Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,64

the least fashionable of her working gowns and her sturdy boots. Physical labor nixed the need for fashion.

It was a good thing Aunt Beatrice had left that morning, for she might have truly lost consciousness if she saw Jaime working so well alongside the men, slickened with sweat and muck.

Dawn had barely broken when Jaime’s work was interrupted by a slow rise in the chatter, and her men pointing toward the docks. She followed their gazes. Standing there in breeches and linen shirts with their sleeves rolled up was the Duke of Sutherland, his cousin Malcolm, and his friends Alec and Euan, the latter two whom she briefly recalled from the ball.

“Oh God, what’s happened?” she murmured, straightening. She could only think a major disaster had happened to bring the men here to her ship.

“Pardon?” Emilia said.

“Nothing. I’ll be right back.” Jaime hurried down the gangplank, her boots thundering against the wood, to the four waiting aristocrats. All larger than life and dressed considerably down for their stations. Below the elbows of Lorne’s shirtsleeves, his skin was exposed. Well-muscled forearms they were, but his left arm bore the brunt of a massive scar. She didn’t want to stare and quickly averted her gaze. “Good morning, sirs, how can I help ye? Has something happened?”

“We heard about the ship,” Lorne said, nodding. “We came to help.”

Jaime wrinkled her nose at him. She could not have been more surprised if the mast had reassembled itself. “What?”

He glanced behind her and pointed. “Is that no’ your ship?”

Jaime didn’t look. “Aye.”

“With the broken mast?” He slowly spoke as if trying to color a picture for her.

“Aye.”

He waited perhaps for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he continued, “Thought ye could use a few extra hands. We were all meeting today for a bit of exercise, and well, this will do nicely—as well as help ye out.”

She stood in stunned silence for a moment, trying to comprehend. But her tired brain couldn’t put two and two together. “Why would ye want to help me?”

The three men with Lorne raised eyebrows in his direction and then excused themselves toward the ship to get to work.

“Nay, do no’ go up there,” Jaime said.

The men pivoted around, puzzled expressions on their faces. However, on the ship deck, Emilia saw the men coming and called them to her, embracing the extra help as Jaime should have. The men looked to her for confirmation, and Jaime gave a resigned nod.

She turned back to Lorne. It was hard to meet his gaze after last night. She’d let herself fall under his spell once more, succumbed to pleasure, and now he was here, attempting to help her. The last thing he should be doing. They should be far from each other. And most certainly, not helping each other. “What’s this all about?”

Lorne let out a short, exasperated sigh. “Exactly as I said. We came to help.”

“I do no’ need ye.”

“I know. Ye’re a verra capable woman. If these men were no’ in your employ, I believe ye’d try to take on the whole bloody task yourself.” He sounded irritated, and she couldn’t blame him.

He was not wrong. She did like being in control. And she was at present acting like more than her usual stubborn self. “How did ye find out about it?”

“The missive ye sent with your butler.”

“I sent no such missive…” But her voice trailed off, and she frowned. MacInnes. The old fool was meddling. Had he seen them the night before? Her face heated at the thought.

“Well, someone did. And now, here I am. Point me in the direction of where ye’d like me to help first.” He leaned closer, his clean scent surrounding her. The heat of his breath fanned over her cheek as he whispered near her ear, “And stop trying to push me away, lass. I’m no’ going anywhere.”

Especially after last night… She could have finished that sentence for him.

“I’m no’ going to Ireland today.” She felt it necessary to say so, even if it was obvious.

“I had surmised as much.”

After several minutes of wrestling with herself to find her voice, Jaime relented. “Fine, ye can help. Come on.”

Lorne followed her up the gangplank, her skin prickling with need at his nearness. She led him down into the dimly lit underbelly of the ship where men were lifting barrels and crates.

“All of this has to go,” she said.

“All right.” Lorne lifted a barrel that would ordinarily be hefted by two men, as if it