Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,4

straight from the king’s finest chef. He set the food on the table, then handed Lorne a cup smelling of spirits.

“Nay, thank ye,” Lorne said, pushing the liquor away, even as he sank deeper into the water to keep his scars hidden.

“Drink. It’ll make hearing the truth no’ sting as much.”

Lorne didn’t have the energy to argue. He downed the dram in one swallow. “What else do ye have to say, Mungo?”

“As I mentioned, Gille sold the castle.” Mungo moved to the far wall, leaning against the stones outlining the window.

“My hearing is just fine.” Lorne massaged his temples.

“He has also absconded with the funds, my laird.”

Lorne gritted his teeth, having surmised as much. “Has he sold my other holdings as well?”

“I’m no’ certain, but your solicitor will be able to tell ye more. I’ve already sent a man to summon him.”

“Who owns my castle?” Lorne bit out, imagining some pompous windbag coming in and desecrating the place that had been in his family for generations.

“J. Andrewson, my laird.”

Andrewson. Lorne tried to hide how startled he was at hearing the name, but water sloshed over the side of the tub. It fell into the grooves between the wooden planks of the floor in long, wet lines. Was his past coming back to haunt him—or was it just a coincidence?

“That is a common name, is it no’?” Lorne asked hopefully.

“Aye, Your Grace. I’ve a cousin in Edinburgh by that name.”

“No’ J?” Lorne asked, half-jesting.

“No relation, I swear it.”

So, it was possible it did not belong to that family of which he did not want to think about, the one he’d separated himself from, though he hated the coincidence of it.

“When does Mr. Andrewson take residence?”

“He has no’ said, sir. But he did mention we could stay in the meantime.”

Lorne jerked forward, hands on the rim of the tub, as he met Mungo’s gaze. “Does that mean there is an expiration date on everyone’s occupancy? That I am at his mercy, accepting charity from a stranger?”

“There were no specifics.” Mungo glanced toward his boots. “But some of the clan have already found work with relations, and others are making preparations. The clan is worried, my laird. I’d no’ wanted to tell ye this so soon after ye’ve returned, but I did no’ think it could wait.”

“Ye’re right. I will write to Mr. Andrewson straight away. Fetch me paper, ink and quill.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Mungo headed for the door, but Lorne stopped him. “I will fix this.”

“I have no doubt.”

“Tell everyone no’ to…worry.”

“I will. We trust ye. And know that ye have only to ask anything of us, and we’ll see it done.”

As soon as Mungo was gone, Lorne dried off and dressed. He’d not worn a plaid in years, and the feel of being unrestricted on his legs was a welcome comfort to the tight breeches he’d worn when confined. The shirt, however, was snug nearly everywhere and made up for the comfort of his kilt exponentially.

Mungo came back with the writing implements as Lorne was finishing up his food and downing a mug of ale.

“Do we have a new cook?”

“Nay, Your Grace.”

“Huh,” he mused. “Well, send my compliments.”

“Aye, I will. Will there be anything else?”

“Join me.” He indicated the empty chair opposite him. “There’s plenty here for us both.”

Mungo looked as if he was about to hesitate. “Master Gille did no’…”

“I am no’ my brother, and whatever heinous acts he wrought on ye, on anyone else, can no’ have erased how I treated ye in the past. I might be a duke, but that does no’ mean I’m no’ one of ye. Ye’re my oldest friend, Mungo. Sit. Drink. Tell me what I have missed, besides my…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to mutter the word “brother” anymore. Not when Gille had done just about the worst thing Lorne could think of. “Besides the most recent shift of ownership, which I will soon rectify.”

While Mungo spoke about the thriving crops, the new pier on their beach giving them access to the North Sea and the marriages and deaths that Lorne had missed, he imagined the many ways in which he’d surprise his half-brother. The dangerous smile he’d flash at Gille. The way he’d like to take his sgian dubh from his long sock and use it to peel back the skin from Gille’s arms slowly. How he’d flick the flesh to rabid dogs if any were near.

When his bloodlust seemed mostly quenched, then he imagined what he’d say to Mr. Andrewson to