And the only reason he’d bothered to restrain himself was because of the very, very slight chance that he was the interloper. Nothing he’d discovered since then answered that question one way or the other, damn it all. The marble female carved into one side of his ridiculous fireplace was beginning to look attractive, if he didn’t mind getting his cock burned off.
Kelgrove continued to look at him expectantly, and Gabriel shook himself. “We are in the middle of hostile territory, Sergeant. I agree that not everything is supposed to be a battle, but if I dismiss her too quickly we’ll have one on our hands. In addition, she has knowledge of these people and of Lattimer that I do not.” And working alongside her would hopefully reduce the time it would take the sergeant to find his footing. It added time to his own stay when he’d anticipated remaining no more than a week at most, but when he’d set that goal for himself he’d had no idea he’d be dealing with Fiona rather than her brother. If bedding her meant remaining in the Highlands a few more days than he’d planned, then so be it.
“I can’t argue with that,” the sergeant returned, obviously not reading Gabriel’s thoughts. “But it’s still my duty to tell you that in my opinion these Scots are trying to get rid of us. A footman and Mrs. Ritchie the cook spent nearly an hour this morning regaling each other with bloody tales of hauntings at Lattimer—those in the master bedchamber in particular. And they made damned certain I could overhear them.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that. I’ve been haunted for four nights, now.”
The sergeant didn’t seem to know what to make of that. “You have? You never said. I’d have been on my horse and riding south before I finished screaming.”
Gabriel shrugged. “It’s nothing I can shoot or that can shoot me, so I didn’t see the point.” And after the third night of nonsense he’d pulled the paintings off the wall, found the strings, and cut them. Last night had been much quieter, but he didn’t mean to bring up anything about the subterfuge. His so-called steward could do that, if she wished to know whether he’d begun to feel spooked or not.
“You’re a braver man than I am. But you do know if they can’t frighten us away, they’ll likely attempt something more forceful, next.”
Gabriel agreed. “It seems to be my luck that I’m pulled away from a war straight into a rebellion.”
The sergeant sent him a quizzical glance. “Do you think they’re Jacobites?”
“Probably.” Even as he sighed he couldn’t help but find that amusing; not only had he landed in the middle of a conflict, but it had to be one that had been settled decisively—and exceedingly brutally—sixty years ago.
“We could send for troops,” Adam suggested. “God knows most men would give an arm to serve under the Beast of Bussaco, even in Scotland, and even with a title added onto his rank.”
“I’m not sending for an army.” Just the idea of bringing redcoats into the middle of this powder keg made him shiver. And not because he could already imagine the “I knew it” look on Fiona’s face. When Ronald Leeds died, the battle of the Highlands had become Gabriel’s. Calling in reinforcements after less than a week would be admitting defeat before he’d barely begun.
“But—”
A knock sounded at the door. Before he had time to respond, the heavy oak swung open. Sir Hamish Paulk, Fiona’s uncle and, as he’d discovered, a clan Maxwell chieftain, strolled into the library. Not only was Paulk dressed for a grand ball, but he swung an ivory-tipped cane in one hand. Gabriel would have wagered a month’s pay that the thing sheathed a rapier.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Hamish said grandly, bowing.
“Come in,” Gabriel returned belatedly, and Kelgrove coughed.
“I … Oh. Aye,” Fiona’s uncle rejoined with a chuckle. “If I’ve interrupted ye, I do apologize.”
Hm. The Maxwell chieftain was much friendlier today, in a too grand, completely insincere way. Too grand, in fact, for Hamish to think anyone would fall for it—which made it a very poorly veiled threat. Good. That removed any reason for him to be polite in return. “I expected you three days ago.”
Sir Hamish hesitated for a bare moment, then resumed his stroll forward. Taking the seat opposite Kelgrove, he settled back and crossed a calf over the opposite knee. “I did mean to be here, Yer Grace, to greet ye properly now that we all ken who ye are,” he drawled, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from his dark blue coat sleeve. “But yer arrival has stirred things up some. I spent all afternoon yesterday, fer example, convincing Father Jamie Wansley that yer being at Lattimer didnae mean the king’s army was marching up behind ye.”
This damned business that he somehow meant to murder everyone in their beds hadn’t been amusing to begin with. Yes, he knew how to fight, but he was a soldier, not a brawler and not a damned murderer. For God’s sake, he’d been wearing civilian clothes since that first day, and he’d only snarled at Fiona—and only after she’d snapped at him first. His familial duty had brought him here, damn it all, not his military one. “I hadn’t realized Highlanders panicked so easily,” he returned aloud.
The Scot’s left eye twitched. He’d scored a hit, then. Good. The Highlanders certainly spoke their minds, and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t. He always had before now.
“We dunnae panic,” Paulk countered, his tone more brittle. “We arenae accustomed to having a duke in residence. And we arenae accustomed to having an English soldier aboot. When ye combine—”
“Of course you are,” Gabriel interrupted.
“We are what?”
“Accustomed to having English soldiers about. That’s been your complaint since well before Culloden. Too many redcoats tramping across the Highlands.”
Sir Hamish’s face turned scarlet. “I’ll nae have a Sassenach speak of that place in my hoose,” he growled, gripping his cane.
“This isn’t your house,” Gabriel returned crisply. “And yes, I am a soldier. I was born in 1783, thirty-five years after Culloden. I’ve killed a great many men, but never yet a Scotsman.” He sat forward, holding Maxwell’s gaze. “I want to make that perfectly clear, Paulk.”
“I told ye that I reassured Father Jamie.”
“So you did.” Gabriel straightened from the windowsill. “How many other people have you reassured that I don’t mean to murder them or drive them out of their homes?” They had a word in the army for a man who promised friendship and stirred hate. Calling Hamish Paulk a traitor, though, or a spy, would begin them down a path he’d wanted to avoid.
Maxwell’s fist tightened around the ivory handle of his cane. In response, Gabriel pushed one booted foot into the floor. Perhaps he didn’t need to resort to name-calling. He would allow the Scotsman to move first, only because that would answer several of his own questions. But neither would he be standing there if and when the blow landed.
“I dunnae take yer meaning, Yer Grace,” Maxwell said through clenched teeth, which made Gabriel think he understood it quite well. “I’m a Maxwell chieftain; I’ve a duty to look after my clan. At this moment ye cannae dispute that ye’re a large disturbance. And the people on this land are skittish when it comes to change.”
According to what he’d been overhearing he wasn’t the only disturbance in the area, but he wasn’t supposed to know about the thievery—unless he could twist up Sir Hamish enough to get the chieftain to mention it in his presence. Then he could jump on the information without having to reveal that he’d been eavesdropping on Fiona.
“If it’s a disturbance to bring a bit of order to land I own, particularly when I was brought here because of your own niece’s lack of cooperation, then so be it. And the people on this land, who evidently look to you for reassurance, are going to have to accept that some change is inevitable. And you are not—”
The door swung open again, accompanied by a swirl of soft green and the scent of heather. “Uncle Hamish!” Fiona exclaimed. “Nae a soul told me ye were here! I’d nae have interrupted if I’d known, but I thought His Grace
might care to drive oot to see his whisky distillery today.”
She’d been listening to the conversation, then, and had also come to the conclusion that her uncle could be maneuvered into wagging his tongue about the sheep thefts. Clever chit. But she’d given him another opening, and he wouldn’t pass it by. He sorted out problems for a living, after all. And Miss Blackstock happened to be a very stubborn, very attractive problem.
“Thank you, Miss Blackstock,” he said aloud. “I’d be very interested to see my distillery. I wish you’d offered earlier.”
Her mouth twitched in a forced smile. “There’s been a great deal to do.”
“And a great many obstacles to overcome.” Her, chief among them.
This time the amusement in her eyes looked genuine. “This is the Highlands. Some obstacles will nae ever be overcome.”
Now this seemed like progress. “I don’t know about that, Fiona,” he returned, using her given name intentionally and liking the way it felt on his tongue. “I’m a very determined man.”
“Ye cannae proceed here like this is one of yer military campaigns, Yer Grace,” Paulk interjected, clearly misreading the true topic of conversation. “It’ll serve ye best to have some patience. Because yer—”
“My mere presence is disruptive,” Gabriel finished. “I’m not convinced that’s a bad thing. It seems to me the lot of you could use some disruption.”
Fiona scowled to herself. There he went, digging at her uncle again. Och, the man was relentless, and worse, clever. He knew something was amiss, and he knew no one would be likely to answer his queries directly. And so he threw hot stones into the pot and waited for it to boil over. “Uncle Hamish,” she said with a too grand smile, trying to put out the fire before Lattimer found a reason to stay on in the Highlands. Because while she’d only known Lattimer for a handful of days, she did know that he would immediately decide the thievery business was his. He was an army major. Nothing was allowed to happen without his permission. “Did ye see the price of wool has gone up? That’s some fair news fer a fine morning.”
“I did,” her uncle said, a touch too sharply. “And that reminds me of someaught. Might I have a quick word with ye? I’ve a letter from the Duke of Dunncraigh.”
She nodded. Anything to separate the two men before something happened. “I’ll be back in a moment, Lattimer.”
Her uncle didn’t stop until they were halfway down the hall and deep into the billiards room. “What the devil are ye aboot?” he demanded, his voice hushed but his eyes fierce.
“What do ye—”
“Ye were flirting with him!”
Her cheeks darkened. “I wasnae!” She stepped closer to him. “The way the two of ye were sparring, I had to step in and distract him. I half expected ye to challenge him to do better than we have with finding the sheep thieves. And that would be unfortunate.”
The chieftain narrowed his eyes. “I’ve yet to need ye to advise me on what’s best fer the clan, Fiona. Ye mind yer own troubles. Ye may’ve done a fair job of keeping up an empty hoose, lass, but it isnae empty any longer. And if ye keep throwing yerself at him, ye’ll find yerself disgraced and replaced by that Sergeant Kelgrove when he goes. Now that would be unfortunate.”
Fiona blinked. After Kieran had vanished into the bog, she’d insisted that she could manage Lattimer in her brother’s stead. Hamish hadn’t liked the idea of a nineteen-year-old lass overseeing a castle and its accompanying ten thousand acres, but he’d disliked the idea of arousing the old Lattimer’s attention even more. The last thing they’d wanted was for the duke to send some Sassenach up to the Highlands to take over running the estate. With his own house and all the Maxwells in the valley to see to, Hamish Paulk couldn’t have managed it himself. But he’d helped her figure it out, helped her organize the books after the disaster her brother had made of them. And now, it seemed, he was finished with helping.
Of course she had just implied that he had a wagging tongue. Perhaps she’d hurt his feelings, and he’d simply struck back. She could blame her complete lack of finesse on Lattimer—in four days he’d upended everything, including her own common sense.
“Aye,” she replied, deciding he expected an answer. “I ken. But ye said we should be friendly. I think he meant to anger ye, Uncle. I wanted to help keep the peace.”
For a moment he regarded her. “I’ve nae doubt aboot that, lass. But I didnae say to be friendly. I said to be polite.”
Fiona nodded. Whatever the reason for his sharpness a moment ago, they seemed to still be allies, anyway. “Have ye truly a letter from Dunncraigh? He couldnae possibly know already that we’ve the new Duke of Lattimer here.”
“I’ve a letter, but nae, he doesnae know London found some soldier to take Lattimer from us again. I’ve sent word to him aboot that. I imagine he’ll want to make Gabriel Forrester’s acquaintance fer himself.”
Fiona began to feel light-headed. She’d been introduced to Domhnull Maxwell, the Duke of Dunncraigh, at a clan gathering when she’d been eleven or twelve. The chief of clan Maxwell had even spoken to her a few times since then, not that she felt entirely comfortable at being noticed by him or his circle. Dunncraigh always had an eye toward making alliances, expanding the clan’s influence. As the niece of a chieftain she had some status in the clan, and she did not want to be married off at someone else’s whim. “How fares His Grace?”
“Well.” Hamish sighed. “He’s ordered me to make the acquaintance of Viscount Harendell’s sisters. Seems I’ve been a widower long enough.”
She allowed herself a muffled sigh of relief that the letter hadn’t been about her. She wasn’t nineteen any longer, after all. Not for four years. “Ye have my sympathy,” she returned. “Do ye wish to remarry? Ye’ve nae spoken aboot it. Nae to me, anyway.”
Her uncle shrugged. “Ye ken yer aunt and I didnae see eye to eye. I’ll nae have another shrew, but I hear Morag Harendell’s pleasant enough.”
A shrew. Was that Agnes Paulk’s only epitaph? Fiona had always thought of her late aunt as being spirited, and she’d enjoyed the woman’s straightforward ways, so different from her own mother’s. In truth, in some ways she’d felt closer to Agnes than to Muran Paulk Blackstock.
“I dunnae know either of the Harendell lasses well,” she offered, stepping back toward the door, “but they both seem pleasant from a distance. And I ken the family’s wealthy as Midas.”
He gave a slight smile. “There is that. Before ye return to the Sassenach, Fiona, I need to know fer certain that ye understand what’s afoot here. He’s nae yer friend, and he’s nae wanted or needed here. If we can be rid of him before Dunncraigh arrives, all the better fer us.”
Oh, she didn’t need to be reminded about that. She nodded. “I ken.” Even if one of the men didn’t annoy her and the other one make her nervous, two dukes under the same roof was two too many. And with word already sent to Dunncraigh, she could find herself in precisely that situation within weeks, damn it all.
“Make my excuses, will ye?” Hamish said, apparently satisfied that she understood his warnings. “I find I’ve nae much more politeness to give the Sassenach today.”
If she knew Hamish Paulk as well as she thought she did, his involvement wouldn’t end at a letter. He would continue to smile in English and spread dissension in Gaelic. Fiona supposed she generally wouldn’t mind, except that while she wanted to be rid of Lattimer, she certainly didn’t want to see him—or anyone else—injured. Or worse. And that had nothing to do with the way she’d felt this morning seeing a lock of his raven-black hair fall across his temple despite his proper, precise haircut. Or that when Tilly the maid had asked the duke’s eye color she’d been tempted to describe the sky at dawn instead of simply saying “gray.” That was ridiculous.
Especially when they still had other avenues available to be rid of him.
Remaining in the billiards room for another moment to give her uncle time to vanish, she then squared her shoulders and strolled back into
the library. Sergeant Kelgrove had moved to the bookcase nearest the door, no doubt so he could conduct an inventory of all the books in the collection. Soldiers did like to count things. Lattimer, though, remained at the worktable, his palms flat on its surface as he leaned over the current ledger. He hadn’t put on his uniform since his arrival at the castle; either it had been ruined in the mud, or he’d realized that wearing the red was akin to jumping out into the middle of the lane during a horse race. For a single moment she allowed herself to speculate over what a fine figure he would likely cut in a proper Maxwell kilt, but of course that was worse than utter nonsense. He would never wear the plaid. He wasn’t a Highlander.
Chapter Seven
“Did your uncle slink away, then?” the Duke of Lattimer asked, lifting his head.
“Uncle Hamish doesnae slink anywhere,” she retorted, wondering if anyone else—if he—thought she’d been flirting with him. Ridiculous. It made her words harsher than she would otherwise have intended. “And ye shouldnae have spoken to him that way.”
“I’m not polished,” he returned, and gestured for her to take the seat across the table from where he stood. “Do you think he dislikes me now?” His tone was serious, belied only by one lifted eyebrow and a twinkle in his light gray eyes. “I had such high hopes after our first meeting.”
Fiona snorted. “Ye’re a strange one.”
“I’ve been called far worse than that, and by allies. Sit.”
The doorway seemed much safer, but with an exaggerated sigh she pulled out the chair and perched on the edge of it. “I have duties to see to.”
Hero in the Highlands Page 12
