Page 7 of Return of the Scot
To hell with the duke. No one would tell her what to do. Not even a duke come back from the dead. Jaime was a free woman. A wealthy woman. And she could do whatever she pleased. Including buying a castle and its surrounding lands. Which she’d done.
Lorne Gordon could not waltz into her drawing room and demand she return it. And she wouldn’t, even if he offered double the money. Because buying his castle had not been about money or the ownership of a grand estate. It had been about something much deeper. Besides running the family company, one other thing had filled Jaime’s days the past nine years—a burning vengeance toward the Sutherland clan.
Perhaps there was a silver lining to the duke’s return— this would make her vengeance all the sweeter, for she desired only to watch him suffer.
Jaime moved toward the window and stared down at the street below. A carriage waited outside her house, black and shiny with the duke’s gilded crest on the side. All of New Town would be talking about his visit before high tea could be cleared. “Send him up, please.”
She waited nervously, listening to the sound of footsteps beyond the door, and when they came, she was still shocked to see the tall, brooding figure of Lorne Gordon filling the doorway.
Lorne Gordon, living and breathing—seeming to suck all of the air from the room.
He looked taller than she remembered from a decade ago. Broader. Most definitely broader and with an air of danger about him that elicited a rush in her blood. He was elegantly dressed in a kilt of green and blue, a white muslin shirt, crisp cravat, green waistcoat and tailcoat to match. Cream-colored wool socks came up to his knees, and his feet were clad in polished leather shoes. Compared to the merchants, sailors and businessmen she dealt with daily, this man cut a distracting and—dare she even think it—dashing figure. Heat flooded her face, and her belly welcomed a swarm of bees to zoom about, making Jaime feel as if she were crawling out of her skin.
Dark hair swept over his brow. While she normally preferred a man that was cleaner cut, neat and tidy, the instant attraction she found to his wild look had her mouth going dry in both shock and dismay. Murky gray eyes, the color of aged steel, locked onto her face and widened with surprise. Elegantly arched brows rose, and a frown creased the corners of his full lips.
How was it possible she was still standing when her knees felt so weak? Oh, bother, she couldn’t care! She could not allow wayward thoughts or idiotic physical impulses to sway her decision to see him suffer.
Lorne glanced at MacInnes when her butler spoke.
“Miss Andrewson, allow me to present His Grace, the Duke of Sutherland.”
“Thank ye, MacInnes. Would ye care for some tea, Your Grace?” she asked.
Lorne stared at her, speechless it would appear, and to be honest, she wasn’t certain how she was finding the strength to inquire about his interest in a drink. Without waiting for him to respond—which from the looks of it, he might never—she said to her butler, “Tea, please.”
“Right away, miss.” MacInnes bowed to the duke, backed from the room and shut the door quietly.
Lorne cleared his throat, shifting on his feet as he worried the bottom of his waistcoat.
“Miss Andrewson, have we met before?”
Jaime was proud of herself for not blanching at his question. The ridiculousness and preposterousness of his query made her want to scream. Instead, she folded her hands in front of her and met his gaze head-on, refusing to be cowed as any other woman might have been in the presence of a duke.
“We have.” She did not elaborate.
Firm lips pressed together as he nodded, crossing into the room some more but still looking quite out of place. Uncomfortable, even, in his skin.
“Please have a seat.” She swept her hand toward the finely brocaded silver-and-yellow wingback chairs.
He looked as though he would hesitate but then stepped cautiously forward and sat. Dear heavens… The man filled what she’d thought was a large chair, making it appear as though it were made for a toddler. Pretending she wasn’t so affected by his presence, Jaime took the chair opposite him, perching on the edge of it and miraculously keeping her hands from trembling.
“What can I do for ye, Your Grace?”
He narrowed his eyes, obviously not one for having to voice his desires. “I’m certain ye know.”
She gave a dainty shrug, flicked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirt. “Why do ye no’ tell me?”
His sudden shift forward had her narrowing her eyes. Was he trying to make her feel uncomfortable? Scared even? Clearly, he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
“Ye know verra well what I’ve come for.”
Jaime’s heart did a little skip, and suddenly, she found the silk walls of the room a bit too constrictive. What she wouldn’t have given to blow the roof off her townhouse and feel the cool air wash over her skin.
“I’m afraid if what ye’ve come for is the deed to your castle, I can no’ oblige ye.” Fabulous! Her voice did not waver at all. Soon, she’d be rid of this man—and the twisting in her belly.
Lorne’s teeth pulled back in a momentary snarl before softening into a smile. The man had amazing control of his temper; she would give him that.
“What do ye want, Miss Andrewson?”
