Hero in the Highlands (33 page)

“I won't. I'll send letters this evening to my stewards there and ask for their—what was it?—budgetary requirements. Is there more?”

“Mostly some reminders aboot how long these soliciting lads have represented the Lattimer interests and how they look forward to continuing to do so.” She skimmed through the rest of the letter. “And one more important bit. ‘Please understand that if ye continue to put this amount of money toward yer least profitable property over an extended period, ye will be in the position of overseeing nae a shrinking income, but a negative one, which situation cannae, of course, be sustained withoot putting ye in danger of losing assets.' And then it's signed and cosigned by a half-dozen men with letters after their names.”

Gabriel wiped the remaining soap off his face with a cloth. “That makes sense,” he said, turning in the chair to face her.

“And ye dunnae find it alarming?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Because I do.” Even if it meant he shouldn't devote so much time and money to Lattimer so quickly. They'd been failing for a hundred years. He didn't need to try to restore it in a month.

He reached over to take her free hand and pull her off her perch on his camp trunk and onto his lap. “If the paper men were truly alarmed, they would have used less flowery language,” he quipped, leaning in to kiss her. “They think I'm a half-wit.” Another kiss, openmouthed to meet her eager lips.

“That isnae answering my question,” she insisted, trying to stay on topic even with her voice muffled against his mouth.

“Hard-hearted lass.” With a sigh he touched his forehead to hers. “I think the estate owner in question can devote some unallocated funds to the Highlands property, given the previous decades of neglect it was therein accorded.”

That made her chuckle. “They were correct; ye are a half-wit.”

“Thank you. But if I have to sell off some investments, then so be it.” He kissed her again. “I'm accustomed to not being a wealthy man, Fiona.”

“But ye're nae a man alone, any longer.”

“Then I need to figure out the minimum numbers necessary to sustain my other two estates, the house in London, and the one in Inverness, and keep that amount available. The rest I can damned well spend as I please. And I please to spend it here.”

He was likely the first duke in history who didn't care about increasing his wealth and influence, and Fiona truly didn't want to point that out to him. In fact, the idea of using every available penny to improve Lattimer appealed to her greatly. But was it fair? Not necessarily to the other estates, but to him?

She put her hands on his shoulders and shoved. Gabriel kissed her again, likely to point out that he didn't have to cooperate if he didn't choose to do so, before he backed away a breath. “What is it?” he asked.

“I'm worried ye're doing all of this fer me. That if things dunnae work oot here as they should, ye'll resent me fer pointing ye toward failure. And ye'll blame me fer the fact that ye're neglecting yer other properties when ye shouldnae.” Fiona plucked at the buttons of his coat. “I couldnae bear that, ye ken.”

“Of course I'm doing this for you,” he stated.

Oh, dear.
“But ye cannae, G—”

“And I'm doing it for me,” he continued, over her protest. “The idea of helping people improve their lives appeals to me. A great deal.” He grimaced. “I'll make some idiotic mistakes with it. I'm accustomed to dealing in absolutes. I have no idea how to be wealthy. Or how to manage the fact that people apparently listen to me because of some title I didn't earn.”

Fiona gazed at him for a long moment before she realized she was still tugging on his lapels. “Ye're a very interesting man, Gabriel Forrester.”

He grinned. “I'll take that as a compliment.” Glancing over at the small, unadorned clock that sat on the hugely ornate mantel over the equally ostentatious limestone and marble fireplace, he returned his attention to her and ran a finger slowly down her throat to the lace-lined neck of her gown. “When are we supposed to be at the church?”

Attempting to ignore the silly flutter those words caused, she shrugged. This wasn't about her daydreams. It was only that she still wasn't accustomed to being part of a “we,” and today people would see it. They would know she'd fallen for a Sassenach. And a duke. Even if all he'd promised her was friendship, at least presently the definition of that involved kissing and sex, thank goodness. “Ye set one o'clock fer the picnic. Ian brought by some rabbits earlier, and he said people are already gathering in the churchyard. And the wagons have gone oot to begin bringing in the cotters by the river.”

“The food's going down at noon; we'll do the same. No reason for people to wait about looking at perfectly good sandwiches.”

She nodded, agreeing. “And I'm nae to tell ye, but the cotters working at the factories think there are enough of them settling along the river now that they can call it a village.”

“Why aren't you supposed to tell me that?”

“I think they want to see how ye react. So be surprised, and pleased, and approve of whatever name they've decided to give it. Because there was some brawling and profanity involved before they sorted it oot, from what I hear.”

He sighed. “It's all a test, isn't it?”

“Aye. Every step ye take. And if ye falter, they'll all be cursing ye fer nae selling to Dunncraigh.”

“I could have done without hearing that today.”

Even with the amount of weight that had landed on his shoulders over the past few days, she'd yet to see him give any indication that he found it overwhelming. He seemed to understand that this would not be a quick battle and a long victory celebration. Because it would be just the opposite—a long struggle, a brief celebration, and then another siege. Perhaps a soldier was the perfect match for Lattimer, after all. Providence was an odd creature.

“Noon, hm?” he drawled. “Whatever shall we do until then?”

Fiona grinned. “I'd say ye need to go meet with Oscar Ritchie aboot the stable's grain requirements fer autumn and over the winter, but from the state of yer trousers that could be a wee bit awkward.”

“It is not a ‘wee' anything, madam,” he countered, backing her toward his bed.

“I'll nae argue with ye aboot that,” she said, chuckling, delighted shivers running up her arms.

He'd replaced the old monstrosity of a bed with a much simpler oak frame and a much firmer mattress. Likewise the room itself had been stripped of most of its ornamentation. The heavy wood paneling was gone, replaced with fresh, light green paint. The animal heads gave way to paintings of the Highlands, and most of the dusty books and knickknacks were now almanacs and planting guides and studies about soil erosion, and several vases of fresh wildflowers. It suited him even without all the last touches finished—straightforward, charming, and practical.

“I used to hate walking into this room,” she said, stopping her backward steps as her calves touched the bed frame. “It always felt stale and ostentatious and haunted.”

“And now?” he asked, pausing to take in the room again.

“It has its attractions,” she returned, grinning.

“Does it now?”

Gabriel wanted to bend her over, lift her skirt, and take her. That, however, was both ungentlemanly, and far too quick. For the picnic she'd donned a pretty white muslin gown with deep red flowers and green leaves embroidered throughout. Her clan colors, more or less. She looked delicious, and he spun her around to view the dozen tiny buttons running down her spine to her waist, trying to figure out how he was going to open the damned things without pulling them off.

When he began tugging at the first one, though, she whipped back around and slapped his hands away. “I'll nae have ye ruining my dress or my hair,” she stated. “Today is too important.”

He scowled. Several minutes ago he'd stopped thinking about the picnic and speeches and having to smile far too much. At this moment he'd stopped thinking about anything but burying himself between Fiona's thighs and hearing her cry out his name in ecstasy. “Then you take it off,” he said, turning her away from him again so he could slide his hands around her hips and then up her front to cup her breasts over the thin muslin.

When she started wriggling her bottom against his front, he clenched his jaw. She was doing it on purpose, making her rules and then pushing to see whether he would go along with her wishes or not. As long as he ended where he wanted to be, he would play along—to a point.

“Your clothes are still on,” he pointed out, slipping one hand inside her gown to pinch a nipple.

She gasped, arching against him. “Ye make me a bit giddy, Sassenach,” she managed, her voice a purr of desire.

“Then you should lie down,” he returned, licking the curve of her ear.

“Nae. I think
ye
should lie doon.”

“I see. I think I could manage that.” Still playing with her, he unbuttoned his trousers with his free hand and kicked out of them, thankful he hadn't yet donned his boots. God, she was so close, and it was so tempting.

He had to close his eyes to steady himself before he released her to sit on the edge of his new bed and scoot backward. With his proper shirt and cravat, waistcoat and dark jacket above, and nothing below, he must have looked quite a sight, but he didn't give a damn.

“Come here,” he growled, reaching out and catching hold of her skirt.

With a breathy laugh she complied, hiking up her skirt and clambering onto the bed beside him. He took her hand so she could steady herself as she straddled his hips and then far too slowly sank down around him.

Finally. Sliding his palms up her thighs, he thrust upward, meeting her as she bounced up and down on him. Hot, tight, and his. For a man who'd never expected to fall in love, much less see a future the two of them could share, the desire, the possessiveness he felt both aroused him and shook him to his core.

But with her hands planted on his chest and her head thrown back as she made mewling sounds in time with his thrusts, she
was
his. All he needed to do was prove to her that he was the man she and Lattimer needed. And inside her, feeling the exquisite ecstasy of her climaxing around him, he felt like he could do anything.

For a veteran soldier it was an unexpected and heady sensation. He didn't quite trust it, but he damned well enjoyed it. As the tension inside him stretched to breaking, he sat up to take her mouth. “Do I stay or go?” he groaned, finesse drowned out by need.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, sinking onto him almost frantically. “Stay,” she moaned thickly, shuddering again.

He couldn't hold back any longer. Spilling into her, he lifted his hips convulsively.
Mine, mine, mine,
thudded through him as he came hard and fast.

For a long time he held her, feeling her heart pounding over his. Gabriel tried to catch his breath, sinking back onto the mattress again. Fiona fell forward to sprawl across his chest. He wanted to tangle his fingers through her hair, but settled for curling a straying strand behind one ear.

Whoever the tenants here claimed allegiance to, for the past four years Fiona had looked after all of them. And still she'd managed to find room in her heart for one more lost soul. With her in his arms, he could see a future. And it had been a very long time since he'd even thought in terms of years rather than days, or even hours.

“You are a very bonny lass,” he murmured, stroking her cheek.

“Ye're nae so bad yerself, Gabriel. And thank ye fer nae mussing my hair.”

He chuckled. “You're welcome. Tonight, though, no clothes.”

Fiona lifted her head to kiss him. “I find those terms acceptable.”

His door handle rattled, accompanied by a thud and a wumph. “Damnation,” Kelgrove's voice muttered. “Your Grace?”

“I really need to find him a position he wants to take,” Gabriel murmured, wrapping his arms loosely around Fiona. “What?” he called.

“Oscar sent a stable boy up to the castle to request that we borrow all available farm wagons. It seems half the county is gathering at the river and means to come to the picnic to ‘set their oon eyes on His Grace.' That is a quote.”

Fiona nodded against his chest. “That would be grand, to include them.”

“See to it, Sergeant. Make certain you ask, not order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have the kitchen bake more bread,” Fiona whispered. “And pull another barrel of whisky from the larder.”

“Adam,” Gabriel called, “you should also ask Mrs. Ritchie to bake as much bread as she can manage. We can always send back up to the house for additional supplies, if that proves necessary.”

“I'll see to it, Your Grace.”

“And pull another barrel of whisky out of the larder.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Kelgrove paused. “Is there anything else?”

“Is there anything else?” Gabriel whispered to Fiona.

“Nae, I cannae conjure anything at the moment,” she returned softly, her voice amused.

“That will be all, Sergeant!”

“Thank you, sir!”

The footsteps retreated down the hallway. “I'm glad you locked the door,” Gabriel said, running his fingers idly down the length of buttons he wasn't permitted to open.

“Kelgrove's doing my tasks,” she returned, sitting upright, away from him. “I should be helping. Who knows how many questions will come up, last minute.”

“He's aiding,” Gabriel returned. “It's what he does. But since I've discovered his hidden passion for facts and figures, I'll find something useful for him. I do have three estates and people telling me where I should spend my money.”

“Ye do mean to set yer own eyes on Hawthorne and Langley Park, I assume?” she asked, black eyes gazing down at him.