, and he wasn’t going anywhere until she returned it to him.
Before the silence stretched on too long, Lorne cleared his throat and turned fully to face her, touching his fingers to a cool button on his waistcoat to ground himself.
“Miss Andrewson,” he started again, then stopped when she raised a perfectly arched brow and gave him such a look that if he’d been a lesser man, he might have backed toward her window, opened it up and flung himself out. The way to gain her attention and cooperation was not by telling her what to do. The only reason she’d turned around was that in a moment of weakness, he’d called out to her like some feckless fool.
Before he could continue, Jaime interrupted him. “I am unwilling to return the property, Sutherland. I understand that ye might have some attachment to it, but this was a business decision. The way Dunrobin Castle is situated upon the North Sea allows me access, and I have plans to build a private port there to expand my company.”
Some attachment to it…as if a favorite trinket or pair of boots. Good God, she tried his patience. And yet, he had to try and warm her up to him, gain her trust.
He fiddled with his button again, taking a step closer to her. “There are other properties. Better ones, even. Some with docks already built. I can help ye find the right one.” In all his training, Lorne had become quite accustomed to reading body language, and the way she was pinching her fingers together was a telling sign that she was nervous—that she might not have been telling him the whole truth. Suddenly, he was speaking before thinking. “Did my brother put the castle up for sale, or did ye approach him?”
She stiffened, perhaps not expecting his bold question. “Why does that matter?”
Lorne shrugged, feigning indifference.
Her gaze shifted from his. “I do no’ recall.”
He moved closer, impressed that she didn’t back away from him but held her ground. There was a defiance in her eyes that lashed out and struck him in the chest.
“Why did ye want to buy my castle, Miss Andrewson? Tell me the truth.”
Anger flashed across her face, a ripple in cream. “How dare ye come into my house and accuse me of being a thief and a liar.”
“I never accused ye of being a thief.”
“Ye might as well have.” Her hands were flying around as she spoke, and he dared not get any nearer in case he came into contact with one of them.
“I am simply trying to understand what has happened. And I think ye’re hiding the truth from me.”
“I am a businesswoman. I want to expand my business. That does no’ make me a liar. But ye, Your Grace,” she said the latter in a disgusted hiss and poked him in the chest, “ye’re a hypocrite.”
“What?”
“All this talk of thieving and lying when the only one in the room who’s done any of the latter is ye.”
“I’m no’ a thief, nor am I a liar. What basis have ye to make such an accusation?”
Jaime snorted as though he’d told her the most hilarious of jokes. “Let me introduce ye to the elephant in the room, Sutherland. The reason ye’re no’ my brother-in-law at this very moment.”
Och, but he could have bloody guessed that there was more to her choice in buying his castle than a load of ships. The cunning wee wench. Lorne ground his teeth, fisted his hands and took a step back as anger filled him; the need to roar out the injustice of what she implied.
There was no way he’d continue to take the blame for what happened between him and Jaime’s sister. Nine years ago, before he’d accepted his commission in his regiment, Lorne had been betrothed to her. Shanna was an heiress and lovely to boot, with auburn hair and eyes very similar to her sister’s. Eyes that stared at him right now with such fury, he nearly retreated another step back.
The way she looked at him, the stubborn set of her jaw, Lorne knew that nothing he could say would change how she felt about him. Not even if he told her the truth about what had happened the night of his and Shanna’s engagement ball. The night he’d found her fumbling in the darkened library with a lover. As soon as he’d made himself known, the man had run, leaping out the window—his identity a mystery to this day. And Shanna, sobbing like a bairn, had begged Lorne to look past her indiscretion. Told him it was a mistake, that she’d been coerced. What a fool he was to have believed her. To have kept the secret, to save his pride in making him a cuckold, to have saved both their families the humiliation.
His hands clenched at his sides. What lies Shanna must have
told…
When she’d tried to move their wedding date sooner, his suspicions of her being pregnant grew. Lorne broke off their engagement, appalled that she would think him such an idiot. And then more appalled at himself because he had been for trusting to begin with. Shanna must have told her family the bairn was his. That he’d soiled her and then left her to her fate.
The same sourness that filled his belly whenever he thought of Shanna filled him now. How could Jaime think her sister deserved any sort of retribution? That he was at fault?
Because she didn’t know.
“Ye do no’ know what ye’re talking about.” Lorne shook his head, thrust his fingers through his hair. “Ye’re a fool.”
A flicker of uncertainty showed in her eyes. But he was too much of a gentleman to correct her. Too proud to air his humiliation before a lass he barely knew.
And bloody hell, if she believed him a monster, despite the truth of what had happened, there was no way he would garner her favor by proving her right with his temper.
Lorne gritted his teeth and swallowed his fury, determined not to offend her and risk never regaining his family’s castle.
Despite Lorne’s frustration, he had to find a way to convince Jaime to return what was rightfully his. But right now, he needed a bloody drink.
“This is no’ over, Miss Andrewson.” Lorne brushed past her.
The best thing to do right now was to walk away, which fought against every intuition in his body to stay and battle it out. To prove to her that she was in the wrong, that he deserved for her to listen, to understand, to give him back his bloody castle. He needed a plan.
His hesitation lasted a fraction of a second before he was through the door. MacInnes, like all butlers, seemed to have a sixth sense to those within residence and was by the door with Lorne’s hat and greatcoat.
“Good day, Your Grace.”
Lorne nodded curtly before walking out into the crisp Edinburgh air.
His coachman waited beside the carriage, rushing to open the door for Lorne. “Where to, Your Grace?”
Return of the Scot: The Scots of Honor Series Page 3
