Page 6 of Return of the Scot
“A miracle?” MacInnes kept his face blank of any expression.
“There is no such thing as miracles. Men do no’ die and come back to life, MacInnes. He was never dead. The entire thing has been a great farce played on all of England and Scotland, which I would no’ put past him, given his propensity for falsehoods.”
MacInnes did not answer but patiently waited as she resumed her pacing, the card crumpled in her fist.
He was supposed to be dead.
Jaime stared down at the letter in her trembling hand, trying not to toss it into the fire.
How in Hades could a dead man be paying her a call?
Why now? Dead for two years, and just as she was about to complete what she’d been working toward, he’d decided to show his face.
Oh, dear heavens—had her sister run into him? Jaime had gifted her sister and nephew Dunrobin Castle a week or so ago, and they’d left right away, though she still held the deed in a locked drawer in her office. Had poor Shanna been subjected to a specter? Was that why her sister had failed to report on the castle in the Highlands? She’d sworn to write Jaime as soon as they arrived. That had been days ago.
Jaime paced her drawing room, certain she would wear a path into the beautiful silk Persian rug in light blue, gold and rose medallions.
Lorne Gordon, the Duke of Sutherland—former duke—alive? No. His title had been given to his half-brother upon his death. She’d read all about it in The Edinburgh Advertiser. The only Duke of Sutherland was Gille Gordon.
There had been some kind of mistake. Lorne was supposed to be dead. She scoffed.
This was a cruel trick. A scam from someone jealous of her. Someone who wanted her out of the way, perhaps to sabotage all she’d worked for these past years. MacInnes was getting older; his eyes must have deceived him.
Without a doubt, purchasing the Highland castle had been about revenge. Revenge against a dead man who’d scorned her family. She’d felt satisfaction in holding the deed to his home. Despite her motivation, the move had brought about something else—her plans to build a great port in the north to expand the Andrewson shipping company.
So why did she feel so awful right now?
Wasn’t revenge supposed to feel better than this? It was supposed to leave a gleaming satisfaction that rippled through the veins and a permanent smile on the face of the victor.
Scowling, Jaime marched over to her teacup and sipped. Drat, it had gone cold. She set her teacup down and stared out the window overlooking the city of Edinburgh. The day was overcast, but she could still see a parade of noble ladies taking constitutionals in Charlotte’s Square. Aye, perhaps it would have been better for Jaime to have her residence near the Port of Leith, closer to her father’s—nay her—shipping company.
But why should she not be in the center of high society? New Town was all the rage for those who thought themselves too good for everyone else. And Jaime took a perverse pleasure in snubbing her nose at those of the Scottish ton. How dare they tell her she did not belong? Now, here she was in a house sought after by many, she being the highest bidder.
Her walls were papered in robin’s egg blue silk with silver-trimmed flowers in a deep rose, and the crystal chandeliers sparkled when they caught the light. The furniture was the most fashionable, and the walls were covered with artwork that she’d slowly acquired since she’d learned the value of a fine piece as a girl of thirteen. Her cook was the finest in Scotland, her servants discreet, and her butler served as a faithful bodyguard.
And yet, profound loneliness still filled her.
With Shanna and Gordie no longer here, and her parents passing years ago, the house was very quiet. Jaime herself had never married. Not for lack of her mother and father trying to attach her to a man. But she always had a troublesome time with the opposite sex. Her mother’s attempts at seeing her married at the appropriate age were humiliating, at best. With a sharp tongue, a desire to be independent and a mind for business, Jaime was not a prime catch for men looking for a fashionably docile wife.
When her father passed away, leaving her in control of Andrewson Shipping Company, Jaime threw herself enthusiastically into the business.
And now, appreciating the freedom she had, Jaime had chosen not to marry, even if there had been more interest from the rougher sex after her sudden influx of wealth and her assumption of power over the shipping company.
If they didn’t want her before, why should she give them the time of day now? It wasn’t as if her personality had changed. They weren’t worth her time. Marriage and children would not be her legacy; instead, her contribution to society would be the company, which she would one day leave to her nephew, Gordie.
After wearing another side of her rug down to the weave, a lemon tart beckoned, and Jaime forced herself to sit a moment and take a delicate bite if only to absorb herself in a moment of deliciousness. Frowning, she set it back on the plate, the usual clashing flavors of sweet with sour dull on her tongue.
Maybe revenge would have felt better if the man she was seeking her vengeance on had not suddenly come back to life—as though he were haunting her for having managed to purchase his birthright.
Hopefully, her sister kept the castle gates locked if and when the duke decided to return to his holding.
Jaime would not be bullied into parting with the property. That had to be the only reason he was here. All of the papers were in order. According to the War Office, Lorne Gordon had died. He’d made certain they thought so, and in his irresponsible absence, his brother had been desperate enough to sell the castle. According to Gille, Lorne had run the family’s funds and properties into the ground. There had been no other choice but to sell to save the other properties and the clan from starvation and utter ruin.
“Miss, I can send him away if ye wish.”
“Aye.” She paused, then shook her head. “Nay. If ye send him away, he will only come back.”
MacInnes gave a curt nod.
