Hero in the Highlands (31 page)

And while of course Lattimer was his, and all of the ultimate decisions were his, she hadn't yet felt pushed aside, undervalued, or ignored. Perhaps it was because he had so little experience as a landowner, and she supposed it could change with time. But he listened to her opinion and asked her advice. By all the saints and sinners, she'd never before met
any
man who did that and didn't consider himself less because of it. It had certainly improved her opinion of him at the beginning.

Slowing again, she touched a hand to her lips. Through the hallway window she spied a herd of deer grazing along the crest of the hill, while below them a laden hay wagon rolled along the rutted front drive toward the stable, a dog running alongside, tongue out and tail wagging. Gazing out, she felt … content, and at the same time as if something unexpected and marvelous lay just beyond the horizon. Delight tingled through her at the oddest moments, making her grin. And it all centered around not the property, but the man. Gabriel Forrester.

“So now ye figure the Sassenach's the one to break the curse, do ye?” Hamish Paulk's voice drawled from down the hallway.

Her shoulders stiffened, the warmth of her insides cooling, as if she'd just been dumped into Loch Sìbhreach. “I figure he'll see that we have seed fer planting, that the irrigation trenches are repaired, and that the hoose keeps standing,” she commented, turning around to face her uncle as he approached. “Whether that breaks the curse or nae, it's someaught.”

“And ye reckon the Maxwell wouldnae have done the very same thing? And that his attention wouldnae have benefited every Maxwell fer a hundred square miles?”

“I dunnae care aboot a hundred miles. His sheep would have driven oot every Maxwell fer fifteen square miles,” she returned, deliberately using the size of the Lattimer estate. Fiona narrowed her eyes. Never in her life had she spoken like that to her uncle. Instead of being mortified, however, she felt … strong. Because even though Gabriel had closeted himself with Sergeant Kelgrove to draft letters to his London solicitors, she wasn't alone. “Ye and my grandfather and his grandfather have been the only chieftains here fer a hundred years, Uncle. Dunncraigh's lived quite well withoot a chieftain at MacKittrick Castle. And withoot paying us any heed at all, in fact, except to complain aboot who owns the property.”

“A Sassenach owns th—”

“This property would be naught but grazing land fer Domhnull Maxwell's sheep, and ye know it. He could look well by nae displacing anyone else aboot Dunncraigh, and still have space to make his money. He looks after his own. That hasnae included us since the Crown took MacKittrick.”

“But it would have included here again, if he owned MacKittrick. I've yet to meet anyone who can guess what the duke has up his sleeve, much less a female with but four years' experience managing a ruin of an estate. Ye're selfish, lass, convincing the major to stay on so ye dunnae lose yer own position. I'm ashamed of ye. Ye're nae better than yer brother, making a big noise when ye should keep yer damned mouth shut.”

She blinked. “What ‘noise' did Kieran make?” she asked, ice gripping her chest.

Her uncle leaned closer. “One nae as loud as the one ye made today, Fiona.” He straightened. “Ye mark that while ye watch the Sassenach change everything, bring in his Sassenach staff and a highborn Sassenach wife to bear him the next Duke of Lattimer. In six months, lass, ye'll be nae more than a maid, if the duchess allows ye to stay at all. Ye'll clean his piss bowl and be his whore, and ye'll nae be a Maxwell ever again.” He turned around to walk back up the hallway. “Never again.”

Fiona stood where she was for a moment, her back to the tranquil view out in front of MacKittrick. Lattimer, rather. Hamish hadn't touched a hair on her head, but all the same she felt like she'd been slapped. She'd come to welcome the fact that Gabriel had the power to stand against Dunncraigh, but at the same time she'd forgotten something vital. Gabriel didn't talk like a duke or act like one, and she'd never heard of any aristocrat at all who insisted his steward call him by his Christian name.

But he
was
a duke. One of considerable wealth and property. And given both his strong sense of duty and the ramshackle way he'd inherited, he likely would decide to marry and have children, and do it fairly quickly. If nothing else, he wouldn't want to see Lattimer abandoned to the fates again. And of course she'd been the one to convince him of that.

Generally she appreciated irony. Not today, however. She didn't consider herself particularly naïve, either, but had she been? When she'd spoken to the staff earlier, she'd meant every word she said. She'd imagined the next months, the next years, and in her dreams it had been the two of them, Gabriel and her, together. They would reclaim MacKittrick together. But none of her daydreams had concerned themselves with English laws and proper aristocratic wives for the most aristocratic of titles.

A tear plopped onto the back of her hand. Shaking herself, she wiped the wet off on her skirt, then rubbed her arm across her face. What mattered was that the land and the people prospered. Who accomplished that deed didn't matter. Nothing else mattered.

“Miss Fiona?”

Jumping, she looked up. “Dolidh. Ye startled me.”

“I was just asking, miss,” the maid said, while a trio of others waited a few feet away, “do ye truly believe His Grace—Lattimer, I mean—is the one to break the curse?”

“Aye. I truly believe he'll be the one to make MacKittrick a proud, grand place again.”

The girl grinned. “And what of ye and His Grace?”

Fiona's cheeks warmed, despite her best effort to remain cool and collected.
Good glory.
They knew? “Beg pardon?”

The others giggled. “Dolidh says he's sweet on ye,” Tilly took up. “And Niall Garretson told Oscar Ritchie he saw ye kissing oot by the mill.”

“Well, I say ye shouldnae be spreading such idle gossip,” Fiona managed, fighting against the renewed urge to cry. Tomorrow—or the next day, perhaps—she would have figured it out, how to turn away those questions with a smile. Today she wanted to stop thinking about anything.

“Och, well, then,” Dolidh returned, still clearly amused. “He's a fit man all alone in the Highlands. I'd wager he's aching by now fer a willing lass to warm his bed.”

Oh, now she wanted to begin pulling the maid's hair. For Boudicca's sake, she had no idea what to feel, except that she knew she hurt. Damn Uncle Hamish, anyway. He might have let her be a fool for a few more days. She was much happier being foolish.

Tilly abruptly gasped. A heartbeat later all four maids had scurried for the stairs. Fiona looked up the hallway, then ducked inside the music room and closed the door, pushing down on the handle as she did so to keep it from squeaking.
Damnation.

She'd known the Duke of Dunncraigh was still at Lattimer. Somehow she'd expected, though, that he and his men would pack their things and stomp directly from their guest bedchambers to the front door. What had they been doing in the north wing, tramping the floor looking for any sympathetic souls?

The door's handle lowered, and she hurriedly backed deeper into the room. Hamish railing at her had been harrowing enough. She wasn't certain she could bear hearing the Duke of Dunncraigh hurling the same ugly arguments at her, particularly when they made so much sense. And what Hamish had said about Kieran and the “noise” her brother had made … She didn't even want to think about it.

To her surprise it was Artur Maxwell, though, who strolled into the room. Sending her a sideways glance made a bit comical because of his black eye, he wandered over to the pianoforte and pressed a few of the keys. High-pitched discord echoed into the room, oddly reminding her that she needed to have the instrument tuned.

“If ye're here to make threats and howl at me like a banshee, Hamish Paulk already gave me that speech.” She folded her arms across her chest.

He sat down at the pianoforte, flipping the tail of his English coat out behind him, and began playing a jaunty Scots tune. The words, as she recalled, were exceedingly bawdy and rather insulting. Artur played well, better than she did, more than likely.

“So ye're here to serenade me?” she shot out. “I'm nae impressed.”

The tune banged to a halt. “Hamish Paulk is a small-minded man who'd cut off his own feet if my uncle said he was too tall.” He sighed. “That said, ye ken Uncle Domhnull knows it was ye who told the servants here they could trust Lattimer. Ye did a fair job of turning a Sassenach major from the scourge of MacKittrick into its bloody savior. And I think that'll be very interesting once yer English soldier takes a wrong step and the lot of ye realize he cannae walk across the surface of the loch.”

“He'll do as any good landlord ought, and that's all any of us has the right to expect.”

Artur laughed. “It may be all any of ye has the right to expect, but ye ken ye've made every lass and lad on his land think he'll be performing miracles.” Standing, he sketched a bow before he turned back to the door. “Dunnae trouble yerself though, Fiona. When he falls, the Duke of Dunncraigh will be aboot to set things right again fer all the Maxwells.”

“Fer all the Maxwells but me, ye mean. Go on and make yer threat; it'll itch at ye until ye scratch it.”

“Ye're mistaken, lass. He'll set things right fer ye, certain as anything. The two of ye may find ye disagree aboot what that entails, though.”

With that he slipped out the door again. After all the clever turns of phrase and sideways threats from Artur and Hamish, she almost wished now that it had been Dunncraigh stomping in and simply bellowing at her. At least Artur had only spat his venom about how Gabriel would eventually stumble. All in all, she would have to say that Hamish's words had cut more deeply.

If she wanted proof that she was no longer welcome in clan Maxwell, though, they'd provided it. However this went, she, at the least, could never go back. And if her uncle was right about what Gabriel would do next, and it certainly made logical sense, she
was
still alone. And always would be, now.

She could of course try telling herself that it didn't matter. The tenants and staff and workers here could call themselves whatever they wished—clan Maxwell, or not. As long as someone who cared about them remained on the premises, she'd far exceeded her own best expectations. So if Gabriel didn't care for her as much as she'd come to care for him, it didn't matter. Except that it did matter, but only to her.

 

Chapter Fourteen

The last thing Gabriel had ever expected to do when he set out to restore order to some unseen property in the Scottish Highlands was to set up a rebel encampment in the middle of enemy territory and then ask his former foes to join him in deposing their own ruler. What surprised him was that so many of them had agreed to do so. According to Kelgrove, less than a half-dozen of his hundred servants had slipped out the back way, belongings in hand. Generally he met traitors with the point of his sword, but he let them go without word or ceremony. If they chose to return by the end of the week, he would allow that, as well. This might well be battle, but it was the least straightforward one he'd ever fought. And the one with the most doubtful—and yet important—outcome.

The number of converts to his cause was likely why the trio of black coaches were on the front drive and stacked with luggage. If Dunncraigh hadn't been so masterfully outflanked by a slip of a lass who possessed a heart as big as the Highlands, it might well have been a different duke fleeing the premises. But there they were, the Scottish duke and his men, descending the main stairs to join him in the foyer.

But where was the lass? He'd assumed she would be somewhere in the background flitting about—though “flitting” didn't seem the right word for a woman with a tongue as sharp and nerves as steady as hers—to calm the worries of the staff, but Dunncraigh's exit would look much more definitive if Fiona stood beside him in the foyer to watch the Maxwell depart.

Just as the duke reached the main floor, though, Gabriel felt her arrive, a rush of warmth and electricity directly beside him. At that moment, it might have been damned Bonaparte himself standing there glaring at him from the foyer, and Gabriel wouldn't have so much as blinked. Confidence, ease—he was accustomed to feeling them, but not because someone else stood with him. Because
she
stood with him. Without looking back at her, he descended the stairs.

“I'll nae shake yer hand, Lattimer,” Dunncraigh said, pausing as Hamish Paulk helped him on with his coat. “I consider ye and all who stand with ye to be scoundrels and traitors, none of ye worthy of—”

“Good-bye, Your Grace,” Gabriel interrupted, to stop any further threats and insults to his servants. “Best of luck with your sheep.”

Fiona's fingers brushed his, though he wasn't certain if it was out of appreciation or because he was pushing too hard. Despite her insistence that this was all about the good of his tenants, however, he knew it was also about strategy and positioning. And he damned well wanted to remind everyone in earshot about where the Maxwell's priorities lay.

He followed the men outside. Above him he had no doubt every window was filled with eyes gazing down at the drive. They would see their laird leaving, but they would also see him staying, Fiona beside him. And as far as he was concerned, that last bit was a sight to which they'd best become accustomed.

“Ye remember my offer, Lattimer,” the duke said, pausing halfway inside his massive coach. “After ye've failed here I'll still purchase the land from ye. And any
loyal
Maxwells will be welcome to stay.” His steely gaze flicked to Fiona and back again.