Hero in the Highlands (18 page)

Gabriel clenched his jaw. Whoever the devil that other man had been, they needed to have a conversation. With their fists.

He was tempted to have Union Jack saddled just to get him out of the house, but after yesterday he had a letter to write. His solicitors in London might have thought him incapable of functioning without their constant yelping, but he remembered the important bits. He remembered that he had more money than he and his sister together could ever hope to spend, and he remembered that he wanted to show Fiona he could be a duke.

Two hours later he'd franked two letters and sent them off to Strouth and the Fair-Haired Lass tavern there, where he'd been assured the next mail coach headed south would collect them for delivery to London. He'd sent word to the overseers at the textile mill, the porcelain works, and the whisky distillery that he wanted to see them first thing tomorrow morning. As he'd warned her, if he couldn't get Miss Blackstone to cooperate, he would simply go around her. And then, if she was as concerned with her secrets as he thought her to be, he had no doubt she would change her defiant tune.

“What the devil are ye aboot?” Her voice came on the heels of that thought, and she stomped into the upstairs sitting room where he'd gone to find what he suspected was a secret door leading down a hidden corridor cutting across the center of the second floor of the castle. The old building seemed to be rife with them.

Gabriel rapped his knuckles against the next section of wall, hearing solid stone behind the paneling. “I'm looking for a passageway.”

“I'm nae talking aboot that. Ye threatened to take a man's cattle and send him to cut peat? Ye damned Sassenach, that's how ye find yerself with a lead ball in yer skull.”

The deep lilt of her voice distracted him, and he pushed back against it. Moving on, he kept knocking against the wall. “If a man isn't capable of doing his job, I'll find him one he
can
manage. It's as simple as that.”

“It isnae. Nae here in the Highlands.” Even with his back turned he could practically see her hands going onto her hips. “And if ye're set on being rid of men who cannae do the job they've been given, ye should begin by looking in the mirror.”

And there it was again. How unfit he was to be a duke, to be in charge of setting this place to rights—not that he could do so until she decided to tell him precisely what was wrong with it. He turned around to face her. “So I'm not fit for this duty?” he ground out, stalking up and grabbing her by the hand even when he knew he'd be better off not touching her. “In your estimable opinion, then, who
is
suited to be the Duke of Lattimer? You, I suppose, Duchess?”

She tried to yank her arm free, but he'd finished with the way she snapped insults at him and flitted away. After a heartbeat or two she stopped pulling and settled for glaring up at him. “At least I ken Highlands ways, Lattimer. At least I wouldnae ever insult a man oot of his own presence and tell the world he's a failure at the work his father's father's father's father passed all the way doon to him, and all without ye ever speaking more than a half-dozen words to him, if that.”

Well, that cut close to the spine. With a deep breath he bit back the retort he'd been ready to make. “I'll make you a bargain,” he snapped. “I will meet with Brian Maxwell and see for myself whether he's lazy or merely unlucky. If it's the latter, I will do what I can to help him keep Cow wherever it is she belongs.”

Her black gaze lowered to his mouth and lifted again, making his pulse speed in return. For God's sake, somewhere over the past few days she'd become a siren, and he a sailor who'd been at sea for a very, very long time and couldn't resist her even when he knew he should. “I cannae argue with that, I suppose, but how is it a bargain?”

With her hand in his grip, he drew her up against him. “In return,” he said, working not to lean toward her, “‘Sassenach,' ‘major,' ‘soldier,' and ‘English' all leave your vocabulary, at your peril. If you mean to continue to insult me, you'll have to be more clever than that.”

She swallowed. “And what peril is that?”

“I'll think of something.”

Fiona searched his face, but Lattimer didn't seem to be jesting in the slightest. Never in a hundred years would she have expected a duke to request a meeting with a tenant farmer and then offer to help him, if need be. And yes, Brian Maxwell
was
lazy, but she'd always reckoned that was because of his consistently poor luck. He claimed to have been struck with ill fortune thanks to the curse, because evidently one day twenty years ago he'd tipped his hat to the old Duke of Lattimer. She didn't believe in such things, of course, but she supposed it mattered more that Brian
did.
“I agree to yer bargain, Lattimer,” she said, and stuck out her free hand since she couldn't seem to wrench the other one free.

“Gabriel,” he corrected. “I'm removing ‘Lattimer,' as well. I've heard you use it against me.”

Still holding her hand out, she cocked her head at him and hoped he couldn't see that the idea of using his given name made her think thoughts that had no business being in her brain. “Everyone'll think I'm being too familiar with ye. That we're … friends, or someaught.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Will they, then?” he said, a half grin curving his mouth.

Clearly he was daring her to back down. And she was a Blackstock of clan Maxwell. She'd yet to come across a thing that could stop her. Not even the MacKittrick curse stood a chance. “Shake my blasted hand then, Gabriel, unless ye've changed yer mind.” There. And by saying it quickly, his name didn't pause long enough to linger on her tongue, not the way it did when she said it to herself.

He took a deep breath. “I'm not shaking your damned hand,” he rumbled, and captured her mouth with his. Heat speared through her again, sharper this time. Fiona put her hands on his shoulders, unable to keep herself from molding her lips against his as he tilted her head up with his fingers. Their fourth kiss. A very fine one, indeed.

Slowly he lifted away from her, releasing her in the same motion. They had their bargain, then, for whatever good he thought it would do. “Are all Sassenach soldiers as mad as ye?” she asked, dismayed that her voice frayed a little at the edges.

“I very much doubt that, Fiona.”

“Well. Fine, then. I'll send fer Brian.”

“I already have. I believe by now he should be waiting in the front sitting room. Would you care to join me?”

“So ye meant to talk to him anyway, and ye nae said anything? Ye cheated, ye big … Gabriel.”

“If you'd asked Oscar Ritchie, you would have known precisely what I did. I've hidden nothing from you.” Gray eyes met hers. “I doubt you can say the same.” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”

There he went again, accusing her of lying. He wasn't supposed to have realized anything was amiss, and she had no idea how he'd discovered … whatever it was he'd found out. Or perhaps he hadn't realized anything, and he simply had a suspicious nature. However it had come about, he didn't seem the sort to let his questions lie unanswered.

She hadn't actually lied, yet. Not really. Not saying anything one way or the other wasn't lying. That tactic had little to do with the truth either, however, and with him suspecting subterfuge she couldn't keep it up much longer.

Which gave her a choice. An outright lie, or at least a partial truth. A truth that would more than likely see him extending his stay until he'd beaten the problem it represented into submission. Fiona paused just short of the sitting room doorway. Yes, the castle had a curse on it. But a curse didn't steal things. People did that. And Lattim—Gabriel—might actually be more help than her finger-crossing, over-the-shoulder-spitting fellows who'd evidently decided that the castle's deepening ill fortune was both to be expected and inescapable.

“I couldn't say for certain,” the duke drawled from so close behind her that the hair on the back of her neck lifted, “but I think you may have something on your mind. I hope it's me.”

Fiona turned around, put both hands on his hard chest, and shoved him into the empty breakfast room opposite. He didn't resist, which surprised her, but it seemed entirely possible that he thought she meant to kiss him again. Which she wouldn't. Certainly not now that it had occurred to her to do so.

Shutting the door, she hauled him all the way over to the window. A little truth, a bit of truth, just enough to ease his suspicions and to aid her with catching the culprit. Then he could leave feeling he'd accomplished something, Lattimer or MacKittrick or whatever the British Crown said it should be called today would no longer be losing sheep, and then she could manage the rest once Gabriel was gone.

“If this is a seduction,” he murmured, “you don't have to work this hard.”

Fiona stared at him, half thinking she must have slipped into another daydream. “I'm nae seducing ye. I wanted to tell ye someaught.”

He bent his head toward her. “You smell like heather.”

A slight, pleasant shiver went through her. If he hadn't been English, and a soldier, they would likely have been naked together by now. As it was, every time she so much as glanced in his direction she thought of kissing. And kissing him only led to her wanting to kiss him more.

“Stop spouting yer nonsense,” she stated, taking half a step backward and hoping he couldn't tell that she'd hesitated to do so.

His bisected eyebrow lifted as he relented. “Enlighten me, then. What did you want to tell me?”

“We're missing sheep,” she said in a low voice. “It began with a few at a time, then a hundred at once. Now that they're up in the hills, we're losing some nearly every day. There's nae pattern we can sort oot, and nae trace of attacks from wildcats or anything else that could be harassing them.” She scowled. “Everyone blames it on the MacKittrick curse, but I'm nae going to accept losing livestock to superstition.”

He searched her gaze, clearly trying to decipher if she was telling him the truth or not. Which she was. Just not all of it. “I'm assuming you kept this from me because you're afraid I'll go charging after the culprits and get myself killed.” Gabriel lowered his eyebrows. “No? Perhaps you're worried that I would take on the task of finding the thieves and, by so doing, lengthen my stay at Lattimer.”

Well, wasn't he the clever one
? She narrowed her eyes. “Ye're so certain of yer answer, I willnae bother with offering my own.” It certainly wouldn't do for him to begin thinking he had everything figured out, anyway. “I will say that there's nae a Maxwell in the Highlands who would approve of me telling ye what I just did. If ye go aboot flapping yer gobber and saying it was me who told ye, well … just dunnae do any such thing.”

As she watched, the expression on his face altered. She couldn't quite say how, but she knew he wasn't amused any longer, and he wasn't going to make one of his cynical jests. For this moment, she had his complete, undivided attention. It felt like she'd stepped too close to a hungry, wild lion—or so she imagined, anyway. At the same time, that scar running down his face—she abruptly wanted to run her fingers along it.

“Whether you're actually in my employ or not, Fiona,” he finally said, his low, precise voice quiet, “and regardless of whether we're allies or not, your confidences are safe with me. I will protect you, with my life if necessary.”

The idea of a duke—any duke—purposely laying down his life for a castle's steward, an estate manager, was utterly ridiculous. And yet, as she gazed into his dawn-colored eyes, she absolutely believed that he meant what he said. “Well, ye're a madman then, Gabriel Forrester. I told ye what ye asked; do with it as ye will. I've nae idea who's been doing it, and I've been looking. Dunnae get yerself thrown over a cliff fer some sheep.” Even though that would make things easier on her, she couldn't say that was what she wanted, any longer. In fact, she still wanted to touch him even when she knew she shouldn't. She settled for poking a finger into his shoulder. “And dunnae go aboot accusing the tenants or frightening the bairns. I reckon there's nae a soul at MacKittrick who wants ye here as it is.”

“Nae a soul?” he repeated, mimicking her.

Fiona lowered her hand and took a long step backward. “Nae a soul,” she repeated, though she couldn't muster quite as much heat as she'd intended.

“Mm-hm.”

“Dunnae push yer luck, ye demon. Ye're nae as charming as ye think.”

“Yes I am.”

Charming didn't quite seem the correct word; perhaps compelling, or mesmerizing, fit him better. When he walked into a room, all eyes went to him and remained there. Hers certainly did, despite her best efforts to ignore, detest, and be rid of him. On the battlefield he must have been the devil himself, tall and straight-backed and leading from the front, cutting a bloody path to victory. No, Gabriel Forrester wasn't a Highlander. He was, however, the very definition of a man. And Fiona had no idea how much longer she would be able to resist him, or if she even cared to try.

 

Chapter Eight

“Miss Fiona,” Brian Maxwell said, rising from his perch at the very front edge of one of the chairs in the sitting room, as if he'd worried he might dirty the thing. The farmer held his tam in his hands, his hair dampened and combed and his old coat buttoned.

“Good afternoon, Brian.”

“I've nae been summoned to parlay with a duke before,” he went on, his hat spinning a slow circle in his restless fingers. “Do ye ken what he's after? Because my cottage has been on this land fer more than a hundred years, and I'd nae see it burned doon and my wife and bairns left to the cold because of a cow, or because he's a yen fer grazing more sheep.”