Page 11 of Return of the Scot
Lorne had not thought about that before. Aye, he’d had a house in town—one in London, too—but Gille could have sold off those properties as well.
“I’ve got a meeting with my solicitor in an hour.” He scanned the dim room, frowning at the surreptitious glances he was getting from men playing cards or at the bar having a drink.
“Is this about Gille?”
Lorne let out his breath. “So ye heard?”
“Most of Scotland heard…” Alec sat forward, his fingers steepled. “Perhaps your solicitor will be able to make the sale contract null and void. After all, there are clauses for if a man is presumed dead and his property is sold.”
“That is my hope.”
Alec shrugged and sat back again. “Then again, ye could always marry the lass and take what is yours.”
Lorne’s frown deepened. Marry her? Not on his life. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. If the only option left was to marry the lass, then he might consider it. But before he chose to toss himself into the dark depths of hell once more, he’d see what his solicitor could do for him.
“I’d rather no’.”
Alec drummed his fingers on the glass, his heel tapping on the floor. The man was more anxious than Lorne, which seemed impossible given Lorne had been the one imprisoned.
“Are ye certain all is well with ye?” Lorne asked. “Ye seem…out of sorts.”
Alec grunted. “My mother. She wants me to marry. I’ve been dodging blushing bonnets and their mothers for weeks. Last week, however, a persistent papa sought me out here. I’m trying to lay low.”
“And ye’d see me wed first?” Lorne chuckled. “Hypocrite.”
Alec grinned. “’Tis a bit hypocritical of me, aye. Miss Andrewson is a beauty, though, and turned down every man in Edinburgh and even some from abroad. Rich as Croesus, too.”
“Even if she were a legendary Greek royal, I’m no’ interested in marrying the chit.” There was an edge of bitterness to his tone.
Alec chuckled. “Got under your skin, eh?”
“A little.” He hated to admit that.
“She has that effect on most people. Bristly like a thistle.”
That was one way to describe her.
Though perhaps there was some merit to what Alec was saying. A little flirtation could go a long way in disarming a person. Just look at how he’d trusted his ex-fiancé. While he was out of practice with the arts of flirtation, there was one thing Lorne did not lack—determination.
All he had to do was win her trust, and if she fell in love with him along the way, what difference did it make? As soon as he had the deed to his castle back in his hands, he’d say goodbye to the vindictive wee wench, rich and beautiful or nay.
Wooing Jaime was likely going to be a bigger challenge than any of the other battles he’d ever fought—but one in which he refused to lose.
* * *
Jaime stood there so long glaringlemons that the wallpaper could have begun to peel. Her—a fool? How naïve did that pompous duke think she was? Did he honestly believe that she wouldn’t have noticed her sister had born a bastard? That the man Shanna was supposed to marry abandoned her to such a fate?
Perhaps the lying rogue had presumed her sister would run away or that her family would accept what fate dealt her. Maybe he was even idiotic enough to believe that society wouldn’t shun Shanna for what he’d done. That some other man would come along and marry her, take care of her. Take care of the consequences of the duke’s indiscretion…
Fury rolled through her veins like molten lava. For years now, she’d had to protect her sister from the pain of that loss. The pain of what people said about her in public. The ridicule of those who thought themselves better. The disappointment of their parents.
All Jaime wanted was for her sister to be happy—and to make Lorne Gordon pay for what he’d done. Even when he’d been pronounced dead, she’d not given up that vendetta. Jaime had taken his legacy and given it to those who rightfully deserved it. Duke or nay, he couldn’t walk back into the world and demand that everything be righted to the way he’d left it.
Jaime wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow it.
Who in all of Christendom did that man think he was? Waltzing into her drawing room as though he owned the place, as though he could tell her what to do, and then to retreat with a threat so boldly and arrogantly on his tongue.
Not over, indeed.
