Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,20

would use my shipping company for your exports, breaking off a long-standing partnership with your current export company, especially given our present circumstances.”

They rounded the corner, and the docks came into view. Massive ships rocked in the quay, their high masks stabbing at the sky and their sails tied down tight. Men teemed, carrying crates and barrels. Hammering, chiseling. Busy with all that kept her company running. The salty scent of the wharf was stronger as a breeze blew in off the water.

Lorne glanced sideways at Jaime, watching her expression soften as she took in the docks, her ships, her employees. There was pride in her face, a satisfaction that he could understand. And it made him long to be back at Dunrobin, to be back in the fields with his crofters. To be right there in the thick of everything that made the lands thrive. He might have been born a duke, but he was no stranger to work, and he’d never been one to shun the working men who made his entire existence possible. Nay, he leapt right in there with them.

In fact, he wouldn’t have minded right then and there, rolling up his sleeves and—

A shout came from their side as two men worked to carry a precarious crate and wavered on their feet, slanting sideways as if they were going to fall. The box started to tip.

Lorne dove into action, picking up the leaning side until the men were steady on their feet. It’d been an age since he’d worked his muscles, and though he strained, his body remembered what it was made for, and he held onto the weight, waiting until they were ready for him to release it.

“Good God, what is in this?” he asked, the weight of the crate all centered on that one side rather than evenly distributed. Probably had happened in the way they lifted it and was the fault of whoever had done the packing.

“None of your concern,” Jaime quipped, waving over another dockhand to take Lorne’s place.

“Thank ye, Your Grace,” the men speaking the words their mistress did not seem able to utter.

Lorne nodded and stepped out of their way as they continued on the path toward the ship, struggling as they went.

“I should help them,” he said.

“They’ll manage.” But as she said it, the three of them wavered again, only this time they were amidst their men, who hurried forward to help them settle the awkward haul.

Lorne raised a brow at her, but she ignored him. Why was she being so stubborn?

“Listen, Your Grace,” Jaime said, turning to face him fully, though she stared at his forehead rather than meeting his eyes. She ran her tongue over her lower lip, and he watched its quick glide, trying not to be mesmerized. “I spoke with my solicitor this morning. He informed me that ye have the right to reverse the sale and return the funds to me for the deed. But I warn ye that I’ll fight it.”

She looked so resolute that he almost didn’t have the heart to tell her that she didn’t have a choice. “Ye’re verra stubborn,” he said softly.

“I am determined. There is a difference.”

“I recognize and admire that, for I’m the same way. But I have to ask, why?”

Jaime’s chin lifted, her mouth clamped as tightly closed as an oyster. He waited a few moments, but she didn’t answer him, and he guessed at this rate she wouldn’t.

“J, ye’d be the last man on the battlefield, fighting against enemies quickly closing in. Except too late, ye’d find out the ones ye were fighting against weren’t your enemies and that ye’d been stabbing a comrade in the back.”

With those words and his irritation slowly boiling over, Lorne turned on his heel. This morning had not worked out the way he’d planned at all. Perhaps it would behoove him to pay her off and accept the loss. He’d find his brother eventually and squeeze out of the sapskull whatever remained from the sale.

Mouth agape, Jaime watched the duke stride away, his shoulders broad and square, confidence oozing from every limb.

What could he possibly mean that she’d stabbed a comrade in the back? As if they were friends. As if they should have been fighting a common enemy. He was not her comrade. He was mad. Touched in the head.

But as she checked on her various ships and cargo, her mind kept drifting back to what Lorne had said. There had been real anger in his words