Hero in the Highlands (39 page)

“Very amusing, Fiona. Tell me.”

She sighed deliciously.
“Tha gaol agam ort,”
she said.

He repeated it to her. “
Tha gaol agam ort.
Aye?”

“Aye.” Stretching, she put her hands against the seat back on either side of his head and kissed him again. “Ye're a quick study. Aboot a great many things. Niall Garretson's likely to begin weeping when ye show him the plans ye drew up fer the mill.”

“Weeping with approval, I hope. It's a mill that'll never fall in a siege, at least.” As he took another glance out the window, he straightened. “Christ,” he cursed, and lifted her off his lap.

“What?” she demanded, twisting hurriedly to follow his gaze and shoving her dress back down around her legs. “Lattimer hasn't collapsed, has…” She trailed off. “Oh. Oh, my goodness.”

People lined the road ahead. A great many people, in both livery and farm attire. With another curse he refastened his trousers before the coach drew close enough for any of them to see in through the open windows. “Am I about to be burned at the stake?” he asked, knocking on the coach's roof.

“I've nae idea,” she returned, busy stuffing her breasts back inside her gown and fastening her pelisse over the lovelies.

The coach rolled to a halt a few feet short of where the young footman, Hugh, stood on one side of the snow-covered road, Ailios Eylar's daughter Eppie opposite him. Gabriel opened the door and hopped to the ground, then turned around to take Fiona around the waist and lift her down, as well.

“Hugh? What's wrong?” he asked, buttoning his caped greatcoat against the chill before he took Fiona's hand to help steady her as they walked to the beginning of the parallel lines of tenants and staff that continued all the way up the drive to Lattimer's front doors. At least the old place still stood, dark and impressive beneath the overcast sky.

The footman bowed at the waist, then straightened again. “There's nae a thing wrong, Yer Grace,” he said, his voice wavering just a little. Nervous? What was the lad nervous about? They'd just spent three weeks making statements and exposing Dunncraigh's misdeeds, resolving what he'd hoped was the last of Lattimer's troubles. And now before he'd even stepped through the door something else seemed to be rearing its head.

“Hugh, I ken I dunnae need to tell ye,” Fiona took up, “but everyone's ootside. And it's snowing. What's amiss?”

“They put me here on purpose,” Hugh said, “and told me what to tell ye. We didnae know what was afoot when Yer Grace and Miss Fiona and Ian rode off to Inverness. But Fleming's been reading us the newspapers and yer letters, and now we know. He told us what the Maxwell did, and how he turned Ian and the others against their own.” He squared his shoulders. “So we're here to tell ye that we're nae clan Maxwell, any longer. Some of us are named Maxwell, but Dunncraigh's nae our chief.”

“Ye dunnae have to do that,” Fiona burst out, her expression shocked. “I'm the one who's made him angry. There's nae need fer ye—”

“There is,” Eppie said, unexpectedly from behind them, the first time Gabriel had ever heard her speak. “We all talked aboot it. Some of us wanted to send a letter to Dunncraigh and tell him what we thought. Some others, though, said he wouldnae care, and that we'd be asking fer trouble where he'd be happier just to keep ignoring us. But we all decided; withoot Miss Fiona we'd all have been in fer it a long time ago. And Miss Fiona chose ye, Yer Grace.”

“I'm supposed to tell it, Eppie,” Hugh broke in. “Miss Fiona chose ye, Yer Grace, so we reckoned that's good enough fer us.”

Gabriel frowned, not quite certain what was going on. “Thank you, but what—”

“Ye're the Duke of Lattimer,” Hugh interrupted, clearly warming to the topic. “But only the Sassenachs call this place Lattimer. So in London ye can be the Duke of Lattimer. But here, if ye dunnae object, Yer Grace, ye're Laird MacKittrick.”

It wasn't even a title. It hadn't been since the Crown had taken away the land from the last, curse-prone, Scottish lord who'd resided here. Beside him Fiona had tears in her eyes, and she nodded at him emphatically. She'd chosen him, they said. Without her, he would have been back on the Continent by now, and he likely would have sold Lattimer to Dunncraigh without a second thought. It had been a burden. Now, though, and so swiftly it still stunned him, this place, this woman, had become his life.

“I would be honored,” he said, raising his voice so they could hear him down the line. “It doesn't seem right, though, for me to take credit when we all know who truly deserves this. As you said, without Fiona, all of us—including myself—would be in much worse shape.”

Turning around to face her, he sank onto one knee, taking both her hands in his. The collective gasp of the gathered onlookers clouded the air with fog. It likely wasn't fair, for him to do this with all these witnesses, but in this circumstance he was much more interested in getting what he wanted than in being fair.

“Get up, Gabriel,” she hissed, her cheeks growing pale.

“I can't be Laird MacKittrick without a Lady MacKittrick,” he said, looking up at her. And this, this moment, worried him more than any fight on any battlefield. This moment didn't rely on his own skill. It relied on someone else's heart. Every minute since he'd arrived in the Highlands, though, had been about facing his own worries and doing things he would previously have thought impossible. “And a duke needs a duchess. You are the heart of this land, Fiona, and I can't ask for any more for your kin and for me. I love you with every ounce of my soldier's heart, and everything else you've enabled me to become.
Tha gaol agam ort,
” he went on, hoping he hadn't mangled it. “Will you marry me?”

For a handful of hard beats of his heart she stood there, staring down at him while tears ran down her face. Then she launched herself against his chest, pushing him backward into the snow and kissing him as cold wet went down his neck. Laughing, he threw his arms around her, holding her close.

“You didn't give me an answer,” he said when he could breathe again, as their newly formed clan gathered around them making their own sounds of congratulations and delight.

“Aye!” she yelled, and her kin cheered. “Aye,” she repeated more quietly, touching her forehead to his. “I love ye something fierce, Gabriel Forrester. Ye're nae what I expected, and I cannae imagine tomorrow withoot ye beside me.”

He smiled, lifting his head to kiss her again. “You don't have to. The MacKittrick curse doesn't stand a chance against us, my lass.”

“Nae,” she returned, grinning down at his face. “It doesnae.”

 

Read on for an excerpt from
Suzanne Enoch
's next book

My One True Highlander

Coming soon from St. Martin's Paperbacks

 

More stomping, heavier and angrier—if bootsteps could sound angry—than before. Marjorie took a deep breath. Being tricked by two young boys certainly wasn't her fault; any true lady would of course offer assistance to children in need. But those weren't the footsteps of boys, now. And disbelief, affront, or annoyance no longer felt adequate. Now, sitting in a hard chair with her hands bound and a rather smelly sack over her head, she didn't feel simply put-out, the victim of some naughty boys' prank. With those last bootsteps, this stopped being a rare misadventure and became very, very serious.

“Steady,” she whispered to herself. Yes, she knew how to be polite and proper and appropriate. Evidently those very things were what had gotten her into this mess. But losing her wits now certainly wouldn't help anything. Because that last, angry pair of boots didn't belong to any twelve-year-old, and she couldn't pretend that she was having a very bad dream.

The door creaked open, and the footsteps stopped in the entry. She held her breath, listening for anything that could give her a clue about who seemed to be standing there, staring at her. The silence, though, dragged on for what felt like hours.

“Whatever this is,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone calm and civilized despite the very uncivil circumstances, “I assure you that my main interest is being returned to the Cracked Hearth Inn and my carriage. The rest doesn't signify.”

“It doesnae signify to
ye
, yer highness,” a low-pitched, very Scottish voice replied, “but it damned well signifies to me.”

“I'm not royalty,” she returned, seizing on those words. If this was a case of mistaken identity, well, thank heavens. “I'm just—”

“I ken who ye are,
Lady
Marjorie Forrester,” he interrupted. “Sister of the Duke of Lattimer, the man most hated in these parts by the chief of clan Maxwell. And that's where ye are, lass. In the heart of Maxwell territory.”

Her heart stammered. “If you know who I am, sir, then you also know that my brother is not someone to be trifled with, either. And he would not look favorably on anyone who harmed his sister.”

“And
that
, yer highness, is precisely my problem.” Three fast footsteps moved toward her, and then the sack was yanked free of her head.

She wanted to look. She wanted to see who'd ordered those young boys to trick her into wandering off, and then tied her up and dragged her off … somewhere. But Marjorie shut her eyes tight. “If you're worried about trouble, then make certain I can't see you,” she said. “Just drop me by the roadside, and we can forget this ever happened.”

“Ye saw my brothers, lass,” he returned. “That's the rub. Seeing me should be the least of yer worries.”

“I won't tell,” she insisted, putting every ounce of sincerity she possessed into those three words.

“I'm nae willing to risk my family's necks on the word of a Sassenach,” he said. “Especially one accustomed to having her own way. Open yer damned eyes. Ye look ridiculous.”

If there was one thing worse than being ignored, it was being called ridiculous. “You and your brothers kidnapped me,” she retorted. “Don't expect me to take your criticisms to heart.” With that Marjorie opened her eyes—and her heart stopped beating. Her kidnapper leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest.

A mane of dark brown hair shot through with deep red hung almost to his shoulders, stray strands half-covering one eye and not at all lessening the impact of steel-gray looking directly back at her. His nose was straight, his mouth spare and unyielding. And unsympathetic. She'd once seen a lion in the Tower of London, and the way he'd gazed at her—the undisputed king languidly sizing up a gazelle and deciding whether she was worth devouring or not—had made her shudder. And she shuddered now.

For heaven's sake he was big. Tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like he could lift a horse over his head, she would have been willing to wager that everything beneath that worn shirt and coat and those buckskin trousers was muscle.
Think
, she ordered herself. This was not the time for ogling like some schoolgirl, however striking this man's appearance.

Like the two boys, his clothes weren't crisp and new. Unlike them, his shirt and trousers were streaked with dirt. His nails were neatly trimmed, but one of them was bruised black, and all of them were dirty. What was he, a stableboy? A farmer? Certainly he wasn't an aristocrat. Not with hands like that. And with all those muscles and the way he seemed to be actually using them, he likely didn't have any spare space for thought. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage.

“Well,” she ventured, very aware of her hands bound in her lap, “I've seen you now. My offer still stands, however; return me to the Cracked Hearth, and I won't speak a word about you. Or your brothers.”

Pushing upright, he strode up to her. “And I still dunnae believe ye,” he stated, and pulled a knife from one boot.

“No!” she shrieked, ramming her head into his chest. The impact made her blink stars.

He grunted. “I'm nae going to murder ye, yer highness. Nae today.” Grabbing her shoulder, he leaned over and sliced through the ropes binding her hands together. “If ye try to run, ye'll be back in this chair,” he said. “And because I'm nae as much of a fool as ye English like to think, I've two guards by the door and I've a chain locked to a bed upstairs. That's fer the night.”

The idea that she wouldn't be seeing her brother Gabriel and his new wife at the end of the day, that she didn't have her clothes or her hairbrush or any money with which to purchase replacements, that she truly wouldn't be going anywhere unless someone else allowed it—Marjorie abruptly wanted to scream and cry and pound her fists like an infant. “And then what?” she made herself ask.

The big man shrugged, returning the knife to his boot and backing toward the door. “And then we'll see.” He tilted his head, the fall of that lanky hair making him look more vulnerable than she already knew him to be. “There's a bowl of water there by the bed, a mug of milk, and a slice of mutton. I reckon it's nae as fine as ye're accustomed to, but I wasnae expecting guests.”

“I am not your guest,” she retorted, and those gray eyes assessed her all over again.

“Nae, ye arenae. Ye're a pile of trouble that my brothers have dumped on my lap.”

“And you're blaming me? Don't be absurd. Let me go before this gets any worse. I've been missing for an afternoon. I can explain that away. Overnight won't be as simple, sir.” And it would likely ruin her—if that hadn't happened already. She took another breath, trying to slow her pulse. One thing at a time. Escape first, then worry over her reputation.

“Nought aboot ye is simple, lass. But dunnae expect me to give in to yer doe eyes and long lashes when lives are at stake. So ye'd best calm yerself and get someought to eat before ye faint dead away, and I'll come fetch ye later. If ye care to curse anyone beneath yer breath, I'm Maxton. Graeme Maxton.”