Hero in the Highlands

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I’ll consider it,” Gabriel conceded, far more comfortable in his battle coat than he’d been last night in his dress uniform.

  It had taken some doing to rise early enough to slip out of Fiona’s room without being noticed by forty thousand servants and his unwanted guests, rumple his cot to make it look slept in, then wash and shave in the chill bowl of water on its stand so he could dress himself before Kelgrove came in at six o’clock to wake him. Fiona had left him with some new, temporary scars, and he had no intention of allowing anyone else to see them and speculate.

  “Dunncraigh’s man headed up just when I did,” the sergeant offered. “Square-shaped little fellow. I think he might be a mute. He’s at least very unfriendly.”

  “Noted. I won’t attempt to tell him any jokes.”

  Abruptly Adam set aside the dirty coat, stood, and then sat down again. “I’ve done a fair job of assisting you, haven’t I, Your Grace? Major?”

  “You’ve put up with uniform disasters that would have destroyed lesser men. Why?”

  The sergeant stood again. “I’m being serious, sir.”

  Gabriel turned around. Kelgrove was four or five years older than he was, raised with two older sisters and three younger brothers somewhere in Surrey, as he recalled. They didn’t chat much about things before the army, which suited him well enough. Adam liked to rage about dirty uniforms and bugs in the bread, but he’d only very rarely seen the sergeant genuinely upset. When Gabriel had staggered out of the smuggler’s fort with that mace driven halfway through his shoulder blade, yes, and when a close friend didn’t return to camp at all. But none of that had happened today that he knew of, and yet Kelgrove looked nearly in tears. “Take the burr from beneath your saddle and tell me what’s amiss, then.”

  “Yesterday you told Dunncraigh and Sir Hamish that you meant to employ me as your steward. And in the next breath you said you would be returning to the Continent as soon as you could manage it. I … I am as much a soldier as you are, damn it all. And I know where I am most useful. That happens to be by your side. I hope that by now you know I do more than clean your uni—”

  “Of course I do.” Gabriel cleared his throat. “When we first rode up here I thought you would do well here. As far as I knew Kieran Blackstock was the steward, threatening solicitors for no damned good reason. Nothing here is what I expected, not the least of which is the fact that my property is populated by Highlanders. There … is a division here, clan Maxwell versus everyone else and, in particular, me. I criticized Fiona yesterday because I didn’t want her clan chief or her uncle to think she was being too helpful. It was a feint.”

  “A ruse.”

  “Yes. A ruse.” That sounded better than admitting he’d been thinking of little more than protecting her.

  “Well.” Adam let out a chuckle, then grimaced. “Thank the devil for that, then.” Seating himself once more, Kelgrove resumed brushing at Gabriel’s dress uniform. “Whatever command you end up with, I will be happy to continue to serve with you. The Horse Guards will be near enough my family that I can visit, without forcing me to spend all my holidays in Surrey.”

  “The Horse Guards is in London, Adam. The Sixty-eighth Foot is in Spain.” He scowled at Kelgrove. “Did you find another barrel of that contraband whisky overnight?”

  “Of course not, Your Grace. It’s just that … Well, you’re a duke now.”

  “Yes, and Wellington’s a marquis. He’s still my commanding officer.”

  The sergeant’s face reddened. “I’ll leave it to my betters to sort out. I would be honored to serve with you anywhere you’re posted.”

  With that oddness echoing through his thoughts, Gabriel made his way down to the breakfast room. Yes, several of the commanders in the Horse Guards had noble titles, and a surprising number of them had never seen combat. He might have had a title forced on him, but he had no intention of spending his days pushing flags about on maps. The idea was both suffocating and ridiculous.

  The Duke of Dunncraigh already sat at the breakfast table, working his way through a stack of thinly sliced ham and a thick piece of bread slathered in butter and apple jam. “Good morning, Dunncraigh,” Gabriel said, opting for a pair of boiled eggs and some of Mrs. Ritchie’s rather exceptional haggis.

  “Lattimer. I’d like a few minutes of yer time this morning. I’ve something to discuss with ye.”

  Fiona would be going into Strouth this morning to see old Ailios Eylar, and he’d wanted to join her. If conversing with Dunncraigh convinced the duke to leave more quickly, though, it would definitely be worth the time spent speaking with him. Being a duke, he would have thought, should have put him in the position of not having to host people whom he disliked. Aristocrats were absurd creatures. “I have some time after breakfast,” he said aloud.

  “I’ll meet ye in the garden at half-seven, then.”

  Something had evidently happened between last night and this morning, and not just to him. An entire exchange of dialogue without any sneering or insults. Next they’d be doing the Highland fling together. “I’ll be there.”

  Up in the Highlands summer mornings came early, and light already danced through the room’s four narrow windows and deepened the blue in the carpet. Another pretty day, though Gabriel enjoyed the rainy, foggy ones just as much. Highlands weather was like the Highlands itself—changeable, unpredictable, and extreme.

  As for why he felt the need to dwell on the graces of sunlight this morning, he could thank the next figure to enter the breakfast room. Fiona wore pale yellow, with a darker yellow and red pelisse over the simple muslin of her gown. Her dusky hair was tied back in an artfully chaotic tangle atop her head, her black eyes bright and full of fire. His heart beat harder as she passed behind him. Mine.

  “Yer Graces,” she intoned, heading for the laden side table and making her breakfast selections. “I hope ye both slept well.”

  “Quite well, thank you,” he returned, not surprised when she set down her plate several chairs away from him and across the table. “You?”

  “Fer the most part, aye. And I’ve just added the head counts together; ye didnae lose a sheep yesterday.”

  “Good.” He took a breath, remembering the part he’d decided to play. “I reckon we’ve taught those poachers that I won’t be trifled with.”

  “Aye,” Dunncraigh took up. “Ye’ve outsmarted them fer certain.”

  Ah, the morning’s first sarcasm. At the moment Gabriel couldn’t be certain whether the duke simply thought him an idiot, or if he knew something more about the thefts than he was letting on. His arrival could be read the same way—a coincidence, curiosity over meeting Lattimer’s new owner, or an attempt to discover the strategy of sheep protection Gabriel had implemented. Though why the Maxwell would need to steal sheep, of all things, he had no idea. Still, he never assigned anything to coincidence until it had proved itself to be nothing more.

  One by one Dunncraigh’s men arrived for breakfast, including a dour-looking Hamish Paulk, who’d evidently left his home at Fennoch Abbey before dawn to make it to Lattimer in time for eggs. When Artur Maxwell strolled in, Gabriel looked up, and immediately had to stifle an unhelpful grin. “What the devil happened to you?” he intoned.

  Artur swiped his hand gingerly across his swollen nose and black left eye. “I ran into a door in the dark,” he muttered. “Ye might place a few more candles aboot, Lattimer.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  As he looked down he caught Fiona’s amused glance. Were they allies now, finally? It felt like they were, especially after last night. That boded well, even if he was surrounded by a herd of hostile Highlanders.

  “What are yer plans fer today, Yer Grace?” she asked Dunncraigh, with the cautious smile she’d adopted yesterday. “I’m happy to assist ye with whatever ye require.”

  Artur made a derisive noise at that, but continued eating. Dunncraigh, though, wiped his mouth and stood. “I’ve nae been here fer some time. I thought I might tak
e a ride aboot the lake and down to Strouth, in a bit. And I’d like to see the textile mill, if ye’ve nae objection, Lattimer.”

  Gabriel wondered how Dunncraigh would react if their roles were reversed and the Sassenach had just stated that he meant to poke into the duke’s holdings. “I may accompany you,” he said aloud, more to prick at the Maxwell than because he meant to subject himself to more torture.

  Of course the moment the Maxwell finished his breakfast all of his hangers-on did as well, and less than a minute after Dunncraigh swallowed his last bite of ham the only three people left in the breakfast room were Gabriel, Fiona, and Hugh the footman.

  “They’re very coordinated,” Gabriel commented, inhaling the scent of his strong coffee one last time before he drained the cup. “Almost regimental.”

  “Ye shouldnae make fun; if one of ’em hears ye, they’ll all know aboot it.”

  “Do you think they all know what happened to Artur’s nose?”

  Fiona’s lips twitched. “They likely know his version of it, which I would imagine varies some from mine.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you going anywhere alone while they’re here, for that very reason. At least take Oscar with you when you ride into Strouth.”

  A slow smile touched that mobile mouth of hers. “And there ye are, nae trying to forbid me from going at all. Do ye have a fever?”

  “I know better than to attempt to stop you.” He gazed at her for a moment, then shook himself before Hugh could notice his employer was acting like a moonstruck puppy. “Dunncraigh wants to speak with me in the garden. Any idea what he might want?”

  She shook her head. “They dunnae tell me anything. Just the two of ye?”

  “That’s what it sounded like. Perhaps he wants to apologize for not giving Lattimer more of his attention.”

  “I’ve nae wish fer more of his attention, thank ye very much. Nae if it comes with him and his men eating half the larder.”

  When Hugh turned away to pile some plates, Gabriel leaned across the table. “What about my attention?” he murmured.

  Her smile deepened, color touching her cheeks. “I reckon we can discuss that later,” she returned in the same tone.

  He felt those words all the way to his bones. “I look forward to it.”

  After he finished eating he debated whether to station Kelgrove at one of the upstairs windows that overlooked the garden, but decided against it. Dunncraigh didn’t frighten him, and he saw no reason to give any indication otherwise. The knife in his boot should serve him well enough if any trouble did arise.

  He found Dunncraigh standing beside the swan-adorned fountain in the center of the garden. Half the heads were broken off and the basin held only rainwater, but the view of the loch and the forest beyond was spectacular.

  “Ye’re prompt,” the Maxwell said, his gaze remaining on the loch. “But in my experience military men generally are.”

  “What experience is that?”

  “I was three years old when I lost my father, grandfather, three uncles, and two cousins at Culloden,” Dunncraigh returned. “I’ve kept a careful eye on everything in a red coat since.”

  “And I wasn’t born until several decades after Culloden, and I put on my red uniform twelve years ago. I’ve never fought a battle on British soil.”

  Finally the duke faced him. “That doesnae make us friends.”

  Gabriel took in the man’s relaxed posture, his open hands, his straightforward stance. Fisticuffs didn’t appear to be imminent, which was something, he supposed. “Does it make us enemies?”

  “That depends, lad, on the next bit of this conversation. I told ye I inquired after purchasing Lattimer before the Crown tracked ye doon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will ye sell it to me now?”

  Even with the conversation headed in that direction, the blunt offer surprised Gabriel. This wasn’t the dance he’d expected. “Why would I?” he asked aloud, seeking more information.

  “Because ye dunnae want it. It was never entailed as part of the first Lattimer’s properties; it’s yers to do with as ye please.”

  “Did you have this conversation with my predecessor?”

  “Aye, of a sort. He said the king put an English duke here to remind the Scots to behave, and he’d nae be the one to decide we’d been punished long enough.” Dunncraigh looked at him assessingly, the same way Gabriel viewed an open field likely to be littered with hidden enemy soldiers. “Times have changed since then. The laws have changed in our favor. And ye said ye want to go back to the army.”

  “I do.”

  “Then ye cannae be laird here.”

  Gabriel lifted an eyebrow. Explanations were one thing. Orders were another. “I don’t think that’s up to you.”

  Dunncraigh gave a slight nod. “Let me tell ye what I see here, and then ye decide, lad.”

  This was becoming very interesting. “I’m listening.”

  “Lattimer, MacKittrick, whatever name it goes by, is falling apart. Losing sheep’s the least of its troubles. Ye, yer old uncle, his father before him, nae a one of ye’s given a damn aboot this place. I reckon ye’ve heard there’s a curse.”

  “I have.”

  “Well, it’s real. It’s ye Sassenach killing this land. Too many fields have gone fallow, yer irrigation system’s half rotted and clogged with roots and fallen trees. Ye had two sizable villages here, but one of ’em burned to the ground and the other’s filled with cotters well past their prime because all the young folks have either taken employment here at the hoose or fled to Inverness. Ye’ve sheep, cattle, fish, textiles, crops, whisky, and pottery that all need a plan, nae just someone to count them up.”

  That hardly sounded fair to Fiona, but Gabriel kept his objection to himself. Whether he agreed with the information being handed him or not, it still might prove useful.

  Dunncraigh took a deep breath. “What does that all mean, ye may ask? Especially to a man nae accustomed to owning more than yer pistol and a hat? It means a man with his sights set on a different life has nae business keeping this property. It’s nae a hobby. The people here arenae soldiers, and they cannae manage withoot help from a laird. Ye can only fight one war, and ye’ve already said this one doesnae interest ye. And this is a battlefield—a war against the weather, the price of wool, sickness, ill chance—it’s a new fight every day, and ye never get to declare victory. Nae here. So ye go play soldier duke, lad, until ye realize ye cannae be both and ye cannae give away one of them. And then ye’ll still have yer other, comfortable profitable properties in England, where the fight’s much easier. Sell this one to me, and I’ll be its general.”

  It was all just words, things he’d thought of in passing before. Lined up, piled together all at once, though … Gabriel pushed back against the sensation that he couldn’t breathe. All the weight of Lattimer, of the smaller estates in Cornwall and Devon, of his regiment, the work he’d put into his career, the men he’d watched die, the lives he’d saved—it wanted to crush him. And not just because of the added weight of his new responsibilities. It finally occurred to him—he wasn’t Major Gabriel Forrester any longer. He would never, could never, be that man ever again. Nothing, not a damned thing in his entire life, could be as it was. And there stood Dunncraigh, looking at him calmly, expecting an answer.

  “I’ll think about it,” he grunted, and turned away.

  He needed to move, to catch his breath, to give his mind a moment to churn his flashes of thought into something coherent. If there was anything coherent to consider.

  Sense lay in there somewhere. Kelgrove couldn’t help—the sergeant had already realized that no one would allow a duke onto the battlefield. Why hadn’t he seen it? Because he simply couldn’t imagine anything else? Because fighting, leading troops into battle, had taken up nearly half of his life?

  He wanted to talk to someone. And only one countenance pushed its way through the muddle of his thoughts. Only one person he knew would be forthright and
honest, without worrying over being insubordinate or losing employment or position.

  Before he’d consciously decided his next step he found himself walking up to the outlying buildings of Strouth. His legs were tired, which made sense considering he’d walked mostly uphill for better than a mile.

  “Yer Grace,” a young lady carrying a milk pail squeaked, nearly dropping her load.

  “Good morning,” he said, almost reflexively. “Have you seen Fiona? Miss Blackstock?”

  “Aye. She brought a sack of apples up to the church. I think she’s still there, Yer Grace.”

  “Thank you.”

  The small stone-and-wood church lay at the highest end of the pathway that meandered among the cottages, with the inn, the smithy, and the handful of shops that made up the village ranged below that. The other inhabitants he encountered looked surprised to see him on foot, but otherwise went about their own tasks. They had their own lives to see to, and he had made it clear that he had no interest in them—whether that had been his intention or not.

  He pushed open the faded gray door of the church and stepped inside. It smelled of roses and mildew, a heady and slightly nauseating combination. Only one of the pews sat occupied, by a rotund woman wearing a matron’s cap who snored enthusiastically. It struck him that he didn’t know her name, or her family, and yet at this moment her welfare was his responsibility.

  Fiona sat in an alcove to one side of the altar, opposite the priest’s vestry. Father Jamie Wansley, who evidently worried about an English army marching on Strouth, sat next to her. They both munched on apples and were chuckling over something.

  Jealousy stabbed at him again, sharp and unexpected. Last night, and for days before that, he’d felt a connection. Was he the only one? Should he even have come here, or was he being an idiot twice over?

  She turned her head and saw him. “Ga— Yer Grace. I didnae…” She trailed off, her expression shifting from amused to alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

  All he needed was for Father Jamie to begin a rumor that the Duke of Lattimer had lost his damned mind. Gabriel forced a smile. “Nothing. You’d mentioned something about new windows for the church, and I wanted to take a look for myself.” And to see you, he added silently, hoping he wasn’t on the verge of making the worst mistake of his life. It didn’t feel that way, but the time had long passed when he relied on feelings over facts. Or was that time gone, along with what he’d thought would be his future? And Fiona Blackstock was all that remained—if she remained. For him.