Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,8

she found the silk walls of the room a bit too constrictive. What she wouldn’t have given to blow the roof off her townhouse and feel the cool air wash over her skin.

“I’m afraid if what ye’ve come for is the deed to your castle, I can no’ oblige ye.” Fabulous! Her voice did not waver at all. Soon, she’d be rid of this man—and the twisting in her belly.

Lorne’s teeth pulled back in a momentary snarl before softening into a smile. The man had amazing control of his temper; she would give him that.

“What do ye want, Miss Andrewson?”

“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.