Hero in the Highlands (38 page)

At the last second she shoved him back, stepping sideways to avoid the kiss. “That's enough, Ian. Go doonstairs.”

“Ye didnae used to mind it when I kissed ye, lass.” He grinned that charming, seductive smile of his. “And more. The Sassenach willnae miss ye fer a bit, I reckon,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Ye can go back to managing his estate fer him later.”

With that he tried to pull her in again for a kiss, but she elbowed him in the ribs. Yes, they'd spent the occasional night together before, but his smugness about his own irresistibility had grown tiresome. And that had been before she'd met Gabriel, anyway.

“I'm nae jumping into yer arms, Ian,” she said more forcefully. “I told ye that before. I'm happy to be yer friend, but I'll nae share a pillow with ye again.”

His level gaze unsettled her a little, and he didn't back away. “Is it true what I've heard, then? Ye and the English soldier?”

“Ian, I'll nae tell ye nicely again—go wait fer me in the office.” And she would make certain she had Gabriel with her when she next spoke to the gamekeeper, as well. Just to avoid any more complications. “As fer the rest, who I do or dunnae kiss has naught to do with ye. Oot.”

He didn't move. “Ye've gone mad, Fiona. Ye turn yer back on yer own clan chief, on yer own uncle, fer an outsider? Ye let him inside ye but now ye cannae bear to be in the same room with me? Because of him?”

A shiver of uneasiness settled into the pit of her stomach. With what had happened last night, half of the house's excessive staff was below stairs, resting. And Gabriel was four doors down, likely asleep in his bath. She should have been in there with him. What did it matter now if Tilly—or anyone else—knew she loved a Sassenach? “I'm nae having this conversation,” she stated, and turned on her heel. Four doors. She could make it that far.

Ian grabbed her shoulder and pulled her backward, forcefully. “Ye need to have this conversation,” he retorted. “And ye need to listen to what I tell ye.”

In the middle of the room she couldn't reach anything to use as a weapon. Several possibilities stood by the hearth, but she wasn't anywhere near them now. She needed time, and a bit of luck. “Say yer piece, then, and get oot. Ye ken I dunnae like a bully, Ian, and that's precisely what ye are.”

“And ye sided with that damned Sassenach against yer own. Do ye nae realize? Ye've nae clan, Fiona. And only me to protect ye from the wrath of the Maxwell when Dunncraigh purchases MacKittrick back.”

“Gabriel isnae selling MacKittrick, so none of what ye just said signifies.”

“He
will
sell. It's aboot pride now, I ken, but when it's aboot money and keeping away the debt collectors, he'll sell. He can pay to have one mill rebuilt, but what if someaught happens to the blacksmith's next? Or the church? Or Ailios Eylar's cottage with her pretty new windows? What if someaught happens to poison the cattle? If he doesnae do what's right, someone
will
get hurt. And it might be him, Fiona. Ye ken how deadly the MacKittrick curse can be.”

That did not sound like idle speculation. Rather, it sounded almost like someone's plan, laid out step by step. Fiona kept her expression level, but inside she felt like she was running full tilt toward a cliff. What was she supposed to do, agree with him? Argue with him? Which one would see her out of the room so she could go fetch Gabriel and tell him she'd found their traitor?

“I didnae see ye at the picnic yesterday,” she said aloud, trying to purchase herself a moment to think.

“I was oot watching over the flocks,” he said. “Ye shouldnae have been at the village yesterday, either. Lattimer thinks he can win the loyalty of clan Maxwell with pretty sandwiches and a dram of whisky.” Ian snorted. “He couldnae even protect a single cow.”

Fiona took a quick breath. “I have to say, Lattimer nearly pissed himself when he saw that heifer in the well. Nearly thought himself cross-eyed, too, trying to figure oot how she jumped up and then fell in tail first.”

The gamekeeper stopped smiling. “So that's how it's to be, then?” he said, closing on her again. “I'm supposed to tell ye all my secrets because ye pretend fer five seconds that we're friends again after ye call me a bully? Yer own uncle's washed his hands of ye, Fiona. If it wasnae fer me stepping forward to claim ye, it might have been ye going into the well instead of the cow. I'm yer only protection, lass.”

“No, you aren't.”

She and Ian both turned toward the voice by the fireplace, and Fiona hissed in a breath when she saw Gabriel standing in front of the tapestry there. Whatever he'd had in mind when he'd slipped through the secret passage, he wore only his trousers and boots. His hair was damp and disheveled, but as attractive as he looked physically, and as keenly relieved as she was to see him, the expression in his eyes turned her insides to ice. This was the face, she realized, his enemies saw before they died.

“Ye heard her, aye?” Ian asked, moving a half step away from Fiona. “Laughing at ye after she had her lads throw that cow into the well? She's turned traitor on ye. She answers to Dunncraigh himself, I reckon.”

The swiftness with which he threw her beneath the proverbial carriage wheels stunned her. And for heaven's sake, was that what Gabriel had arrived to hear? “Ye black-hearted, lying sn—”

“I heard you threaten Fiona,” Gabriel interrupted in a flat voice. “Not the words I would choose to take me to the grave, but not the only poor choice you've made.”

“And those are bold words fer an unarmed man,” the gamekeeper returned. “I've nae reason to want to see
ye
kept safe.” He pulled a pistol from beneath his coat and aimed it at Gabriel.

“Nae!” Fiona grabbed his arm, wrenching it down. He cuffed her across the face, sending her reeling. Stumbling, she fell against the side of the bed. “Nae!”

Before Ian could straighten again, Gabriel tackled him. The two men crashed into her dressing table, shattering the mirror. Sharp glass showered onto the wood floor. Her chair went over in the tangle of limbs and nearly cracked her across the skull. For God's sake, they were going to kill each other.

Fiona staggered to her feet, her ears still ringing from Ian's blow. “Stop it!” she shrieked.

The pistol flashed into view, caught between the two of them. She wanted to jump in, to do
something,
but if she struck at the wrong moment and the gun went off, it would be her fault. And if it hurt Gabriel—or worse—she couldn't … It would be too much.

Gabriel twisted, ramming his shoulder up into Ian's chin. The gamekeeper stumbled, and a hooked leg sent him to the floor on his arse. The Duke of Lattimer rolled to his feet to press the pistol against Ian's temple.

“Gabriel, ye cannae!” she called out, putting both hands over her heart.

“I most definitely can,” he snapped back, his gaze fixed on Ian's face. “For twelve years I did it almost daily. And for less cause.”

“Get on with it then, English,” Ian spat, blood running from his nose and dripping onto the wooden floor.

Hardly daring to breathe, Fiona stepped up to Gabriel's left side, away from the weapon in case he might think she meant to take it from him. Instead, she put a hand carefully on his free arm. His muscles twitched even beneath her light touch. “He fired a shot to wake Niall and his family,” she said, keeping her voice low and quiet even if she couldn't stop it shaking.

“After he set fire to their home.” Finally he sent her the briefest of glances, his expression cold and distant. “Why are you defending him?”

“If ye kill him, Dunncraigh will have everyone saying ye murdered one of yer own servants so ye'd have someone to blame fer yer misfortunes,” she went on. “Ye've won over most of the people here. Dunnae throw that away.”

Abruptly Gabriel lowered the pistol and took a step backward. “You heard the lady,” he growled. “At this moment your life is more useful to me than your death. I suggest you keep it that way.”

Ian climbed to his feet, wiping blood from his face. Fiona had known him for her entire life. She'd shared his bed on occasion. And he'd used her friendship and her trust to undermine everything she did. Moving around Gabriel, Fiona took a long step forward and slapped Ian hard across the face.

“I reckon ye have one path ahead of ye,” she stated. “It leads ye with us to Inverness, where ye'll write oot everything ye've done to this place, and ye'll write doon the name of the man who put ye up to it and why.”

“He'll murder me, ye stup—”

She slapped him again. “And when ye've done that, the Duke of Lattimer will decline to press charges against ye.” At that Gabriel stirred, but he kept his mouth shut. “He will also give ye a thousand pounds, at which point ye'll purchase passage on the first ship headed fer America.”

“Well, ye've thought this all oot,” Ian retorted. “But it relies on me cooperating with ye. What if I choose nae to be the traitor ye are?”

“You stopped being a part of clan Maxwell the moment you did the first thing to harm this place.” Gabriel gripped the pistol so hard his knuckles showed white, but he kept the weapon pointed at the ground. “If you think I'm speaking out of turn, then please don't do as Fiona suggests. I'll put you in a room with Niall Garreston and Brian Maxwell and every villager in Strouth whose well water you tried to spoil. We'll see if they think you're a bonny Maxwell lad or not.”

“With ye here, none of us are Maxwells any longer,” the gamekeeper returned, but his shoulder lowered and he seemed to get … smaller. “I'll do as ye say. After this I'll nae have a place in the Highlands any longer, anyway. I dunnae want one.” He glanced up at her. “Whatever I swear to on paper, ye'll nae get the law to move against Dunncraigh, ye ken.”

“Aye,” she returned. “But everyone will know that he went against his own. And if someaught ill befalls MacKittrick after this, the blame and the fault and the shame of the deed goes to him.”

“That, my lass,” Gabriel said, his hard-eyed expression easing just a little, “is a very good idea.”

*   *   *

The ride back into the valley reminded Gabriel strongly of his first trip to Lattimer Castle six weeks earlier. Seasoned and cynical as he was supposed to be, he couldn't resist repeated looks out the window even if it made him feel like a farm boy on his first visit to London.

Snow blanketed the ground, thick enough to keep its crisp white coloring, but thin enough to be broken by vast purple patches of late-blooming heather and thistle. The color of Loch Sìbhreach deepened from blue to onyx, with thin black ice rimming the near shore. In the still air and gray sky it looked like the landscape of a madman's dream, exotic and enticing. His dream. But not only his.

“Is this usual?” he asked, returning his attention to the only vision more enchanting than an early snowfall in the Highlands.

“Nae,” Fiona said, not bothering to hide her amusement from him. “It's barely September. The snow's a month early, at least. It'll nae last, but it does make a bonny sight.”

“Aye, it does,” he returned, taking her hand and tucking her closer against him. “Very bonny.” He kissed her, need and desire spinning against the odd sense of contentment that had drawn around him like a warm blanket.
Him, content
.

“Are ye truly pleased to be back here?” she asked, stroking her palm along the side of his face. “Inverness was very grand, compared to Lattimer. And much more civilized.”

With a grin pulling at him, he kissed her again. A hundred thousand kisses still wouldn't be enough to satisfy him, but they would be a damned fine beginning. “Do I strike you as being a civilized man?” he returned, releasing her fingers to open the buttons of her heavy crimson pelisse and then slipping a hand inside to cup one warm, soft breast.

“Nae,” she whispered back, kissing him more urgently. “Ye strike me as an insatiable man.”

Gabriel chuckled as he teased at her nipple with his thumb. “Three weeks in a house with less than a dozen servants was very like being alone with you,” he murmured, jumping as she stroked a hand over the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Aye. Everyone else thinks so too, I reckon.” Slowly she opened the quartet of buttons closing the flap of his buckskins. “And that's nae even considering the two of us traveling alone in a coach. I'm scandalized, ye ken.” She freed him, then sent a single fingernail trailing lightly across his balls and then down the length of his cock.

Groaning, he shoved her hand aside, yanked her gown up around her waist, and lifted her over his throbbing member. “If I hadn't lost the ability to speak just now,” he returned, half closing his eyes as she lowered herself tightly around him and then started bouncing, “I'd say you … ah … were more wanton than scandalized.”

“Fer a man withoot speech,” she returned breathlessly, nibbling at his ear, “ye talk too much.”

He thrust up into her, meeting her downward strokes with a grunt. Again and again, deep and fast, until she gasped his name and collapsed, spasming, around him. Gabriel splayed his hands around her bared hips and hammered against her twice more, then spilled himself hard inside her. “Fiona,” he breathed, shuddering.

The coach's cushions would have to be restuffed after the two-day drive back from Inverness, given the abuse the poor things had taken. He rested his head back against the seat, closing his eyes as his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and very aware of the warm, vibrant woman panting against his shoulder and still straddling his hips.

“How do you say ‘I love you' in Gaelic?” he asked, lowering his face into her dark, sweet-scented hair.

“I think ye just said it in every language,
leannan,
” she returned, laughter in her rich brogue.