Hero in the Highlands (16 page)

“I told ye that I reassured Father Jamie.”

“So you did.” Gabriel straightened from the windowsill. “How many other people have you reassured that I don't mean to murder them or drive them out of their homes?” They had a word in the army for a man who promised friendship and stirred hate. Calling Hamish Paulk a traitor, though, or a spy, would begin them down a path he'd wanted to avoid.

Maxwell's fist tightened around the ivory handle of his cane. In response, Gabriel pushed one booted foot into the floor. Perhaps he didn't need to resort to name-calling. He would allow the Scotsman to move first, only because that would answer several of his own questions. But neither would he be standing there if and when the blow landed.

“I dunnae take yer meaning, Yer Grace,” Maxwell said through clenched teeth, which made Gabriel think he understood it quite well. “I'm a Maxwell chieftain; I've a duty to look after my clan. At this moment ye cannae dispute that ye're a large disturbance. And the people on this land are skittish when it comes to change.”

According to what he'd been overhearing he wasn't the only disturbance in the area, but he wasn't supposed to know about the thievery—unless he could twist up Sir Hamish enough to get the chieftain to mention it in his presence. Then he could jump on the information without having to reveal that he'd been eavesdropping on Fiona.

“If it's a disturbance to bring a bit of order to land I own, particularly when I was brought here because of your own niece's lack of cooperation, then so be it. And the people on this land, who evidently look to you for reassurance, are going to have to accept that some change is inevitable. And you are not—”

The door swung open again, accompanied by a swirl of soft green and the scent of heather. “Uncle Hamish!” Fiona exclaimed. “Nae a soul told me ye were here! I'd nae have interrupted if I'd known, but I thought His Grace might care to drive oot to see his whisky distillery today.”

She'd been listening to the conversation, then, and had also come to the conclusion that her uncle could be maneuvered into wagging his tongue about the sheep thefts. Clever chit. But she'd given him another opening, and he wouldn't pass it by. He sorted out problems for a living, after all. And Miss Blackstock happened to be a very stubborn, very attractive problem.

“Thank you, Miss Blackstock,” he said aloud. “I'd be very interested to see my distillery. I wish you'd offered earlier.”

Her mouth twitched in a forced smile. “There's been a great deal to do.”

“And a great many obstacles to overcome.” Her, chief among them.

This time the amusement in her eyes looked genuine. “This is the Highlands. Some obstacles will nae ever be overcome.”

Now
this
seemed like progress. “I don't know about that, Fiona,” he returned, using her given name intentionally and liking the way it felt on his tongue. “I'm a very determined man.”

“Ye cannae proceed here like this is one of yer military campaigns, Yer Grace,” Paulk interjected, clearly misreading the true topic of conversation. “It'll serve ye best to have some patience. Because yer—”

“My mere presence is disruptive,” Gabriel finished. “I'm not convinced that's a bad thing. It seems to me the lot of you could use some disruption.”

Fiona scowled to herself. There he went, digging at her uncle again. Och, the man was relentless, and worse, clever. He knew something was amiss, and he knew no one would be likely to answer his queries directly. And so he threw hot stones into the pot and waited for it to boil over. “Uncle Hamish,” she said with a too grand smile, trying to put out the fire before Lattimer found a reason to stay on in the Highlands. Because while she'd only known Lattimer for a handful of days, she did know that he would immediately decide the thievery business was his. He was an army major. Nothing was allowed to happen without his permission. “Did ye see the price of wool has gone up? That's some fair news fer a fine morning.”

“I did,” her uncle said, a touch too sharply. “And that reminds me of someaught. Might I have a quick word with ye? I've a letter from the Duke of Dunncraigh.”

She nodded. Anything to separate the two men before something happened. “I'll be back in a moment, Lattimer.”

Her uncle didn't stop until they were halfway down the hall and deep into the billiards room. “What the devil are ye aboot?” he demanded, his voice hushed but his eyes fierce.

“What do ye—”

“Ye were flirting with him!”

Her cheeks darkened. “I wasnae!” She stepped closer to him. “The way the two of ye were sparring, I had to step in and distract him. I half expected ye to challenge him to do better than we have with finding the sheep thieves. And that would be unfortunate.”

The chieftain narrowed his eyes. “I've yet to need ye to advise me on what's best fer the clan, Fiona. Ye mind yer own troubles. Ye may've done a fair job of keeping up an empty hoose, lass, but it isnae empty any longer. And if ye keep throwing yerself at him, ye'll find yerself disgraced
and
replaced by that Sergeant Kelgrove when he goes. Now
that
would be unfortunate.”

Fiona blinked. After Kieran had vanished into the bog, she'd insisted that she could manage Lattimer in her brother's stead. Hamish hadn't liked the idea of a nineteen-year-old lass overseeing a castle and its accompanying ten thousand acres, but he'd disliked the idea of arousing the old Lattimer's attention even more. The last thing they'd wanted was for the duke to send some Sassenach up to the Highlands to take over running the estate. With his own house and all the Maxwells in the valley to see to, Hamish Paulk couldn't have managed it himself. But he'd helped her figure it out, helped her organize the books after the disaster her brother had made of them. And now, it seemed, he was finished with helping.

Of course she
had
just implied that he had a wagging tongue. Perhaps she'd hurt his feelings, and he'd simply struck back. She could blame her complete lack of finesse on Lattimer—in four days he'd upended everything, including her own common sense.

“Aye,” she replied, deciding he expected an answer. “I ken. But ye said we should be friendly. I think he meant to anger ye, Uncle. I wanted to help keep the peace.”

For a moment he regarded her. “I've nae doubt aboot that, lass. But I didnae say to be friendly. I said to be polite.”

Fiona nodded. Whatever the reason for his sharpness a moment ago, they seemed to still be allies, anyway. “Have ye truly a letter from Dunncraigh? He couldnae possibly know already that we've the new Duke of Lattimer here.”

“I've a letter, but nae, he doesnae know London found some soldier to take Lattimer from us again. I've sent word to him aboot that. I imagine he'll want to make Gabriel Forrester's acquaintance fer himself.”

Fiona began to feel light-headed. She'd been introduced to Domhnull Maxwell, the Duke of Dunncraigh, at a clan gathering when she'd been eleven or twelve. The chief of clan Maxwell had even spoken to her a few times since then, not that she felt entirely comfortable at being noticed by him or his circle. Dunncraigh always had an eye toward making alliances, expanding the clan's influence. As the niece of a chieftain she had some status in the clan, and she did not want to be married off at someone else's whim. “How fares His Grace?”

“Well.” Hamish sighed. “He's ordered me to make the acquaintance of Viscount Harendell's sisters. Seems I've been a widower long enough.”

She allowed herself a muffled sigh of relief that the letter hadn't been about her. She wasn't nineteen any longer, after all. Not for four years. “Ye have my sympathy,” she returned. “Do ye wish to remarry? Ye've nae spoken aboot it. Nae to me, anyway.”

Her uncle shrugged. “Ye ken yer aunt and I didnae see eye to eye. I'll nae have another shrew, but I hear Morag Harendell's pleasant enough.”

A shrew.
Was that Agnes Paulk's only epitaph? Fiona had always thought of her late aunt as being spirited, and she'd enjoyed the woman's straightforward ways, so different from her own mother's. In truth, in some ways she'd felt closer to Agnes than to Muran Paulk Blackstock.

“I dunnae know either of the Harendell lasses well,” she offered, stepping back toward the door, “but they both seem pleasant from a distance. And I ken the family's wealthy as Midas.”

He gave a slight smile. “There is that. Before ye return to the Sassenach, Fiona, I need to know fer certain that ye understand what's afoot here. He's nae yer friend, and he's nae wanted or needed here. If we can be rid of him before Dunncraigh arrives, all the better fer us.”

Oh, she didn't need to be reminded about that. She nodded. “I ken.” Even if one of the men didn't annoy her and the other one make her nervous, two dukes under the same roof was two too many. And with word already sent to Dunncraigh, she could find herself in precisely that situation within weeks, damn it all.

“Make my excuses, will ye?” Hamish said, apparently satisfied that she understood his warnings. “I find I've nae much more politeness to give the Sassenach today.”

If she knew Hamish Paulk as well as she thought she did, his involvement wouldn't end at a letter. He would continue to smile in English and spread dissension in Gaelic. Fiona supposed she generally wouldn't mind, except that while she wanted to be rid of Lattimer, she certainly didn't want to see him—or anyone else—injured. Or worse. And that had nothing to do with the way she'd felt this morning seeing a lock of his raven-black hair fall across his temple despite his proper, precise haircut. Or that when Tilly the maid had asked the duke's eye color she'd been tempted to describe the sky at dawn instead of simply saying “gray.” That was ridiculous.

Especially when they still had other avenues available to be rid of him.

Remaining in the billiards room for another moment to give her uncle time to vanish, she then squared her shoulders and strolled back into the library. Sergeant Kelgrove had moved to the bookcase nearest the door, no doubt so he could conduct an inventory of all the books in the collection. Soldiers did like to count things. Lattimer, though, remained at the worktable, his palms flat on its surface as he leaned over the current ledger. He hadn't put on his uniform since his arrival at the castle; either it had been ruined in the mud, or he'd realized that wearing the red was akin to jumping out into the middle of the lane during a horse race. For a single moment she allowed herself to speculate over what a fine figure he would likely cut in a proper Maxwell kilt, but of course that was worse than utter nonsense. He would never wear the plaid. He wasn't a Highlander.

 

Chapter Seven

“Did your uncle slink away, then?” the Duke of Lattimer asked, lifting his head.

“Uncle Hamish doesnae slink anywhere,” she retorted, wondering if anyone else—if he—thought she'd been flirting with him. Ridiculous. It made her words harsher than she would otherwise have intended. “And ye shouldnae have spoken to him that way.”

“I'm not polished,” he returned, and gestured for her to take the seat across the table from where he stood. “Do you think he dislikes me now?” His tone was serious, belied only by one lifted eyebrow and a twinkle in his light gray eyes. “I had such high hopes after our first meeting.”

Fiona snorted. “Ye're a strange one.”

“I've been called far worse than that, and by allies. Sit.”

The doorway seemed much safer, but with an exaggerated sigh she pulled out the chair and perched on the edge of it. “I have duties to see to.”

“So you've said. Who's Dunncraigh?”

The question didn't surprise her as much as did his directness. But then he'd just admitted to a lack of polish. “Domhnull Maxwell, the Duke of Dunncraigh. The chief of clan Maxwell.”

“And does Sir Hamish often inform you when he has a letter from the Duke of Dunncraigh?”

She frowned. “I dunnae see how that's any of yer affair. And if I'm to sit, then ye sit, as well. I dunnae like ye glaring doon at me like a great gargoyle.”

Never in a hundred, hundred years would she have dared to speak to Dunncraigh so rudely. This duke, though, gave her a half smile and sat down opposite her. “Do you actually mean to guide me through the distillery, or was that an excuse to interrupt my argument with dear Uncle Hamish?”

“Uncle Hamish would flop aboot like a landed fish if he heard ye calling him ‘dear' anything.”

“Noted. Are you going to answer my question? Or if you prefer, I could ask what you were worried he might say, and you could answer that one.”

“I came to take ye to the distillery,” she stated, meeting his gaze and daring him to contradict her.

He continued to look at her, leaving her with the unsettling feeling that he could hear both what she said and what she didn't say. She, however, was not some captured Frenchman in fear for her life and ready to begin spilling secrets just because he wanted her to.

“Kelgrove, find me some paper, will you?”

Wordlessly the door behind her opened and closed again. Finally the duke lowered his gaze to the ledger and flipped a page. “And you may as well go see to your duties, Miss Blackstock. If you're going to lie to me, I've no use for you.”

And now he sounded like a duke, when she'd half thought he'd banished Kelgrove so he could kiss her again. Not for a rebuke. She shoved back to her feet, angry despite the fact that his assessment happened to be correct. “Ye need yer aide to tell ye if my figures are correct or nae, so dunnae ye climb up on yer high horse to me, Lattimer.”

He looked up at her, but stayed seated. “Back to figures again, are we?” His gaze lowered, taking her in from the hips, lingering on her chest, and then lifting to her face again. “Yours looks very fine to me.”