“Unbutton my trousers,” he ordered, his mouth drifting down to her throat. He tugged down one side of her muslin gown and took her left breast into his mouth.
Fiona gasped, pleasure spearing through her. He knew what he was about, thank all the saints and sinners. “I’m nae one of yer soldiers,” she managed in between moans, rocking against him. “Ye cannae order me aboot.”
His fingers continued their trail up her thigh, dancing through her curls until he spread her open and dipped inside. “You’re wet for me, Fiona,” he murmured, and flicked his tongue across her taut nipple. “Open my trousers.”
With an unsteady sigh, dragging her fingers through his hair to keep his mouth pressed to her breast, she decided arguing with him now would be counterproductive. The buttons were stubborn, but she managed to open the trio of them and shove his trousers down past his thighs.
“Put your hands—”
“Shut up,” she interrupted, and wrapped one hand around his girth to stroke the length of him. Mmm. Another electric shiver settled between her thighs.
His fingers jumped and then returned to his intimate stroking. They could likely make a contest over who would come first, but she wanted that warm, generously sized cock inside her before he let loose.
“You’ve done this before,” he commented in a low moan, half closing his eyes as she stroked him again.
“And do ye have an objection to that?” she asked, breathing hard as his entire body shivered beneath her ministrations.
“I do not.”
“Wise words, Sassenach.”
Tugging her arms free of her dress, he pushed the material down to her waist, then dipped to tease at both her breasts with his mouth and one free hand. At the same time he slid the fingers of his other hand deeper, pressing his palm against her mound.
“God’s sake, Gabriel, get to it before I faint dead away, will ye?”
He took her mouth again, tangling his tongue with hers, then shifted his hands to shove her skirt up over her hips. She lifted against him, and he freed the material from beneath her bottom, leaving her entire gown bunched about her waist.
“Miss Fiona!” Fleming the butler’s frantic-sounding voice came from the direction of the stairs. Fleetingly she wondered how long he’d been calling for her. “Fiona! Where are ye, lass? It’s urgent, it is!”
Gabriel lowered his head against her shoulder. “Fuck,” he said, very quietly and very forcefully.
Then before she could make her mind work enough to say that she needed to answer the butler, he took her sleeves and helped her shove her arms back into them. His cock still jutting out from beneath the hem of his shirt, he lifted her off the desk to the floor and brushed at her skirt to settle it back down past her ankles.
“Go,” he whispered, and nudged her toward the door.
Fiona wasn’t certain she could walk in a straight line. Taking a deep breath and trying to shake the lust from her skin, she stepped forward and pulled open the door, making it into the hallway just as Fleming reached her. “Were ye calling fer me?” she asked, brushing at her eyes and making herself yawn. “I think I fell asleep on the ledger. Do I have ink on my forehead?”
That should have elicited at least a smile from the butler, but it only earned her a quick glance and a head shake. “I didnae want to say anything to the laird until I spoke to ye,” he said, his voice low and tense, “but I feared I’d have to go to him when I couldnae find ye.”
Her annoyance began to shift to alarm. “Ye did find me, Fleming. What the devil’s afoot, then?”
“A coach and four just came over the hill. Three more and yer uncle Hamish are with it. I cannae say fer certain, but I’d wager it’s the Duke of Dunncraigh. The Maxwell’s come to see the new laird.”
Chapter Ten
By the time Gabriel tucked his shirt back into his trousers and retrieved his coat from the floor, the entire castle practically reverberated with excitement. This Dunncraigh was the man they all wanted here. The Maxwell had their trust and their allegiance in ways a Sassenach soldier could never hope to accomplish—and not after only ten days in residence.
Another general had arrived on the field. At best that meant a shift of strategy, a reassessment of troops and the fragile, tentative loyalties he’d been cultivating. At worst, he would have a full-blown rebellion on his hands. Through all that, however, one thought stuck in his mind and refused to be dislodged—Fiona wanted him, and nothing this Dunncraigh said or did was allowed to interfere with that.
Before he left Fiona’s office, he replaced the ledgers in their drawer, then locked the desk and pocketed the key. Theoretically Dunncraigh could be a jovial, dim-witted drunkard who’d gained his position only because he’d been born into it. He supposed that happened as often in the aristocracy as it did in the army. But Gabriel had never planned a battle strategy with the idea that his foe would be incompetent. Or that his opponent would be alone and without allies—or in this case, that Dunncraigh couldn’t recruit them from his own damned household.
The side door of the office opened into a sitting room, which in turn opened either to the hallway or to a small gallery. From the gallery Gabriel made his way through another sitting room and what he assumed was supposed to be the steward’s office, since it was smaller and much more plainly appointed than the office Fiona currently used. He exited into the hallway at the foot of the servants’ stairs and made his way quickly and quietly up to his own bedchamber. Apparently all of the ten thousand servants he employed had made for the windows at the front of the house, hoping for a glimpse of their beloved duke.
Shoving aside the cot he’d had brought in, he grabbed the bellpull and yanked on it, then dug into his wardrobe. Thank God for Kelgrove and his obsession with clean, presentable attire.
“Dunncraigh—the duke, that is—just walked into your foyer.” Adam shoved open the door and swiftly closed it behind him. “You’d almost swear he owned the place.”
“Almost.” Gabriel stomped into his second boot. “Help me with this, will you?”
The sergeant hesitated, then hurried up to help him into his fresh crimson coat with its emerald facings. “I thought you’d decided that wearing this was a bad idea, Your Grace.”
“If I’m about to meet the man I expect to find downstairs, he’ll make certain everyone remembers who and what I am. This way I can greet a fellow duke in dress attire and cut him off at the knees at the same time.” He glanced at Kelgrove. “You got a look at him, then? I don’t suppose he was a drooling simpleton?”
“I saw him through a window. Then someone started shouting that you were shaking the bell off its hinges. I didn’t notice any drooling.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ll forgo the shako and the sidearms,” he decided. “I’ll leave it to you whether you want to be a civilian or a soldier.”
“I’ll have to be a civilian, then, because I’m not leaving your side until I know no one’s going to try to put a broadsword through you.”
“Or a knife in my gizzard?”
“That, too.”
For the first time in ten days, Gabriel felt like himself. He had no sheep thefts or other domestic problems to solve, no woman to chase, no worry that some fake ghost would begin lobbing books at his head in the night. The heavy, close-fitting wool coat, snug white trousers—he could barely remember a time when he hadn’t worn them. As for Fiona, the day he based his actions on whether she approved them or not, that would be his last damned day. She knew who he was in the uniform or out of it, and they’d been a literal inch away from having sex on what was probably his desk.
With Kelgrove on his heels, he walked to the head of the main staircase. He could hear them below, voices he didn’t recognize mingled with that of Hamish Paulk and the sweeter tones of Fiona. They spoke in Gaelic, which brought his level of alertness even higher. It might have been habit, or it might be the Highlanders attempting to keep something from the two Englishmen residing in the house. Either way, it would stop.
Nobody got to plot against him in his own bloody house. Even if he’d never owned one before.
For the second time that afternoon he felt the tensing of his muscles, the deep, slow breathing, the sense that the world around him, the unnecessary objects and sounds, faded while the goal before him became more clear, more vibrant. Fiona had done it to him the first time, as unexpected as it had been. This time, it was his old companion, war. If this wasn’t a battle, he would be disappointed. His body, his mind, were certainly ready for one. And the devil knew he had some excess frustration wound into it all.
Black eyes caught his and widened as he reached the landing. Gabriel wanted to keep his attention on her; she was by far the brightest object in the room. It took more willpower than he expected to look away and refocus. Sir Hamish had donned a crisply pleated kilt of red and green and black, the Maxwell colors. He’d known, then, that the duke was coming. Perhaps Dunncraigh had even stopped at Glennoch before arriving at Lattimer.
A trio of younger men stood ranged just outside the inner circle. Two wore plainer versions of the Maxwell plaid, while the third had dressed more like an English gentleman. What they wore didn’t matter, though; at this moment they were there to guard the duke, and he would keep an eye on all of them.
The man at the center of the gathering stood a little over six feet in height, his shoulders broadened by silver epaulets that adorned his black jacket. Like Paulk he wore a dress kilt, long white stockings, and ghillie brogues. Unlike Paulk’s, they were fine but not as crisp, as if he lived in them for longer than an afternoon. Deep green eyes beneath thick, neatly trimmed hair the color of bleached bones looked up at him, the mouth below thin and straight.
Gabriel added the new information in, filling the empty bits of his knowledge. The duke wielded power, and was accustomed to doing so. He expected reverence, but prepared for enemies. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the Maxwell was nobody’s fool.
“The Duke of Dunncraigh, I presume,” he said aloud, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.
“Aye. And ye would be Lattimer.” Dunncraigh said the last word like an insult, which wasn’t surprising. None of the Highlanders liked the name the English king had given to the castle. To them it would always be MacKittrick.
“Gabriel Forrester. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“Have ye, now? Then offer me a whisky and we can get acquainted.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Fleming, have someone fetch a bottle, if you please. One of the hidden ones; not the newborn piss you generally serve. We’ll be in the drawing room.”
Hamish didn’t like that, but Hamish Paulk wasn’t his main concern. This was about sharing information he wanted known, and acquiring more than the other side realized they were giving.
“I’ve lads outside who’ll need beds,” Dunncraigh stated, not moving.
“And I have enough footmen to see them all to rooms,” Gabriel returned. He was outnumbered already; hell, he had been from the moment he’d first arrived. “They can leave their weapons in the stable; I don’t like armed men in my home.” Unless they were him, of course.
“Ye heard His Grace, Artur. See to it.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The well-dressed man sketched a bow and then exited out the front door.
Fiona cleared her throat. “This way then, Yer Grace. Yer Graces,” she said, stepping well around Gabriel and heading up the stairs. As she passed, he could practically feel the air vibrating around her. Whether it was from worry or from anger, he couldn’t say. Not without giving her more of his attention than he dared at the moment. That didn’t make him want to do it any less, however.
It was an odd duality. Nothing distracted him from battle. His life, the lives of his regiment, the entire allied army might depend on his insight and concentration. He didn’t waver in his attention. Ever. Being in Fiona’s company, though, listening to her, touching her, had shifted from being a challenge with a very pleasant reward to an obsession that wouldn’t end with them naked together. At the moment he couldn’t reconcile the two halves of his desire—wanting her now and wanting her always—with his life and career, but he would have to do so. Soon. She pushed at his thoughts, set him afire. But he couldn’t give in to that. Not now.
The duke and Hamish followed her, while he fell in behind them. The two men now at his back were likely still armed, but Kelgrove would be behind them. Most men, he knew, hesitated before striking a blow. It was a huge gap, the divide between contemplating an action and taking one. For him that space didn’t exist. If anyone moved, he would be there first. The mobile chess game topped the stairs and proceeded into the drawing room, and the sergeant closed them in.
“Your Grace,” Gabriel said, gesturing at the most comfortable of the plush, overstuffed chairs in the room. Without waiting for a response he turned to hold a chair for Fiona, then moved to claim one that backed against a wall.
“Hamish says ye’ve a plan to stop the sheep thefts that’ve been plaguing ye,” Dunncraigh offered, pulling a pipe from his sporran. He lit a spill on the lamp beside him and held the burning roll of paper to the pipe’s bowl and puffed until it began to glow red.
Someone had told Hamish about the sheep situation, then. He wondered who that might have been. “I haven’t been here long enough to be plagued by anything,” he returned, “but yes, I believe diverting another thirty men to overseeing the flocks will discourage the thieves. Likely some local poachers or brigands. Hopefully they’ll move on by the end of the week to find easier prey.” Or more likely they would be lured out by his apparent stupidity and arrogance and strike again, and he would have them at a time he could plan and predict.
“Aye, nae doubt that’ll end it. Ye’ve put the fear of English soldiers into ’em, anyway.”
Ah, the “insulting through pleasantries” portion of the conversation. Well and good, but Gabriel was more curious about why Dunncraigh felt the need to insult him. The duke was the undisputed power here; as far as he knew, every Highlander on Lattimer land owed the Maxwell fealty. Even the uncharacteristically quiet one sitting halfway across the room. Everything she did was for the Maxwell, or for clan Maxwell, anyway. If there was a difference between the two, he hadn’t yet seen it.
“I’m glad to hear that you’ve taken an interest in my sheep woes,” he said aloud, clenching his jaw to remind himself not to look at Fiona. He sat forward. “Have you had any thefts?”
Dunncraigh gave a short laugh. “There’s nae a soul would dare steal from me,” he commented through a haze of pipe smoke.
“But someone has,” Gabriel countered. “The people here are all part of clan Maxwell, Miss Blackstock informs me. My sheep and the income they bring are vital to them. You knew about these thefts, and they’ve been going on for two years. I have to conclude that you’ve deliberately chosen to do nothing to help your own clansmen.” More a straight-up insult than a gentle poke, but he was only a soldier.
“That’s uncalled fer, Lattimer,” Sir Hamish put in from his own seat, close by his precious laird.
“I disagree.”
“That’s because ye know naught of Highland ways, Lattimer,” Dunncraigh took up. “Of course this is my clan, but this bit of it lies on yer land. Before King George—the first one, ye ken—stepped in, Lattimer—MacKittrick, rather—was Maxwell property. MacKittrick was a Maxwell chieftain. These people were his responsibility, and he answered to Dunncraigh. My great-grandfather Dunncraigh.” He took another long draw from his pipe. “Now these people are fer ye to look after. I cannae change their birthright fer the convenience of the Lattimer line, and they were born part of my clan, but the responsibility goes to ye.”
“I’m aware of that,” Gabriel returned evenly. He might prefer pistols to saber-rattling, but that didn’t mean he had no skill at fencing. “But old Lattimer died just under a year ago. As far as you were aware, this place had no laird at all for most of that time. And little prospect of finding one.”
“It still do
esnae have a laird. It has a Sassenach duke.” The Scottish duke pointed his pipe stem at Gabriel. “And before ye say someaught that I might find insulting, I did try to step in after old Lattimer died with nae an heir anyone knew of. I petitioned the English Crown to return the land to Maxwell hands. I offered to purchase this old wreck outright. But they had Lattimer’s mess, all his properties and holdings, to untangle, and so I had to sit on my arse and wait until they declared Ronald Leeds to be withoot issue or heirs. And then they found ye.”
When Dunncraigh gestured for Fleming to refill his glass of whisky, Gabriel risked a glance at Fiona. Her sun-kissed face had grown pale, her gaze and her attention flitting between her uncle and the duke. No one in London had bothered to tell him that Dunncraigh had tried to reclaim Lattimer, and he supposed at the time it wouldn’t have mattered to him. It felt significant now, as did the fact that Fiona hadn’t mentioned it to him. Then again, she was part of clan Maxwell. And while they had a mutual attraction, not by any stretch of the imagination would he say they had mutual trust.
Sir Hamish polished off his own whisky in time with the duke. They likely shat at the same time, as well. “Even while old Lattimer was alive and this property was his responsibility, he mostly couldnae be bothered to take an interest,” Paulk commented. “It’s old land, Lattimer. Roofs leak, millstones crack, and people claim untended property fer themselves. Missing sheep, I’m afraid, is only the latest trouble here. This place has a curse on it, ye ken.”
That nonsense again. “It is an old place,” he agreed. “And after becoming acquainted with it and its ‘troubles,’ as you call them, I have to commend Miss Blackstock for the care she’s taken of it.”
Hamish looked over at her. “Aye. She’s done a fine job, untried lass that she is. Better than we expected.”
Hero in the Highlands Page 17
