Return of the Scot (Scots of Honor #1) - Eliza Knight Page 0,2

an outline of its placement, a faint shadow shouting of something being amiss. “Out with it, Mungo.” His voice shook.

“The castle…Gille…he took it, and—” Mungo sounded as if he were suffering an apoplectic fit.

Lorne suppressed the urge to smack the words out of Mungo’s mouth and instead tore off his second boot.

Finally, his old mate spoke, “He sold the castle. And the property surrounding it.”

Lorne snorted and plucked off his sock, wriggling his toes, reddened from the tightness of his boots. “That is a cruel jest, Mungo. If ye’re attempting to make me laugh, ye might want to try a little harder.”

Mungo stopped twirling the hat. “I assure ye, Your Grace, I am no’ jesting, and it is the verra last thing I want to tell ye upon your homecoming, but it had to be done before ye settled in.”

Lorne felt his throat close up tight as the truth of what Mungo was saying sunk in. Gille had sold the castle? Sold his land? The very stairs he was sitting on right at that moment were not his own?

It was an effort to speak, and when he did, his voice came out sounding strangled, far-off. “Where is Gille?”

“We do no’ know.”

“How long has he been gone?” Lorne stood, tossing his hose aside and placing his hands on his hips, so he didn’t grab Mungo by his shirt.

“A few weeks now. Since the sale.”

“Has anyone attempted to locate him?”

Mungo shook his head. “Nay, Your Grace, as we thought he’d abandoned us…”

Lorne nodded, speechless. The castle, the lands—all of which had been in his family for generations dating back to Scotland’s first kings—were no longer his. No longer a Sutherland holding. He was the bloody Duke of Sutherland and didn’t have a castle?

Was he a pauper now, too? What other reason could Gille have had to sell the property than for want of money? A vein pulsed in his temple as he wondered about the fate of his other properties and the fortune he’d left behind. Lorne closed his eyes to breathe in deep. This was not the homecoming he’d expected, not by half.

But at least he was in his home country. As bad as this news was, it didn’t compare to the hell of France. And he had the freedom to undo what his idiot half-brother had wrecked.

“We’ll fix this.” Lorne gritted his teeth. “I’ll fix this. Send for my solicitor in Edinburgh. Immediately.”

“Aye, Your Grace. Right away.”

“And ready a bath in my chamber. Or is that also no longer mine? Dear God, is the new owner here?”

Mungo thankfully shook his head.

“We’ll make up another room for ye right away for your bath and then prepare your chamber for tonight.” Mrs. Brody, roused from her faint, came toward him. She’d been the castle’s housekeeper for as long as he could remember, ever since he was a bairn. Since Lorne was motherless, Mrs. Brody had stepped in to clean up his scrapes. She touched his cheek, squinting as she stared into his eyes. “Is it really ye?”

“Aye.” He smiled softly, feeling emotion tighten his throat.

She nodded, pressed her lips together, and blinked away the tears that had gathered in her eyes. “Welcome home, Your Grace. We’re all happy to have ye back.”

Lorne cleared his throat, standing tall and glancing at the people he loved most, there in support of him. “Thank ye, Mrs. Brody. Mungo. Everyone. Ye’ve no idea how much I’ve longed for this moment. Albeit under different circumstances.” He let out a short laugh, trying to lighten the mood.

“As have we all. Lassies,” Mrs. Brody clapped her hands, “a bath for the master and a hot meal.” She glanced behind him. “And dredge up some of his old clothes that Gille had sent to the attics.”

Gille had his things removed? Of course, he had. Gille had thought him dead. That still didn’t explain what possessed his brother to abandon their heritage. Nor did it explain what had happened while Lorne had been gone.

Shortly, he would get to the bottom of this predicament. As the people around him moved in swarms, the exhaustion he’d felt on the road swooped in tenfold, and he gripped the wall to keep from swaying.

Mrs. Brody ushered him up the stairs and into a guest chamber. He could only assume that Gille had taken his room—well, the new master now, he supposed. And just as well. He couldn’t blame his half-brother for believing him dead, for assuming the title and taking what he thought was rightfully