Hero in the Highlands (23 page)

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 doesnae 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.”

Abruptly Fiona stood. “Thank ye fer saying so. And speaking of which, I need a word with Fleming and the cook, or it'll be boiled potatoes fer dinner.”

Gabriel wanted to leave with her, and not just because of the unfinished business between them. That could wait, he reminded himself, and stayed seated. This match wasn't finished yet.

“So the lass has been helpful to ye?” Dunncraigh asked, crossing his ankles.

“Not particularly.” Whatever her loyalties, he wasn't about to cause trouble—more trouble—for her with her clan. “She clearly cares for Lattimer and the people here, and as I said, she's done a fine job with what she's had.” He paused, abruptly realizing that he'd already decided who Lattimer's next steward would be. Replacing her would do her harm, and he'd rather cut off his own arm than injure Fiona. He sent a quick mental apology to Kelgrove both for dragging the sergeant into the Highlands and for putting him into the middle of this without warning him first. “I found her lack of cooperation damned annoying. In fact, I brought my own man in to take over her duties, once we've learned the routines.”

Green eyes turned to find Kelgrove standing silently beside the closed door. “Another Englishman, aye?”

“Yes,” Gabriel answered. “Sergeant Adam Kelgrove. My aide-de-camp.”

“Ye dunnae mean to take on Lattimer yerself, then?”

“I haven't resigned my commission, Your Grace. And there is still a war being fought on the Continent.” And men who relied on him to keep them alive.

At the moment, though, he was more interested in tonight. Dinner would likely be another chess game, another contest of insults and diplomacy of the sort he detested. But the game he truly looked forward to was the one that would take place when the rest of them had gone off to bed. He meant to call on Fiona Blackstock. And no one was allowed to interrupt, this time.

*   *   *

“Why didnae ye tell me that Dunncraigh tried to purchase MacKittrick?” Fiona whispered, as she brought her uncle a glass of port. She wanted one herself, after the longest and most silent dinner in the history of the Highlands.

“What concern is it of yers?” Hamish returned, his gaze squarely on Gabriel's red-coated back as the duke poured himself a glass of something from the liquor tantalus. “Bloody lobsterback.”

“Because if the Maxwells took it back, I assume ye or one of Dunncraigh's sons or nephews would move in here. None of ye would require a steward.” Aye, she was being selfish. And she was equally certain that she
would
have been nudged out of her employment. Even so, she wasn't certain why no one had bothered to say anything. Wanting to take back an old holding back didn't seem like it needed to be a secret, and she'd been the Maxwell overseeing it for the past four years.

“Clearing the Sassenach oot of the middle of the Highlands would be a boon fer all the clan. So stop yer whining over who told ye what.”

“I'm nae whining. I'm asking ye a question,” she retorted, thankfully remembering to keep her voice down. “And as fer being good fer us all, well, the clan hasnae been doing a damned thing to help me with anything here. I've arranged it so the hoose employs nearly a hundred servants.
That's
aiding the clan. If MacKittrick sinks into the mud, that's a hundred more mouths fer the rest of ye to feed, and that doesnae include Strouth or the fishermen and their families, or anyone at the textile and porcelain works.”

That seemed to earn his full attention. He faced her, eyes narrowed. “Dunnae ye go dictating to me, lass. I convinced His Grace to let ye have a go at running MacKittrick in the first place. And that wasnae an easy thing, with the example yer own brother set.” Glancing away again, no doubt to see if Gabriel had wandered within earshot, he turned back to point a forefinger in her face. “Ye may work here, but ye're a Maxwell first and last. Yer duty is to me and to Dunncraigh. Nae to that Sassenach. Ye'd best remember that.”

“Of course I remember that.” Trying to explain that what Gabriel was doing to stop the thefts was also in the best interests of clan Maxwell would likely only get her a cuffed ear. But by all the saints, she'd spent years trying to keep the people here fed and clothed and protected, and for most of that time she'd had no support at all. A man who took action wasn't supposed to be a rarity in the Highlands, but it had been here at Lattimer—until Gabriel had arrived. She likely should have seen that earlier, and certainly she should have noticed how unacceptable it was.

“Keep it in mind, the next time ye're tempted to tell him aboot missing sheep or where we hide the whisky. Now go away. If Lattimer asks ye what we've been discussing, ye can tell him I was admiring the way he stepped in to stop the thievery. Arrogant
amadan
.” With that last grumble he turned away and walked off to stand with Dunncraigh and the Maxwell's nephew, Artur. Evidently the duke's son and heir, Donnach Maxwell, was too precious to risk this close to a Sassenach.

“That looked pleasant,” Gabriel's voice came, and she started. He'd moved to gaze out the window behind where she sat, but she'd never heard him approach.

The hair on her arms lifted, and with an annoyed cluck she briskly rubbed her forearms and picked up her cup of tea. “Family business,” she returned, from behind the cup.

“You do recall that you work for me, I hope,” he said, humor touching his low voice.

“Do I? I seem to recall a contrary opinion or two about that.”

“Not from me. Not tonight.”

She wanted to turn around and look at him. For Boudicca's sake, she'd been spinning for days. And now he'd twisted her about again. Acceptance? Appreciation? Or was this some sort of ploy to make her a spy against her own? “Do ye wish me to bow to ye, then?” she asked, trying not to show that he'd ruffled her.

“I've never asked anyone to bow to me, and I certainly wouldn't make the mistake of suggesting that you be the first.”

She took a breath. His expressions were difficult enough to read when she could see them, and she was beginning to think she might be dreaming. Otherwise she couldn't conjure a reason why he would suddenly decide she could keep the job for which she'd been fighting. “Ye expected someaught from someone, or ye wouldnae be wearing that damned uniform.”

“Ah, that,” he mused. “It's what I am, as you've so often pointed out.”

“Ye didnae wear it fer me. Ye wanted Dunncraigh to see it.”

“Clever lass.” He took a swallow of something; whisky, she presumed, since his scowl at the after-dinner port had practically turned the contents of the bottle to vinegar. “Any idea how long my uninvited guests will be staying?”

“I dunnae imagine they'll be here long. The duke wanted a look at ye, to size ye up.”

Another pause. “So I've been measured now, have I?”

If she kept talking to him, she was going to float away, given the amount of tea she was having to consume to conceal her mouth from the other men in the room. “I reckon ye have been. And thanks to that stuffy nonsense ye spouted aboot scaring away the thieves, I imagine he thinks ye just above an imbecile.”

“Good.”

Fiona nearly did look over her shoulder at him then. “Why is it good that the Duke of Dunncraigh thinks ye're an idiot?”

“Because I'm not one.”

“That doesnae make any damned sense. And stop talking to me.”

“No. I have more questions for you. And I like the sound of your voice.”

Port or brandy would have been a
much
better choice than tea, she decided. There he went, looking for trouble. If he found some, if the sheep or whatever came next made him stay on for an additional week or a month, would he consider that to be good or bad news? And what would it be for her? A pleasant romp beneath the bedsheets was one thing—especially when she knew his thoughts and his heart lay on the Continent with his regiment. Bedding him even let her thumb her nose a little at her uncle and the Maxwell; they'd both likely turn up their toes and fall into their own graves if they knew she'd been naked with—or rather, would be naked with—the Sassenach duke.