Page 4 of Return of the Scot
Lorne didn’t have the energy to argue. He downed the dram in one swallow. “What else do ye have to say, Mungo?”
“As I mentioned, Gille sold the castle.” Mungo moved to the far wall, leaning against the stones outlining the window.
“My hearing is just fine.” Lorne massaged his temples.
“He has also absconded with the funds, my laird.”
Lorne gritted his teeth, having surmised as much. “Has he sold my other holdings as well?”
“I’m no’ certain, but your solicitor will be able to tell ye more. I’ve already sent a man to summon him.”
“Who owns my castle?” Lorne bit out, imagining some pompous windbag coming in and desecrating the place that had been in his family for generations.
“J. Andrewson, my laird.”
Andrewson. Lorne tried to hide how startled he was at hearing the name, but water sloshed over the side of the tub. It fell into the grooves between the wooden planks of the floor in long, wet lines. Was his past coming back to haunt him—or was it just a coincidence?
“That is a common name, is it no’?” Lorne asked hopefully.
“Aye, Your Grace. I’ve a cousin in Edinburgh by that name.”
“No’ J?” Lorne asked, half-jesting.
“No relation, I swear it.”
So, it was possible it did not belong to that family of which he did not want to think about, the one he’d separated himself from, though he hated the coincidence of it.
“When does Mr. Andrewson take residence?”
“He has no’ said, sir. But he did mention we could stay in the meantime.”
Lorne jerked forward, hands on the rim of the tub, as he met Mungo’s gaze. “Does that mean there is an expiration date on everyone’s occupancy? That I am at his mercy, accepting charity from a stranger?”
“There were no specifics.” Mungo glanced toward his boots. “But some of the clan have already found work with relations, and others are making preparations. The clan is worried, my laird. I’d no’ wanted to tell ye this so soon after ye’ve returned, but I did no’ think it could wait.”
“Ye’re right. I will write to Mr. Andrewson straight away. Fetch me paper, ink and quill.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Mungo headed for the door, but Lorne stopped him. “I will fix this.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Tell everyone no’ to…worry.”
“I will. We trust ye. And know that ye have only to ask anything of us, and we’ll see it done.”
As soon as Mungo was gone, Lorne dried off and dressed. He’d not worn a plaid in years, and the feel of being unrestricted on his legs was a welcome comfort to the tight breeches he’d worn when confined. The shirt, however, was snug nearly everywhere and made up for the comfort of his kilt exponentially.
Mungo came back with the writing implements as Lorne was finishing up his food and downing a mug of ale.
“Do we have a new cook?”
“Nay, Your Grace.”
“Huh,” he mused. “Well, send my compliments.”
“Aye, I will. Will there be anything else?”
