Hero in the Highlands (19 page)

Oh, dear.
“Brian, ye—”

“I have no intention of turning you out of your home, Mr. Maxwell,” Gabriel said, stepping around her and into the room. “You have a fence problem and a wandering cow, both of which have been pointed out to you before. Why haven't you remedied the situation?”

Brian's face reddened. Before she even realized she was moving, Fiona had put a hand on the cotter's shoulder and nudged him toward the table where the liquor tantalus stood. “A whisky fer ye, Brian?”

Beneath her hand she felt his shoulders lift. “Aye, Miss Fiona. That'd be grand. The walk up the hill here does make my old knees creak like a witch's cackle.”

She unlocked the tantalus and poured him a generous glass, glowering past him at Lattimer as she did so. “Did ye hear we found the red heifer almost to the laird's garden this morning?”

“Aye. One of the stable lads told me. And he told me what the laird said.” He glanced back at Gabriel, then faced her again. “I thought she might have trekked oot toward the river after those onions. Ye ken she's partial to wild onions.”

“So ye've said. I dunnae suppose Brady and ye have managed to cut the new fence posts yet.”

The farmer shook his head. “Brady's forever getting his chores tended before dawn, then disappearing until nearly dark. He's but fifteen, or I'd swear it was a lass twisting his head aboot. Flighty lad he is, just like his mother.”

The rotund Mrs. Maxwell was the least flighty person Fiona could imagine, but that was neither here nor there. Brian had long ago convinced himself that he was surrounded by creatures who only wanted to be elsewhere. And perhaps he had a point. “Drink up now,” she urged, “and we'll put our heads together to find the best way to keep the cows where they belong.”

He took his drink, sent the duke another cautious look, and wandered over to look at the trio of prize-winning cows immortalized in oil paints on the wall. “So he can't manage his cows
and
he's drinking my whisky?” a deep voice murmured in her ear a moment later.

Heaven's sake, he was stealthy. Fiona turned around, looking up to meet his gaze. “Ye're the grandest man he's ever met,” she whispered back, “in the grandest place he'll ever see. He's already been knocked off his feet by ye summoning him, and then ye begin ordering him to give ye answers. He's nae one of yer soldiers, Gabriel. He's a small man who lives on the same patch of ground where he was born, and who fully intends to die on that same spot. And in his thinking, ye're the one man able to take it away from him.”

The look he gave her was unlike anything she'd seen from him before. She had no right, of course, to speak to him like that; the only other duke of her acquaintance would have cuffed her just for speaking out of turn. Gabriel Forrester, however, didn't look angry. More than anything else, he seemed … surprised. Stunned, even. And she didn't think that was because she'd given Brian Maxwell a glass of whisky.

“He is incompetent,” Gabriel breathed, lifting his eyes momentarily to glance at Brian. “Is he not?”

“Aye, he is. I dunnae believe that to be his fault. He owns three cows and grows wheat. That's what he is.”

Whatever he'd looked for on her face he seemed to have found, because a hard heartbeat later he strolled over to stand beside Brian. Fiona started forward as well, not certain what he meant to attempt next or how much additional trouble it might cause. Abruptly he put out an arm to stop her, unless she cared to walk her bosom straight into his palm.

“Mr. Maxwell. As I as saying earlier, how many men and supplies should I send over tomorrow to see that your fence is repaired to your satisfaction?”

Fiona blinked. That … that truly surprised her. Brian nearly dropped his glass, clearly as stunned as she was. Had Gabriel not only just listened to her unasked-for advice, but followed it? Next, pigs would be jumping over the castle.

“How do I know ye arenae offering to fix my hoose so ye can rent it to someone else and make yerself a profit?”

“Bri—”

“Because there's a greater profit in the wheat and the…” He glanced at Fiona, and she quickly made a churning motion. “And the butter you provide for the household.”

The farmer's chest seemed to puff up like a robin's. “Well. I always feed my girls the sweetest grasses. If it wasn't fer the red one and those onions, I'd nae have to have a pen at all.”

“I'll send Rory back with ye,” Fiona put in, naming one of the gardeners. “He can read and write. He'll make a list of the supplies ye need, and we'll—”

“We'll have men down there in the morning to repair that fence,” Gabriel finished.

He'd said “we,” which felt different than it did when she said it. She, of course, meant the other inhabitants of the property, the Maxwells and the Paulks and the Dinwoddies and all the others who formed clan Maxwell. Coming from him, well, she wasn't entirely sure what it meant. But it did seem to include her. Her uncle Hamish seemed certain she was about to be sacked by Lattimer, but that “we” didn't make it sound that way.

“Well, thank ye, Laird Lattimer. Yer Grace, I mean. I…” Brian finished off the whisky, started to set the glass aside, then changed his mind and handed it to her, all the while bobbing his head like a chicken. “I'll be off, then. I can fetch Rory myself, if it pleases ye.”

“Aye. Thank ye, Brian.”

The farmer left the room, two footmen joining him as they headed outside to find Rory. Fiona set the empty glass down by the tantalus. There she was, alone in a room again with the Sassenach. If she did something foolish like look at him, she might grab him by his village-sewn lapels and kiss
him,
for heaven's sake. Taking a breath, she made a show of snapping her fingers as if she'd just remembered something and hurried for the door.

“I know how to interrogate a soldier,” he said from behind her.

For a second she contemplated pretending she hadn't heard anything and making a run for it. “Brian Maxwell isnae a soldier,” she said anyway, still moving for the door.

“Exactly. I would have made things worse. Thank you, Fiona.”

That slowed her down. “Ye're welcome, Gabriel.”

“Are you with anyone?”

That stopped her in her tracks. “I beg yer pardon?” She turned around. “Why have ye been kissing me if ye think I'm with someone else?”

For a moment his expression didn't seem at all amused. “Because if there is someone, you might want to warn him.”

“Aboot what?”

“That I don't share. That's me, being civilized.”

“Impossible man.”

His grim smile looked at least as frustrated as it did amused. “You have no idea.”

And now perhaps he might be able to use his soldierly ways and point her toward an invisible sheep thief, and then he could go away before she forgot why his presence and his kisses and why having someone here who could cut through clan pride and solve problems was such a very terrible idea.

*   *   *

“Missing sheep,” Kelgrove muttered, kicking his gelding into a canter to match Union Jack's pace. “We rode all the way to the middle of the Scottish Highlands because Miss Blackstock didn't want to admit she can't find some bloody sheep?”

“She didn't say they were missing. She said they'd been stolen,” Gabriel returned, sending Jack toward the overgrazed pasture. Considering Lattimer boasted three large flocks and a dozen smaller ones, this wasn't much of a starting point. At the moment, though, it was the only one he had.

“I could lose my pocket watch and say it was stolen, just as easily,” the sergeant replied. “That doesn't make it so.”

That was the second time Kelgrove had implied—or rather, suggested—that Fiona had lied about something. Gabriel didn't think she had done so, though he still believed she hadn't told him everything. All the same, Kelgrove's statement annoyed him. “I'm not easily fooled. Would you agree with that?”

“I would emphatically agree with that, Your Grace. As I recall, it took you less than a minute to work out that Private Simmons had gone off to meet some lightskirt, and he had not, in fact, fallen asleep on watch as he'd claimed.”

Gabriel had never understood why Simmons had put forward the lie, since leaving his post and falling asleep on watch were both hanging offenses. The only thing he could figure was that the private had preferred to be remembered as a laggard rather than as a rogue. The lad's mother had been Irish Catholic, as he recalled. He'd needed to know, though, whether he'd had a spy or an ill-fated fool on his hands. In the end, Simmons had died because he was a weak-willed idiot who couldn't resist a twopenny whore.

That, though, was years past and far too long ago for him to even bother with wishing there had been a different ending to the tale. “When you're agreeing with a point I make,” he commented, “you don't need to bring up examples where I ordered a man's death. My point is that Miss Blackstock wasn't lying. Someone's stealing sheep.
My
sheep. I'd wager a year's salary that something else is afoot, as well, but this starts me on the hunt, at least.”

The overgrazed pasture came into view, and he slowed Union Jack to a walk. Adam drew up beside him. “That's a generous amount of shit,” he noted, as they rode through the newly sprouting grass toward the narrow center of the valley.

“Yes, it is. The rock slide that separated the flock came from up there,” he said, gesturing at the steep slope to the left where darker soil and rock not yet blasted by the weather carved a raw wound all the way to the top of the gorge.

Whether it looked natural or not, the placement was so perfect that he had to suspect the slide had been started intentionally. Twenty feet to the left or the right, and the sheep and their shepherds would have been able to navigate past the tumbled boulders. The best way to determine for certain whether the mess had been ill luck or encouraged misfortune would be to climb up to the top of the cliff and take a look at where it had begun. Gabriel swung out of the saddle, did a quick survey of the rock on either side, then headed up the firmer-looking left edge of the slide.

“Your Grace,” Kelgrove called, his voice breaking at the edge, “that is not a good idea. Come down and I'll take a look.”

“You don't even like to climb ladders,” Gabriel replied, grabbing for handholds as he ascended.

The slide had occurred well over a month ago. In that space it had rained several times, and he knew from personal experience that the wind had been active, as well. There might well be nothing to see even if someone
had
helped the slide along. If he was going to find anything, however, the odds were better today than they would be tomorrow or any day thereafter.

“But Your Grace, you—”

“Shut up and look for anything down there that could point to this being intentional,” he grunted.

“I … Yes, sir.”

While his sergeant continued to complain about having a commanding officer who took far too many chances, Gabriel continued upward. Fiona hadn't known precisely when the slide had happened, but from the look of both the slope and the wide swath of torn-up ground below it had been large, sudden, and violent. Any sheep on the far side would have been fairly easy to snatch, and no one would have been able to climb across the unstable debris for days after it fell, lowering the odds of anyone finding tracks that didn't belong.

A rock broke loose from beneath his foot, sending him scrambling and another trail of debris clattering downward. “Look out below!” he called, digging the toe of his boot into a narrow crack and twisting to watch the miniature slide. It picked up some loose earth and a few smaller rocks, but nothing to match the size of the one he'd knocked loose. Something big would have had to dislodge at the top, then. Something that had been there for a long while in rough conditions.

Finally he reached the steep section above the slide. Edging sideways, he moved across it, looking for signs that anything other than nature had caused the fall.

Three quarters of the way across, he found it. A trio of straight-edged gouges marked the center section at the top of the slide. He ran his fingers along the remaining side, feeling smoothed earth that would have dug at least a foot into the ground. Any footprints would have been washed away, but nothing in nature had ever made a cut so straight that even after a month he could make it out. Shovel marks. They couldn't be anything else that he could conjure.

“What the devil are ye doing perched up there like a great owl?” Fiona's familiar voice called from below.

The sound nearly had him losing his balance again. Turning his head, he dug his fingertips into the rock face. “Inspecting,” he returned.

She stood almost directly below him, her hands on her hips and her face lifted to see him. “I told ye aboot the sheep so ye'd stop badgering me aboot hiding things from ye. Nae so ye could go clambering up the mountainside like a great goat.”

He'd been called far worse than that. And by her. “Your rock slide was no accident,” he called down. “How long did it keep you from getting to the far side of the pasture?”

“Aboot a fortnight, I reckon. With the ill weather it took some time to settle, and then we had to bring in the heavy horse and wagons to clear a safe path.”

In two weeks he could have moved Wellington's entire army a good hundred miles, set up camp, and fought a battle or two. A hundred sheep could be anywhere—with or without help. The information left him with more questions, but shouting them down the side of the gorge didn't make much sense. Leaping sideways to reach a handhold over a smoother section of the collapse, Gabriel began a controlled backslide all the way down to the valley floor.

“—allow the damned Laird of MacKittrick Castle to go off and break his bloody neck?”