Return of the Scot: The Scots of Honor Series

by Knight, Eliza

  Still, Jaime found herself pinching her cuff. “My sister was supposed to be in residence, and yet I’ve no’ had any word from her. Did ye happen to notice if she was there?”

  Lorne narrowed his brow at her. “If I was at Dunrobin, and I’m no’ saying I was, mind, I would no’ have seen your sister.”

  “By choice?”

  “Or by Fate.”

  “So she was no’ there.” Och, but she hated to play mind games.

  Lorne threw his hands up in the air. “I think I’ve made that clear.”

  “In no’ so many words.”

  “For fear of your retribution upon the staff.”

  “My retribution?” Jaime was taken aback by that. What was he insinuating about her?

  “Aye, they were told, all of them, to find employment and housing elsewhere. Quite cold of ye.”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Alas, they all have, or plan to, follow your instructions.”

  Jaime frowned. “So let me see if I understand correctly, Your Grace. My sister was no’ in residence, and the staff have been told vacate the premises?”

  “Aye, dismissed.” Lorne made a sharp cutting motion in the air that reminded Jaime of heads rolling with the swift chop of an axe.

  Jaime tried to swallow around the lump in her throat, but it only felt like it was getting bigger, and it was harder to breathe.

  “Thank ye,” she managed to whisper, backing up toward the door. Her shoe caught, and she lost her balance, falling backward, bracing for the tumble.

  But it never came. Instead, she landed in the arms of the duke, his gray eyes boring a hole right through hers.

  She felt weightless in his arms and all the more lightheaded.

  “I’ve already borne the tricks of one Andrewson female, and I’ll no’ abide by tricks of another,” he growled, righting her. “Ye’d best leave. Mungo.”

  The man who’d answered the door appeared as if from nowhere, opened the door, and the Duke of Sutherland lifted her and deposited her on the doorstep before shutting the door in her face.

  6

  “Do no’ look at me like that,” Lorne said to Mungo, whose expression gave away everything he wasn’t saying.

  And then Mungo went ahead and said it anyway. “I do no’ think ye’re going to get what ye want that way.”

  Lorne growled, knowing that the man was correct. If anything, now the chit would probably try to contrive a dozen other ways to steal what was his. But when she’d fallen and he’d been obliged to catch her, feeling the warmth of her lush body against his own—his suspicions were raised as to what her intentions were. Shanna would have fallen on purpose, so he had to hold her. So she could entice him with her female curves. What was to say that Jaime wasn’t doing the same? And oh, how he’d enjoyed it. Which only sparked his irritation all the more.

  Mungo held up his hands. “I’m no’ an expert in ladies, but from what I’ve heard, they are no’ pleased when dismissed in such a…rude manner.”

  Lorne jabbed his finger at the door. “That’s no lady.”

  “But she is, Your Grace. The daughter of a viscount is a lady indeed. And she’s one ye need on board if ye’re to get Dunrobin back. Might I remind ye that it is no’ simply the castle at stake, but everyone’s position as well?”

  “I do no’ need her on board. Nor do I need the reminder. I take care of those who depend on me. When I left, I told them all to stay put and that I’d take care of it. They have my word, as do ye, Mungo. I’ll have Lindsey draw up the papers and take funds from the trust. Dunrobin will be mine once more, and I’ll no’ need to deal with that hellion ever again.”

  “She’s getting under your skin.”

  Lord, was she ever. He wanted her under his skin, over his skin. Bloody hell…

  “Everything is getting under my skin.” Lorne clenched his fists at his sides. “I want to go home, and here I am groveling at the feet of a woman who wishes me dead for deeds I am not complicit in.”

  “Perhaps ye should tell her the truth.” Why did Mungo have to sound so rational? It only served to sour Lorne’s mood.

  “She’ll never believe me.”

  “Maybe she will. She’s different than her sister.”

  But was she? Lorne stared at the closed door, wondering if she was where he’d left her on the other side. It was easier to believe that Shanna and Jaime were two peas in a pod. Even if there were at least a dozen glaring reasons that they were not the same at all. He was going to ignore those reasons, for there was one major fact he couldn’t ignore—she still “owned” his castle.

  His muscles were tight, and a maddening buzz volleyed through his veins. Years of pent-up energy funneled violently through his limbs. From experience, he knew the only way to get rid of it was to let out his aggression.

  “Is the gymnasium prepared?” he asked.

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  “And the invitations sent?”

  “Aye. They should be arriving shortly.”

  “Good. See that they are brought up.”

  Lorne made his way to the gymnasium he’d had installed a decade ago when as a much younger man, he’d needed to let out some steam. He was very much looking forward to his friends and cousin joining him, as well. Like old times when they used to get together and beat the hell out of each other. They’d all met at Eton as young lads whose fathers seemed to believe the only education for a lord was in an English institution. On to Oxford they’d gone, and even abroad for their tours. But he’d not seen any of them since he’d been back, except Alec.

  The gymnasium was furnished with a boxing ring, a fencing planchet—a beam several feet off the ground they would balance on—to keep them on their toes. Another section for increasing strength was outfitted with various dumbbells, not a very popular form of exercise for gentlemen, but which Lorne loved.

  He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and loosened the neck of his shirt. He always warmed his body up with a jog around the room’s perimeter before he started to exercise and was mid-stride when his cousin Malcolm Gordon, Earl of Dunlyon, strode into the room. Malcolm was as tall as Lorne, and given he’d lost some of his bulk while imprisoned, they were now matched in that area as well.

  “My God, ye do no’ look half-dead at all.” Malcolm grinned as he strode forward.

  Lorne chuckled. “I feel better every day. If ye’d seen me a couple of weeks ago, I’d have been in different shape.”

  They embraced, both of them clapping each other hard on the back. This was yet another thing he’d missed when he’d been locked up. Companionship from people who knew him to the deep marrow of his bones.

  “’Tis good to see ye, cousin,” Lorne said.

  “And ye. We missed ye here and in London.”

  “Trust me, I’d have rather been here.”

  Malcolm nodded with a frown. He didn’t ask about Lorne’s imprisonment, to which he was grateful. Malcolm knew him well enough that he understood when Lorne was ready, he’d spill.

  “How’s Gille taking it?”

  Lorne scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I have no’ seen him. In fact, I have no idea where he is.”

  “No?” Malcolm frowned. “The lad is much the same, albeit more reckless. I’m surprised he’s waited this long to come to ye.”

  “When was the last time ye saw him?”

  “Months.” Malcolm shook his head. “But I was no’ surprised because I did no’ agree with what he did, and I made my feelings plain. Which, of course, Gille took a little too personally.”

  “I asked my solicitor to hire detectives to look for him. But I’ve no’ heard back yet.”

  “Why no’ let me take care of finding him?” Malcolm said. “I’ll be more discreet, and being we’re blood, I have more of a vested interest.”

  Malcolm had always been good at finding people and information. Though he was a member of the House of Lords, he was also well respected in the War Office for his talents.

  Lo
rne nodded, squeezing Malcolm’s shoulder. “All right. I should have thought of that before. I’d appreciate it.”

  “It’d be my pleasure to gift ye with your brother,” Malcolm chuckled. “All of us were stunned when he sold Dunrobin. What could the lad want with the money?”

  “I still can no’ believe it happened.” Lorne shook his head. “And I do no’ think it was about the money, so much as being rid of me completely.”

  “Easily reversible, aye?”

  “Easier said than done.” Lorne let out a long breath, not wanting to explain further. And luckily, he didn’t have to as Alec Hay and Captain Euan Irvine, whom he’d not seen since the battlefield, arrived.

  “Ye haunted me in my dreams, Sutherland. God, I’m glad to see ye’re alive,” Euan said.

  Lorne embraced his friend, the lot of them chatting about old times as they prepared.

  “What’s first?” Alec asked, nodding toward the equipment.

  “Your choice.” Lorne held out his arms. “It’s been a bloody long time since we were all here together.”

  “I think I’ll take on Malcolm in the ring,” Alec said with a grin that suggested he’d been waiting a long time to settle a score.

  “Ye just want to see if I can still maintain my balance on the planche,” Lorne accused with a chuckle.

  Alec let out a loud laugh. “Ye said it, but we’re all thinking it.”

  “I may impress ye yet,” Lorne boasted.

  “Never happened before,” Malcolm teased.

  The men ribbed each other about the first time they’d gotten into a round of fisticuffs as youths over a game of rugby. After they’d been broken apart and made to suffer the same punishment of peeling potatoes for a week in the kitchens, they’d been the best of friends.

  With their slim foils and masks in hand, Lorne and Euan climbed the short ladders to the planche, the very same wooden beam they’d balanced on years before as they fenced. It felt good to be with his friends again, working not only his body but also his mind. The beam was sturdy beneath his feet, and he tested the bottom of his shoes on the wood, testing the slide and catch of his soles.

  “Are ye ready?” Euan asked.

  “Aye. Blast, but it’s been a long time.”

  “Too long,” Euan agreed.

  They tied on their wire mesh fencing masks.

  “Thank God ye’re covering up your ugly mug. I could no’ stand to look at ye another minute,” Euan jested.

  “Ye might need some extra padding, as ye know I’ll be giving your arse a sound beating,” Lorne quipped with a mock salute.

  Euan grinned, saluting back, and then took up the proper stance, one leg forward and the other behind, bearing most of his weight on the rear leg. Lorne did the same. He was surprised at how easy it was to remember what to do despite him being untried for so long.

  Euan’s foil pressed forward. “En garde, my friend.”

  “Fence,” Lorne said with a grin he hoped Euan could see behind the mask.

  They advanced, each of them being cautious for a moment to get their bearings and balance. Lorne attacked first, but Euan was quick to parry. Back and forth they went, each of them seeming to melt into a time when they’d done this on the regular. Lorne feinted right, then attacked left, throwing Euan off-balance. His opponent leapt and retreated out of range, wobbling slightly on the planche as he worked to regain his balance. Lorne wasn’t ready for their bout to end and backed up a step to allow his friend a moment to recuperate.

  Behind Euan’s mask, his grin grew wider. “Ye should have kept attacking, knocked me off.”

  “Maybe I like the challenge of ye angry,” Lorne retorted.

  Euan laughed and attacked in a pounce that Lorne wasn’t sure he’d be ready for, and yet he was. Lorne parried with a flick, bending Euan’s blade enough he had to back up, off-balance once more.

  “Did ye fence wherever ye were?” Euan asked.

  “Something like that,” Lorne said. A flash of his time in prison, where he’d been made to fight with the others for their captors’ pleasure, took him out of the moment. It had never been as civilized as this and never as safe.

  A bitter taste swept into his mouth, and he retreated, taking a deep breath. But Euan hadn’t noticed his sudden change in mood and continued to attack forward. Lorne was slow to recover, and the top of Euan’s foil stabbed against his chest, off-setting his equilibrium, and he stepped off the planche, his right foot catching air. He tumbled to the mat below with an “Oof.”

  Euan jumped down beside him, pulling his mask up to stare at Lorne with a frown. “What just happened?”

  “Ye won.” Lorne held up his hand, and Euan pulled him to his feet.

  “It’s no’ winning when your opponent gives up.”

  Lorne lifted his mask, wiping the sweat slicking his brow on his sleeve. “I did no’ give up. I was…distracted.”

  Euan nodded, intelligent eyes studying him. “Perhaps ye’d prefer the ring then. Maybe get some of those distractions out of your head.”

  “We’ll get to that.” Lorne pulled the mask over his face, shuttering his eyes from his friend, feeling too exposed. “That was just a warmup.”

  They climbed the ladders to the planche again, and when Lorne put up his sword this time, he was determined to win.

  * * *

  Jaime paced her drawing room, making certain to do so in a different place than she had been before so as not to wear the rug out in one spot.

  MacInnes waited patiently by the door as she tried to sort through the thoughts tumbling through her head. But she couldn’t seem to get a handle on a single one. Since she’d arrived home after the duke had so unceremoniously dumped her on his front stoop, she’d had one caller after another. Everyone wanted to be on the inside of the drama festering between herself and Lorne.

  Oh, how she wanted to box his ears for him thinking she’d tripped and fallen on purpose. That she’d wanted him to catch her so she could somehow seduce him with her clumsiness. Of all the absurd things she’d heard… But it had been a wonder to have his bulk pressed so close to hers. To feel the heat and strength of him. The way his eyes had blazed into hers. She’d be lying if she didn’t admit feeling in her belly, and the buzzing of bees in her head. Blast it!

  MacInnes checked his pocket watch, a subtle reminder that she had callers waiting.

  To deny them entry would be to fan the flames and allow their comments to run wild and out of control. She’d never be able to get a handle on it then. But to let them in would be to plaster a smile on her face that she didn’t feel. To speak with people she loathed and to play their stupid society games, which she hated. One of the reasons she’d moved her office permanently to Edinburgh, instead of remaining in London as her father preferred, was because it was more informal in town here.

  Not that it didn’t have its share of stiffness. Edinburgh was like a finger of London if London were the hand. The royal family still held residences down the street from her and often came to make their roundabouts.

  Which meant so did the rest of Scottish and English society alike.

  “Miss…” MacInnes hedged.

  Jaime whirled to face her faithful butler. What would she do without his patience and guidance? “All right, fine, MacInnes. Tell Lady Giselle she can come up and leave the rest of the cards with me. I’ll think about my replies later.”

  Her butler nodded and left the room. If she had to get this over with, fine, but she wasn’t going to entertain more than one person today. And she was going to make certain it was a person she at least used to enjoy the company of.

  Lady Giselle Hepburn, the Earl of Bothwell’s daughter, swept into the room in vivacious yellow silk skirts and a gauzy emerald-green sash beneath her bosom. Her golden hair was twisted into a fashionable style, with several curls framing her face. Giselle was lovely as ever, a hint of a smile on her lips, her gaze cautious. It had been so long since they’d seen each other.

  “Oh, Jaime, I’m
so glad ye let me up.” Giselle came forward, pulling her in for an embrace. At twenty-one, a few years Jaime’s junior, Giselle still had a whole wide world in front of her, though she didn’t appear in any hurry to take it. Jaime, however, at twenty-four, was basically on the shelf, a placement that suited her fine.

  Giselle had come out for her season three years after Jaime, but they’d still found each other to be good company, even if the Countess of Bothwell had warned her daughter to stay away for fear of Jaime ruining Giselle’s chances at a match. Through the swift intervention of the countess, they’d lost touch when Jaime’s parents had both passed, and she was no longer attending husband-hunting society functions. The blasted affairs were so obvious. Why not simply line the eligible males up on one side and the females on the other and have an auction? Pretending they were all civilized by dancing, laughing and drinking punch when they were being paraded and prodded was offensive to both parties.

  “You look beautiful, as always,” Jaime said, kissing the air beside her old friend’s cheek. It wasn’t until this moment that she realized how much she’d missed having a friend. But she didn’t want to get her hopes up. Giselle had not come around in the last two years and had only now decided to show her face. Her visit could not be genuine. “Shall I ring for tea?”

  Please say no.

  “Aye, please.”

  With a tight smile, Jaime rang the bell alerting MacInnes of her request and then took a seat on one of her silk chairs facing Giselle, who’d opted to sit on the settee. The younger lady fixed her skirts so they wouldn’t wrinkle and then looked up at Jaime with a beaming smile that confused her in its sincerity.

  “How have ye been?” Jaime asked, smoothing down her own skirts to occupy her hands.

  “Oh, the usual.” Giselle waved her hand in the air with an eye roll. “Mother is disappointed I’ve no’ yet found a wealthy lord to wed. But who can blame me with the choices we’ve got?”