Hero in the Highlands (15 page)

The Duke of Lattimer wasn't kissing Uncle Hamish, though. Instead he kissed
her
. And jumped into mudholes to rescue cows and lasses—whether they needed it or not—and rode on wagons full of horseshit without so much as batting an eye. There had to be something about Lattimer Castle or the Highlands he would think too hard, too gloomy or unpleasant, too frightening or exasperating to justify his continued presence. She would merely have to find it.

When they reached the edge of the bare area of pasture, the sight of sprouting grass where they'd spread seed and manure last week eased her mind a little. It didn't have to be pretty, and it would likely produce as much thistle as it did grass and sweet heather, but the ground wasn't bare. It would hold the soil against the coming rains.

“Last week's work?” the duke asked, hopping to the ground and walking around to offer his hand to her. “You've covered what, a quarter of the pasture over the past month?”

“Aye.” Ignoring his hand, Fiona climbed down the wheel to the spongy ground. “In a few weeks we'll work back across anywhere the grass didnae take.”

One of the lads, Michael, handed her a shovel. This was far from her favorite task, but she wasn't about to stand back and watch while others labored to finish a plan she'd devised. Oh, she was certain a London lady wouldn't step her dainty toes within a mile of the stinking field, but she wasn't any blasted hothouse flower.

Lattimer took the spare shovel, which didn't surprise her. She hadn't given him the chance to wiggle out of some shoveling, at least. After five or ten minutes he would no doubt throw down the tool and demand to be returned to the castle. Or so she hoped.

Instead he stood shoulder to shoulder with the lads, asking for and taking advice on how thickly to spread the manure, how many seeds to use, and whether to work uphill or downhill. Then he stripped off his coat and tossed it onto the wagon seat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

She'd briefly seen what lay beneath the thin linen shirt, the well-toned muscle and collage of scars. Her skin heated, and with a stifled curse she turned her back and moved around to the far side of the wagon from where he worked. Aye, he was a striking man, and a fit one, with cat-quick reflexes and an evidently agile mind. But he was also English, a British army officer, and an invader at a time when she already had enough about which to worry—not that
any
time would have been opportune for his appearance in the Highlands. And she did
not
feel an attraction to him, whatever he and her body kept trying to tell her.

The goal remained; she needed to find a way to be rid of him. Manure and shoveling might not have worked, but she would figure out something. The sooner, the better.

 

Chapter Six

Now he knew what hell looked like. As he'd anticipated, it was filled with numbers. Gabriel shoved away from the table to pace to the tall library window. “Who the devil decided that success could only be rated by equations on pieces of paper?” he demanded.

“Because if everything had to be decided on a battlefield, you would rule the world.”

Gabriel turned around, lifting an eyebrow at Sergeant Kelgrove. The man still sat with his face buried in ledger books, and likely hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud. With a grin, Gabriel strode over to pour himself another glass of whisky. “And that would be a poor idea, I suppose?” he mused.

Finally Adam sat back to rub at his eyes. “I would hate to see young ladies coming to blows over who'd worn the finest gown at one of your combat soirees.” Furrowing his brow, he closed one of the books. “Though that does have some merits, now that I consider it.”

The moment his aide mentioned females, the unbidden image of Fiona Blackstock strolled into his thoughts again and put her hands on her hips to glare at him. If a lady measured the success of her gown by taking on all comers, he would put his money on his temporary estate manager. The woman didn't back down from anything, including him.

“Agreed,” he said aloud. “Now, without causing my brain to explode, what's afoot here?”

“Three things that I can see, Major. Firstly, you own a huge property that's somehow managed to earn a profit of seven quid—over the last three years.”

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “That seems … small.”

“That's likely why she didn't want to send the ledgers to those paper men of yours.”

With a nod, he sat one haunch on the deep windowsill. “What's the second thing?”

“Well,” Kelgrove began, sitting back and tapping a pencil against his chin, “I'm no expert in aristocratic households, but until two days ago, and for twenty years previous to that, Lattimer has had no owner in residence. Despite that, your Miss Blackstock has been hiring servants like a madwoman. If you include the gardeners and stable boys, you have ninety staff at this house alone.”

“No wonder I haven't been able to turn around without having fifty people trying to bring me tea or fluff my pillows.” Ninety servants. Ninety people to serve a house full of employers, family, and guests, plus the residence itself, seemed a little excessive but not unreasonable, at least to someone who had no experience with such things. Even to him, though, ninety staff to see to the maintenance of an empty house seemed extreme. Especially with two thirds of the rooms closed, their furniture sheeted, and the fireplaces cold and dark. “Is that where the profit is going? To pay the servants?”

“Some of it. The rest is beyond me. Some of the expenses don't sound plausible, which leads me to the third thing. Three millstones over the past two years, a large amount of lumber, several repairs to the castle that I'm not convinced were actually made, the—”

“She isn't stealing,” Gabriel cut in. He knew dishonesty, and while he believed Fiona Blackstock to be hiding a great many things from him, she wasn't a thief.

“That isn't for me to say, sir.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “And … while I know you ordered me to refer to you as my commanding officer rather than as the Duke of Lattimer, I'm beginning to worry that these Scots will firstly think me an idiot, and secondly imitate my apparent lack of respect for you.”

“So you want to call me ‘Your Grace'?” Gabriel said, sighing. The reasoning was sound, whether he liked it or not. “Fine. But for God's sake don't begin thinking I'm delicate.”

Kelgrove snorted. “I don't believe that'll be a problem, Your Grace. Miss Blackstock, however, already is a problem, and will continue to be one until you get rid of her.”

As Adam went about closing the rest of the ledgers and almanacs, Gabriel watched him. Almost from the moment he'd learned about Kieran Blackstock's lack of cooperation, he'd decided that Kelgrove would be the ideal replacement. This would be the perfect moment to make that official, but even as he considered it, he knew he wasn't about to say a word. Not yet.

And it wasn't only because he wanted to see Fiona out of her gown and spread beneath him, though that would have been reason enough. It felt most comfortable to put it to his curiosity about the bits of conversation he'd overheard in the small sitting room, involving some thievery and a mysterious man he hadn't been meant to see, but who had kissed her.

He clenched his jaw. Yes, the thievery bothered him—Lattimer and all its troubles were his responsibility, and someone either needed to tell him about it, or he would take steps to make certain he found out officially. The kiss, though, the idea that another man had put his hands on a woman he meant to claim for himself, made his blood boil. For two days he'd pretended he knew nothing about it, and for two days it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from finding the bastard and pounding him senseless, then kissing Fiona again and erasing whatever thoughts she had of this interloper.

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.”