Hero in the Highlands (7 page)

Finally they spied the churned-up mudhole by nearly walking straight into it. With no sun, determining north from east had become a task all in itself. Gabriel paused, re-creating the scene, the position in which the woman had stood, and then kicked Union Jack into a trot again. He might be mistaken, but he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts. The error earlier—when he'd believed her in the first place—well, he wouldn't be repeating that.

“This fog's beginning to make me nervous,” Kelgrove noted, after a half mile of silence. “I keep thinking we're being watched.”

“We
are
being watched, I reckon,” Gabriel returned. “Lobsterbacks in the middle of the Highlands? They'd be fools if they weren't keeping an eye on us.” He felt it, too, the unseen, hostile eyes through the drifts of fog and mist. The rifle in his saddle, the pistol on his belt, and the saber at his hip—they would suffice, though certainly not against a coward's shot from hiding. But then death loomed everywhere he went. The prospect didn't trouble him. The idea of failing before he'd even begun, did.

Adam Kelgrove cursed under his breath, but Gabriel ignored it. The soldier knew what they were likely to be in for, and he'd been given the choice to remain in London to argue with the paper men. The Highlanders in the British army had a reputation for being fierce, fearless, proud, and supremely suspicious of their English comrades. At the moment, he happened to be banking on that pride to keep a ball from between his shoulder blades. A true Highlander, according to Highlanders, preferred a straight-up fight to a knife in the shadows.

Still, keeping a close watch had never done a man harm. Halfway up the grassy, shallow slope, though, something else caught his attention. “There,” he said, pointing at a deep gray spire that seemed to appear and disappear in the fog like a faerie's castle.

“I don't see … Ah. Thank God. And your sharp eyes.”

Gabriel leaned a little sideways to loosen the rifle in its scabbard. Then he deliberately straightened again, his hands empty. “My sharp eyes also see two men on the hill to the left,” he said quietly. “Just behind that cluster of trees. We won't begin any trouble here, but we will be ready to meet it.”

“Us, not beginning trouble? You've gone soft, Major.”

With a grim smile Gabriel slowed Jack to a walk. “This is my first time being in hostile territory that I actually own. But don't fret; my saber's ready to rattle.”

“I wouldn't call that comforting.”

Keeping his back straight, Gabriel led the way to the medieval monstrosity that slowly emerged from the gloom. In the damp air the slick stone walls looked almost black, with ivy crawling up the old stone all the way to the roof in places. No windows decorated the bottommost floor, which likely meant the castle had once served as a fortress, a bastion against the English and other clans, in the past.

Higher up the gleaming walls, though, tall, narrow rectangles covered by thick glass appeared at regular intervals. If the fog ever lifted, the view through them would likely be spectacular. Today, though, the dark stone with its twisting ivy tentacles seemed like a living, malevolent beast. Gabriel narrowed his eyes. He'd been called something similar, himself.

“I'm getting the shivers,” Kelgrove commented, on the tail of those thoughts. “As the new owner, you might consider tearing the place down and starting over with something a bit … friendlier.”

Though he'd spoken about Lattimer several times over the past few days, for the first time it felt like more than words on paper. He did own the castle. He likely owned the cow's mud puddle and the bog, as well, and quite possibly the cow, too. The paper men had said Lattimer and its surrounding ten thousand acres were his, but until now it had just been another number being spat at him. “Keep your voice down,” he ordered. “I imagine Sassenach who suggest razing ancient castles don't live long.”

“But you—”

“Halt and declare yerselves, Sassenach!” a voice bellowed from somewhere in front of them.

Gabriel squared his shoulders but continued his approach. “I'll declare myself and my business to Kieran Blackstock, and no one else,” he called back. No sense leaving room for cleverly worded misunderstandings.

“Shit,” Kelgrove muttered beside him, but continued forward, as well.

“Well?” he pushed, into the silence. “You'd best decide whether to murder me or not, because I'll be at the front door in two minutes.”

“You didn't need to suggest murder,” the sergeant whispered.

“Yes I did. Murder implies a cowardly act. I'm certain they'd much rather kill me in a fair fight.”

“I do not feel reassured.”

In the fog-dampened silence he could practically hear the Highlanders thinking, wondering what to do with an English officer who didn't threaten or attack, but persisted in his advance. Mentally he counted down, from twenty to three, two, o—

“Approach, then,” rang out as the count reached zero. “But keep yer hands well away from yer weapons or ye'll find a hole in yer chest.”

“I don't mean to begin trouble,” Gabriel returned. “But I will answer it in kind.”

The castle's massive double doors, twice the height of a man, came into view. Seeing them, he was half surprised there was no iron portcullis to slam closed from above for additional security against invaders. This afternoon, though, the security consisted of a half-dozen men, four of them with bristling beards, all of them in kilts of green and red and black plaid, and most significantly, all of them armed.

The weapons varied, and he made note of that as he swung down from the saddle. A nasty-looking blunderbuss, two muskets, a rifle, a two-handed greatsword, and a pitchfork. From the bits of straw clinging to the last fellow's coat, Gabriel presumed he either worked in the stables or was a farmer—which didn't make him any less a warrior. Not up here.

With Kelgrove three feet behind him and slightly to his right, giving them both a good field of fire if necessary, Gabriel advanced to the doorway. The mud had stiffened his trousers and sleeves, and considering both his appearance and the additional trouble the black-eyed woman had caused him, he should have left both her and the cow to wallow about while he rode directly on to Lattimer. No one would have been able to run ahead and warn the castle of his approach, and he would likely only be facing one or two startled men. The ungrateful female hadn't done him any favors, and he dearly hoped he would run across her again to repay her for the ill turn. He'd repay her several times, if fortune favored him.

“What do ye want with Blackstock then, Sassenach?” the largest fellow, the one with the blunderbuss, demanded.

“Are you Blackstock?”

“Me? Nae.”

“Then what I want isn't any of your affair. Produce Blackstock, or stand aside.”

The big man grunted, muttering something in Gaelic that sounded insulting and had the other men chuckling, then half turned to rap three times on the massive door. “The muddy English wants Blackstock or he'll break doon the door,” he called out. “I reckon he's nae a threat, except to the clean floor.”

Gabriel didn't feel disposed to correct anyone about the level of threat he posed. Rather, he listened to the distinctive sound of an iron bolt sliding free, followed by the deep-set groan of one of the doors swinging slowly inward.

With such perfect timing he might almost be watching a play, a figure emerged from the gloom of the hallway. No kilt for this fellow, but rather a gray jacket, black trousers, and a lighter gray waistcoat flecked with yellow embroidered flowers—attire that Gabriel imagined would have served the man perfectly well in any of the finer houses of London.

The salt-and-pepper dark hair marked him as too old to be one of Wellington's tag-along, sycophantic lordlings, but he had that look about him—someone who thought himself just a little better than his fellows, not because of anything in particular he'd done, but because of who he was. Or thought he was. Gabriel had an inch or two on him, but they both still managed to be dwarfed by the Highlander with the blunderbuss.

“You're Blackstock, I presume?” Gabriel prodded, when the other seemed content to regard him from light brown eyes beneath straight black brows.

“Nae,” a female voice took up, and the black-eyed woman stepped out from the shadow of the doorway, put her hands on her hips, and gazed at him levelly. “I'm Blackstock. Surprise.”

 

Chapter Three

She'd upended him, the overconfident redcoat. Fiona Blackstock kept her shoulders straight and glided forward, glad she'd washed and changed into a clean gown. And yes, it was one of her finest, a deep green muslin with light green and yellow flowers throughout, because she'd known this soldier would eventually find MacKittrick—Lattimer—Castle. She had no intention of showing a single damned spot of weakness in front of a Sassenach. Even one covered in mud but otherwise not much the worse for his adventure through the bog.

“You are not Kieran Blackstock,” he stated, his low voice accusing.

She met his light gray gaze, wishing again that he wasn't as tall as he was. And that he looked foul instead of so devilishly handsome. “I'm Fiona Blackstock. Kieran's dead.” Dead, or fled the Highlands. Either way, she was finished with him.

“You're his widow, then.”

Fiona lifted an eyebrow. No condolences? Straightforward and brusque. But then she'd yet to meet an English soldier with anything resembling a heart, so she couldn't claim to be surprised, either. “I'm his sister. And who the devil are ye, Sassenach, to ride in here and make demands? This is clan Maxwell land, and I'll nae have anyone here threatened by a lobsterback.”

“I haven't threatened anyone,” he replied, clearly finding his footing again. That hadn't taken long. “Who is Lattimer's steward, then, if your brother is dead?”

“I am.”

“Another jest?” he retorted. “The one where you sent me into a bog wasn't amusing, either.”

“Ye think I'm nae capable of managing an estate?” she flared, before she could rein in her temper.
Blast it all
. Of all the things she'd expected today, being challenged by a nameless English officer hadn't been on the list.

“I have no idea what you're capable of. All I know of you is that you're a fair liar and that you know how to bathe.” His gaze traveled the length of her again. “Alone, regrettably.”

“I'm nae lying aboot this,
amadan.
”

“I'll not have ye insulting any lass, much less my own niece,” her uncle Hamish finally said, when she'd begun to think he'd turned into a statue. And that after all his swaggering comments thirty minutes ago about keeping the English away from Maxwell territory by force, if necessary. “I suggest we continue this conversation inside, before ye stir up the lads,” he continued.

The redcoat inclined his head, somehow making it look as if he had a choice in the matter. She didn't want him inside Lattimer; the old duke hadn't set foot there in twenty years, and he'd been the last Englishman to do so. This was her place, now.

Her uncle did make a point, however; the lads required only the smallest of slights to give them an excuse to begin a brawl, or worse, with the English soldiers. The deed wouldn't trouble her in the slightest, but the ramifications of beating in the Sassenach's pretty face did. More soldiers would come, because more always did, and it would be clan Maxwell that paid the price, no matter who'd provoked whom.

The officer brushed past her, carrying with him the smell of damp soil and fresh pine needles. He
was
tall, too, only lacking half a handspan on Tormod himself, though he was far leaner than the barrel-chested blacksmith. Up this close she had to admit that “pretty” was the wrong word for him, even in jest. With that scar running down the left side of his face—and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes from squinting in bright sunlight, that hard, precise mouth, and most especially the … direct, assessing eyes, she could call him handsome, striking even, but not pretty. That was if she'd cared to call him anything all, which she certainly did not.

She started back through the door, but the head groom caught her arm. “Lass,” Oscar Ritchie muttered, “watch yerself.”

“I will,” she returned, scowling a little as she pulled free. If Oscar could point out one moment where she'd ever been foolish, she'd like to hear about it.

“Ye ken who that is? I saw him when I fought at Badajoz. The Beast of Bussaco, they call him. Major Gabriel Forrester. They say the Frenchies piss themselves when the Sixty-eighth Foot marches onto the field with him at the head.”

Fiona stopped her retreat, uneasy alarm running through her. “‘The Beast of Bussaco'?” she repeated.

The groom nodded. “Aye. He's been stabbed, shot, and near blown to the devil by cannonfire, but nae a man's been able to stop him. I dunnae ken why he's here, but he's nae some fancy fellow parading aboot in a uniform.”

“Thank ye, Oscar. I'll be cautious, but ye do recall I'm nae a man.”

His mouth twitched. “I'd nae go up against either of ye, Miss Fiona.”

Major Gabriel Forrester. Having a name to go with the face shouldn't have mattered, but it did. And now she knew a little of his reputation, as well. Whether that would give her an advantage when he told them whatever it was he wanted, she had no idea, but at least she no longer felt completely blind. And she knew something of what lurked behind that pleasing countenance of his. Things that didn't surprise her. Not when she looked into those eyes.

“The day room is up the stairs and first door on yer right,” Uncle Hamish was saying, as if it weren't a very bad idea to invite a dangerous foreigner, an enemy, to join them for tea and biscuits. As she topped the stairs her mother's brother snagged her elbow, drawing her up against him. “Be polite, lass,” he murmured. “We dunnae need the army deciding Lattimer would make a fine post for a hundred of their soldiers.”