Page 8 of Return of the Scot
“What I want, I already possess.”
“What else do ye want?”
As if she’d divulge that to a virtual stranger and one she loathed to boot. She smoothed a hand over the skirts of her pale blue gown. “I can no’ be bought.”
“Everyone has a price.”
“I do no’.”
“We shall see.” Suddenly he stood, towering over her.
Jaime craned her neck, marveling at the way his eyes pierced through her, but as quickly, he walked toward her window to look down below. There was a tension in his shoulders she found unnerving and alluring all at once. The urge to massage the rigidity away was intense.
Guilt riddled her. This was a man she hated. A man who had done her family wrong. Brought shame upon them. How could she possibly look at him with anything but disgust?
MacInnes reappeared with a second tray of tea, a serving lass behind him removing the set she’d been sipping before her unwanted guest arrived.
“Thank ye, MacInnes,” Jaime said, nodding when he gave her a look that asked if she was all right. Turning back to the rogue by the window, she asked, “Would ye care for some tea, Your Grace, or perhaps ye’d like to crawl back into whatever grave ye climbed out of?”
Her voice sounded jovial, welcoming, the opposite of how she truly felt. She hated this man. Had hated him for quite some time. If she had a vial of poison, she would likely pour it into his tea before serving it to make certain he died and stayed dead this time.
Lorne turned around, his expression blank as he eyed her and the cup of tea she held out.
“I did no’ come for tea, Miss Andrewson. I came for my castle, and ye well know it. Return the deed, reverse the sale, and I’ll be on my way.”
Jaime stood frozen, afraid the trembling in her hands would translate into the tinkling of the cup against the saucer. Quickly, she set the service down, folded her hands in front of her and fixed a stare on him not unlike what she used for the shipyard men. The true Duke of Sutherland was leaking out of his cleverly disguised ruse. While she’d not had much interaction with him nearly a decade before, she’d heard enough, knew enough, to ascertain exactly what type of person he was.
“I see being dead has done nothing for your manners or incredibly selfish nature, Your Grace. But might I remind ye that ye’re standing in my house, and I am no’ one of your servants, nor a subject suffocated by feudal codes. I am a successful businesswoman, one who has had the forethought and money to purchase your property. I am no’ interested in selling it back to ye. I am no’ interested in negotiating. What I am interested in is ye taking your leave.” Jaime drew in a deep breath through her nose and slowly let it out as the man standing before transformed from one of complete confidence and scorn to utter shock.
The moments ticked by as they stared at one another. Sweat started to accumulate on her spine. Oh, she couldn’t stand it any longer. If he didn’t speak, she was going to leap out of her skin.
Jaime went to the bell pull, her hand upon the rope, when his voice, filled with misery, stopped her.
“Miss Andrewson, please.”
3
Lorne was not a beggar.
Never in his life had he pleaded with anyone.
Not even when he’d been held prisoner. He hadn’t entreated his captors for mercy. Lorne was a warrior. Bashing his head against anyone who came near, fighting until they knocked him out. Rebelling until the day he escaped.
So, what in the bloody hell was he thinking, beseeching the harpy standing a few feet from him?
Momentarily stunned by his request, by her beauty, Lorne couldn’t form a single sentence. She stared at him with wide brown eyes, the color of freshly turned peat. Even though her chestnut hair was pulled into a tight bun at her nape, he could see the subtle threads of auburn and gold, practically feel the softness. There was not a trace of the lass she’d been when he’d known her sister. If he had to guess, he would have said she was not the same person. That someone was playing a trick on him, but the way she pursed her lips at him right then, the unforgiving line of her mouth—he’d seen that same look in her father.
When last he’d seen her, Jaime had been a dowdy lass headed for spinsterhood. And not because she wasn’t particularly attractive, but for her venomous tongue, which seemed to pull a veil over everyone’s eyes. He’d heard rumors, listened to her sister complain about it. But now to be on the receiving end—to know exactly what she thought about him as each word sliced into his gut.
The woman stood rigid, hands fisted at her sides, looking as stiff and stalwart as any warrior, save for the pretty light blue gown, the womanly curves. Ballocks…
In all her goddess-like glory, she glowered down her nose at him. A lovely package filled with animosity. Despite the circumstances, Lorne was intrigued by her and unbidden sparks of desire lashed within him. Which only made him feel more disgusted. He’d had entanglements with this family before. What he wanted was Dunrobin back, and he wasn’t going anywhere until she returned it to him.
Before the silence stretched on too long, Lorne cleared his throat and turned fully to face her, touching his fingers to a cool button on his waistcoat to ground himself.
“Miss Andrewson,” he started again, then stopped when she raised a perfectly arched brow and gave him such a look that if he’d been a lesser man, he might have backed toward her window, opened it up and flung himself out. The way to gain her attention and cooperation was not by telling her what to do. The only reason she’d turned around was that in a moment of weakness, he’d called out to her like some feckless fool.
Before he could continue, Jaime interrupted him. “I am unwilling to return the property, Sutherland. I understand that ye might have some attachment to it, but this was a business decision. The way Dunrobin Castle is situated upon the North Sea allows me access, and I have plans to build a private port there to expand my company.”
