Hero in the Highlands (29 page)

“I'd be bored out of my damned skull, you mean.” In his nightmares he could imagine a softer life, sitting behind a desk and looking at figures someone else had written out, agreeing to everything his steward suggested because the man knew far more about the mechanics of the estate than he ever would. He would go riding and hunting and fishing, spend his nights drinking, and slowly go mad.

Here, though, it was different. Lattimer needed help. And it was already cursed and half ruined, which minimized the odds of him making things worse. Here had Fiona Blackstock. However much that one fact should have been weighted, to him it seemed … everything. It could measure against every other choice before him and still be the thing that mattered the most. But he'd never led with his heart before. Ordering men into battle, riding into cannonfire required hard resolve and logic. Why couldn't he make himself see this, see her, that same way?

“At this moment I have several reasons for wanting to remain here,” he admitted, navigating through what he wanted to say as carefully as he knew how. “I have no idea if they're the right reasons.”

His aide squinted one eye against the sunlight. “Miss Blackstock being one of them, I presume.”

Well, he hadn't expected
that
. And if Kelgrove had figured out his obsession with his steward, others had, as well.
Fuck
. “What makes you say that?”

“You … look at her a great deal. And you smile. That frightened me at first, until I figured out the reason for it.”

“Very amusing, Adam,” he returned dryly. “Does anyone else suspect?”

“Some of the servants do. They reckon she's leading you on in exchange for more funds coming into Lattimer.”

“And your opinion?”

Abruptly Kelgrove became fascinated with the rust on the railing. “She's very dedicated to this place,” he finally said. “Is she aware that her clan chief wants to purchase it?”

“She is. She asked me not to sell it to him.”

For the first time during the course of the conversation, Adam looked genuinely surprised. “That … doesn't make sense.”

“It does, if you take into account my charm. And mainly, the lack of interest Dunncraigh's shown in aiding the situation here.” He frowned. “That could change if he became the landlord of course, but…” Swearing, he dragged a hand through his hair. “I like it here, Adam. God knows I like the challenge of it. But it isn't just about me, and which assignment I want. Am I the one who can do the most good here? Or is it Dunncraigh?”

“I think that your asking the question, sir, answers it as well.” Kelgrove sighed. “Despite the fact that I would rather continue to serve you someplace where the fighting is more straightforward and our foes wear uniforms, this place suits you. I've never seen you step into a situation that you didn't somehow improve by involving yourself in it. You would be dead if that were otherwise. And so would I. A hundred times over.”

Gabriel looked up again, taking in the view once more. Contemplating things wasn't in his nature. He saw, assessed, and acted all within a heartbeat and with the deadliness of any finely honed weapon. If he could name the exact opposite of who and what nature had made him, this—being a duke—would be it.

Him, a duke. Not just in name, but in fact. For the rest of his life. The head of a line that at the moment had only one other member, and no heirs. And at the same time, a very, very large family of dependents in need of an effective leader. It should have terrified him. In some ways it did, but mostly when he considered the consequences of failure. And that was a familiar sensation, and one that almost felt … comforting.

Deciding to remain at Lattimer did provide him with an answer to the one question that had troubled him almost from the moment he'd set eyes on the dusky-haired chit up to her armpits in mud. Stating, knowing Fiona belonged with him was one thing. Making it happen was another. But now, in this whirlwind of chaos, he might have just found a way.

“Well then,” he said, standing to brush off his trousers and return to the precarious safety of the widow's walk. “Let's get started, shall we?”

As Fiona had said, in planning a battle he found the obstacle before him and looked for the most expedient way to go past, around, or preferably through it. In preparation for meeting with his next obstacle, Gabriel changed back into his uniform and sent word that he was to be informed as soon as Dunncraigh returned from surveying the land the duke expected he was about to own.

Before he left the bedchamber,
his
bedchamber even with that damned bed in which he couldn't sleep, Gabriel stopped to look at himself in the full-length dressing mirror. In the years since he'd put on his first uniform he'd gained some muscle and a few inches in height, and of course myriad scars both internal and external. The eager, naïve optimism had disappeared very quickly, but for the first time in over a decade he felt it again. Not as naïve, perhaps, but unmistakably hopeful. And that surprised him more than anything. Until he'd discovered
why
he felt so … hopeful, he meant to hold onto the sensation for dear life.

He brushed at his sleeve. This could well be the last time he wore any uniform. He didn't have to wear it
now,
but with a battle waiting on the horizon, it felt both appropriate and strategically sound. This was how Dunncraigh would see him, whatever he chose to wear. And this was how he dressed to begin a war—at least this one, last time.

The morning room gave him enough space to pace, and it was the first door at the top of the stairs. Fiona had vanished into her office, ostensibly to leave him to make his own decision, but neither of them could pretend she wasn't part of it. He wondered, though, if she'd realized just how large a role he meant for her to have in this. That would be the next battle, he imagined. He had them all lined up, ready for the saber.

“He's here,” Sergeant Kelgrove said, leaning into the doorway. “Sir Hamish is still with him.”

“They're connected, Hamish's lips to Dunncraigh's arse,” Gabriel returned, rolling his shoulders. “Thank you.”

The sergeant nodded, patting his coat pocket. “I'll be close by. Bellow if you need my pistol.”

Gabriel paused at the top of the stairs to watch as the Maxwell and his entourage milled about in the foyer, commenting about profit and yield.
His
profit and yield, no doubt. “Your Grace,” he said, and eight pairs of eyes lifted to look at him. “Might I have a private word with you?”

“Of course, lad.”

He caught the congratulatory nod Sir Hamish sent his clan chief, but Gabriel kept his own expression neutral. Here, he was outnumbered. In the morning room the odds would be even, and he reckoned he had surprise on his side. Backing to the door, he waited until Dunncraigh joined him before shutting them in together.

“Ye've considered my offer, then,” the duke began.

“I have. I didn't expect it, I have to admit.”

“It's well past time MacKittrick returned to Maxwell hands,” Dunncraigh said, clearly in an expansive mood. “I reckon ten thousand pounds will satisfy us both, aye?”

“That seems a low number,” Gabriel returned, curious enough about Dunncraigh's strategy and motives to let the conversation play out a little.
Feint and parry, look for weaknesses
. Some things never changed, thank the devil.

“If the estate was in her prime, aye. But we both ken she's long past her glory days.”

“I can't argue with that. With the textile and pottery works, though, you—”

“Lad, what ye have are two wee factories and a distillery that barely pay fer themselves, and thousands of empty acres fit fer naught but sheep. Sheep ye dunnae have. Just bringing the estate back to a profit will take time that ye dunnae want to spend here. And who knows when that curse could next cost ye still more time and money. Give her back to the Maxwells. Ye're a hero in the army, I hear. The Beast of Bussaco, or someaught. If ye want twelve thousand pounds, I'll give ye twelve thousand.”

“I'm flattered,” Gabriel lied, deciding the shite was deep enough. “But I'm going to have to decline.”

“Wh— I didn't quite hear ye.”

“I'm keeping Lattimer.”

He doubted Dunncraigh was rendered speechless very often, but that seemed to do it. The duke stood there in the middle of the room, staring, a hundred different emotions flitting across his face. Then anger settled in, and didn't budge.

“Is this a jest?”

“No.”

“Ye've been a duke fer what, a month? And now ye decide ye're fit to manage a Scottish estate in the Highlands? Ye didnae strike me as being a madman, Lattimer. And I'm telling ye straight up—this place is too much fer ye.”

“I have a steward,” he returned coolly. “I'll manage.”

“Ha. Yesterday ye said ye meant to replace her with yer own man. Now ye think ye can rely on her? We only allowed her to take on this job oot of pity after her brother up and vanished. She's running aboot here like a headless chicken, losing sheep, watching crops fail, and missing market dates fer wool and wheat. Aside from that, she's a Maxwell. She'll nae remain here if ye stay on.”

She would damned well stay on, if he had to tie her to the bedpost. Defending her to this man would only make trouble for her—but that didn't mean Gabriel wasn't supremely tempted to begin bellowing about how much better she'd looked after the Maxwells here than Dunncraigh likely ever would. “Your plan for manufacturing and sheep doesn't leave much room for your clan here, anyway,” he said instead.

Dunncraigh narrowed his eyes. “This place will break ye, Major Gabriel Forrester. That's who ye truly are, isnae? Ye wear that red coat and ye keep my land from me, when ye havenae the faintest idea what to do with it. And a man in the Highlands who doesnae ken what he's aboot, that's a dead man.”

Gabriel kept his arms loose by his sides, ready to move if Dunncraigh came after him. He hoped the old man would. “I've fought a great many battles with enemies who thought to end me, Dunncraigh. I'm still standing.”

“Ye're a devil!”

“I've been called that before, too.” He would have been content to leave it at that and send the duke and his party out on their arses. As he'd realized, however, this wasn't just about him. There were people to consider. People who would continue to look to Dunncraigh as their chief. “I'm not keeping Lattimer out of spite, Your Grace,” he went on, trying to keep his jaw from clenching. Being magnanimous didn't suit him. “I have the means to make improvements here. Ones you might not be able to make, considering the amount you would be spending to gain it back.” Ones Dunncraigh probably wouldn't make, if he meant to graze sheep.

“So ye mean to help the poor backward Highlanders where we cannae help ourselves. Damn ye, Sassenach.”

“I will do what I can for my property's tenants, as is my duty,” Gabriel countered. “And given what I've heard from you, I believe I have more concern for them than you do.”

The Duke of Dunncraigh drew a hard breath in through his nose. “I'll tell ye what, Lattimer; ye do as ye will. We'll see how well ye fare when half yer tenants and yer steward and yer staff abandon ye. When the curse hits at ye again and again because MacKittrick doesnae want a Sassenach living here. And then I'll make ye another offer, and ye'll thank Christ fer my generosity and take it on bended knee. I know the Highlands. Ye dunnae. And the people here are mine. They arenae yers, and they nae will be.”

After that last bit of vitriol the duke stalked past him to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it shut behind him. A vase near the door teetered off a shelf, and almost without thought Gabriel reached out to catch it and set it back in its place.

Perhaps Dunncraigh's threats and dire predictions would have intimidated some pampered English lordling. For him, though, the list of challenges and impossible disasters seemed more like a typical duty roster, even if the assignments themselves were different. It would have been much more dismaying to think he might be bored.

With a grin Gabriel went to inform Fleming that their guests were to be gone by sunset. And next he meant to find himself a bed he could actually sleep in. It needed to be large enough for two.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Fiona listened. The fate of Lattimer—MacKittrick—Castle waited down the hallway somewhere, decided between a man who didn't want to be a duke and a duke who'd been neglecting his own people. She'd done what she could, what she hoped was best for the tenants, but if she knew one thing about Gabriel Forrester, it was that he would make a decision swiftly, and then act on it just as decisively. Which decision he would make, however, she had no idea.

The hands of the small clock on the shelf moved so slowly she could almost swear they were creeping backward. An hour, then two. No gunshots, no shouting, no bagpipes calling men to battle—that should have been a good sign, unless it meant that Gabriel had agreed to sell the estate to the Maxwell. Or that one of them had murdered the other one. “Oh, this is too much,” she muttered, and stomped for the door. Someone was going to tell her what had happened, or someone was going to get punched in the nose.

Out in the hallway the silence continued. With over a hundred people in the house, the lack of noise both surprised and unsettled her. The … aloneness of it, though, didn't have as much to do with absent servants as it did with the realization of how much she'd come to depend on the presence of Gabriel Forrester in her life. And however much she tried to twist the answer into concern over the land and the tenants, she had to admit, just to herself, that she wanted him there, and she wanted him with her.

A loud thud from the direction of the stairs made her jump. “Hello?” she called, making her way around the corner. And then she stopped, blinking. The house wasn't empty, after all. “What the devil are ye doing, Hugh?”