Page 22 of Return of the Scot
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.
