Page 12 of Return of the Scot
Well, he was wrong. Dead wrong. Anything between them was most decidedly over.
And yet that incredulous, almost pitying expression he’d lobbed at her. Those words that burned inside her head—“Ye’re a fool.”
No, she wasn’t. She was anything but a fool. Didn’t the fact that she’d tripled the size of her father’s shipping company prove that?
Jaime left the drawing room and marched into her study, sifting through the papers on top of the desk in search of the bill of sale for Dunrobin Castle. The solicitor, Mr. Corbett, who had drawn up the papers for Gille Gordon, had made her skin crawl in the way only a charlatan could, and she hoped her intuition that he was a bad egg wasn’t right. Her lawyer had been in London, so she’d had to go with someone else she didn’t readily know.
There were laws to protect men at war from losing their property when they were gone. Laws to make certain if their property was sold that it was quickly returned to them.
If that were the case, Lorne could have his solicitor drawing up legal demands at this very moment. To take her to court and make certain she returned the castle. Then her sister would be tossed out. Poor Gordie without a home. Without his legacy.
She sifted through the language, not finding what she was looking for and praying it was because she had an unpracticed eye with real estate law.
If only she had a way to get into contact with Gille, but after he’d sold her the castle, she’d not asked him for a forwarding address. She supposed if she sent an investigator to look for him, he would be easy to locate, but better yet, she’d best have a visit with her own solicitor.
“MacInnes,” she said, stepping into the hallway. “Send word to Mr. MacDonald that I shall be arriving at his office directly and then have my carriage brought around.”
“Aye, miss.”
There was no way she was going to let her sister suffer more at the hands of Lorne Gordon.
4
The sun split through the blinds in Lorne’s bedchamber at Sutherland Gate, his Edinburgh townhouse, searing itself into his eyes like a blade.
He sat up in bed, rubbing his face, and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, laid out by the very same man who’d opened the blinds. Mungo stood there before the light, arms over his chest, assessing Lorne with what could only be described as impertinence. Blast the man for being his oldest friend, or he’d have ordered him out on his arse.
“Are ye trying to kill me?” Lorne asked, his voice thick from too much whisky the night before. He wasn’t used to drinking, and even the few cups he’d had felt as if he’d drowned himself in an entire distillery tub.
“Nay, Your Grace. But when ye stumbled in last night, ye did request I wake ye early for your appointment with your solicitor.” Mungo stood near the door, looking a wee bit too gleeful.
Lorne should have stopped after the second whisky with Alec, but alas, he’d missed his friend. They’d both been celebrating and commiserating at the same time. And the hoyden, J. Andrewson, was never far from his mind, nor the out-of-place vengeance she’d targeted him with.
The insane prospect his friend had presented came spiking back into his head, along with the vow not to drink so much again. If he couldn’t get Dunrobin back by legal means, then he ought to marry the hellion and take it. Absurd.
“Where is my valet?” Lorne slid his legs over the side of the bed, glad he’d recuperated briefly at Dunrobin before embarking on his journey to Edinburgh. The blisters on his feet had healed, as had all the aches and pains. Hearty and delicious meals made by his cook made him feel more like himself. Now that he wasn’t so weak, he was ready to start exercising again as well.
“I imagine Paul is sleeping as ye told him to take the day to himself, seeing as how he’d been serving your brother all these years, and ye wished him a day of rest.” Was there a hint of mocking in Mungo’s voice?
Lorne grunted. “And that’s why ye’re here?”
Mungo shrugged. “No’ exactly. Ye’re a grown man, and I figure ye can dress yourself.”
“I can.” Lorne stumbled toward his dressing room to splash water on his face.
“I’ll see that the dining room has breakfast placed out.”
“I do no’ need anything special.”
“I’ll be sure to tell your cook that.”
Lorne dressed quickly in breeches, shirt and coat, forgoing the kilt he wished he were wearing in favor of more businesslike attire for this morning’s task. He wolfed down eggs, toast and bacon, slugged back two cups of black coffee, and then called for his horse.
“No carriage?” Mungo asked.
“No.” Edinburgh hadn’t changed much; most things were still in the same place. And if he got lost, he’d toss a coin and be pointed in the right direction. At least he hoped so.
Besides, he didn’t want his new mount to think he’d abandoned him, especially when he’d yet to christen the steed with a name.
