Page 27 of Return of the Scot
“No, I have no’, but I’ve thought about it. And it’s as improper as me showing up on his doorstep.” Lot of good that had done her. It seemed when the two of them were together, all they did was split hairs, rather than move forward with what either of them wanted accomplished.
“I had heard about that. And given he tossed ye out for all to see, perhaps he owes it to ye to answer your questions.”
“The man does no’ believe he owes me anything. He is demanding I return the deed to the castle and has yet to reimburse me for the sale.”
“That’s odd. Does he truly want it back?”
“I have no doubt.” Jaime lifted the teapot to refill their cups.
“Hmm.” Giselle sipped from her replenished cup. “Men are so strange.”
“They truly are.” And maddeningly insufferable, especially the Duke of Sutherland. She glanced toward the door of the drawing room, half-expecting to see him barrel through it with more of his nonsense. Lord, she wouldn’t mind if he did, so she could give him another piece of her mind.
“Another reason I’m willing to put off another season without an engagement. Much to Mama’s disappointment.”
“I never want to marry,” Jaime agreed. Her stomach tightened at the thought, and she decided to change the subject. “Do tell me who made your dress. It is divine.”
Giselle smoothed a hand over the silken frock. “Oh, aye, Madame Yolande. She’s newly come to Edinburgh from Paris.”
“I will have to set up an appointment with her.”
“Ye should, and soon. She is filling up fast.”
The conversation moved through various fashions and other town gossip, with Jaime certain not to mention the duke again, even if he were all she could think about. The man was consuming her every waking contemplation, taking up residence in her head where he didn’t belong and was certainly not welcome.
7
He’d been avoiding her for days now. Consumed with the search for his brother, his accounts, regaining his strength, and of course, the simple act of avoiding her because she drove him mad. Even as maddening as she was, he would choose the torment of her brooding stare and cantankerous tongue over being imprisoned. Hell, he’d bear it for a lifetime.
That was something one learned when they’d been in hell, that there were monsters a lot darker, and troubles a lot harsher, complications grimmer. And so, that was how when he woke up each morning since returning from the continent—he was a survivor and would keep on keeping on.
Over breakfast, he’d sifted through the stack of newspapers and broadsheets brought in by Mungo. He ignored the cartoons of him and Jaime yanking back and forth a small castle that he supposed was Dunrobin. Rubbish. The papers had been filled with rumors about his return and their subsequent visits. Even going so far as to suggest that perhaps he’d come back to ravish Jaime in the same way her sister had accused him of nearly a decade before.
It was all drivel, of course. A bunch of nonsense from writers who couldn’t find a fact beyond the tip of their nose and likely didn’t get that much right.
However, upon entering his club to locate Malcolm and inquire if anything had been found about Gille, his eye was drawn to five men hunched over a betting book. They were talking rather rambunctiously and laughing, and Lorne could swear he heard them say “Andrewson.”
What the devil?
He wedged his way between the men, none of them yet noticing that it was him seeing what was written in the book: Bets on Duke Seducing Another Andrewson.
Lorne could not believe what he was seeing—and then the words blurred, and all he saw was red. Men were betting on how long it would take before he ruined Jaime? The bloody bastards.
“Who created this ridiculous shite?” he demanded, letting his anger show.
The men leapt back, the book dropping as no one wanted to claim ownership. He might have been gone from Scotland for a long time, but they all knew he would beat them bloody in a fight, and Lord, was he wishing one of them would instigate it.
But no one answered. Lorne lifted the book from the floor, turning to the page and reading a few of the names aloud. “MacIntyre, Ross, Blair. The lot of ye bastards.”
He ripped the pages from the book and tossed the rest of it at a club footman, who was all too happy grasp the scraps.
“Ye’re all a bunch of bloody fools. Return the bets placed. This is a dead gamble.” He stormed out of the club, angry that men he’d thought friends were betting behind his back. And grateful at the same time that he’d not seen his dearest mates on the list.
He hopped atop his mount and took off through the streets, narrowly avoiding a cart full of cabbage. Shortly, he found himself near the docks in Leith, watching Jaime talk with her men. Obscured by the dockhands busily working, he was content to watch and learn.
She was so lovely and serious. What he wouldn’t give to see a crack in that stony exterior, to see her smile. The lass was so different from her sister. Shanna had been all laughs and gossip. He’d found her irritating, but the match had been good, and her dowry had included a parcel of land in Ireland that he knew would work very well for sheep farming. At the time, he’d been of the mind to ignore the parts of her that irked him, only because brides were meant to carry on a man’s legacy. To produce heirs. Once they had the requisite heir and a spare, he’d leave her to her frivolous tendencies, and he could move on with his life. They need not be friends. That was what his mates were for.
The moment she’d betrayed him with the one thing he’d desired out of a marriage—heirs—he’d ended things. In that heated moment, he’d also decided he wasn’t going even to attempt to find another bride—that he’d let the title and lands fall to his brother. Soon after, he’d been called to the front lines. And all he’d longed for while fighting a battle, and lying awake in a cold cell, had been to wish that someone back home were praying for him, thinking of him. That there would be a pair of warm arms to welcome him home.
