Hero in the Highlands (32 page)

“Thank you for wishing us ill. I'm certain we'll all give your words the weight they deserve.”

“Bah.”

With a last glare Dunncraigh vanished inside the coach. Gabriel stepped forward and closed the vehicle's door himself, so the footman wouldn't have to do it.

As the coaches rolled away down the rutted drive, he turned his back on them to face Fiona. The sarcastic comment he'd been about to make faded as he took her in. She'd been crying. And that was unacceptable. “A word with you, Miss Blackstock?” he said, motioning her toward the castle's massive front doors.

“Of course.”

She led the way into one of the dark, windowless storage rooms directly off the foyer. Gabriel took a candle from a hallway sconce and followed her inside, shutting the door behind him. The room was littered with rolled carpets and chairs badly in need of new upholstery. He set the candle on a frayed seat beside the door and faced her.

“What's wrong?”

Her responding laugh had an edge of hysteria to it. “‘What's wrong'?” she repeated. “Ye—we—just threw my clan chief oot the door.”

Gabriel scowled. “And?”

“And what?”

“You knew what we were doing.” A thought abruptly occurred to him, and he snapped his mouth shut over what he'd been about to say. Something inside his chest wrenched, painfully. He didn't like the sensation. “You think you made a mistake.”

With a scowl she rushed forward to put a hand over his mouth. The candle flickered wildly. “Nae, I dunnae think I made a mistake,” she hissed. “And keep yer voice doon, or ye'll open that door to find everyone's fled the hoose.”

Taking her hand, he lowered it from his mouth to his chest. Touching her was always better than not doing so. “Then why were you crying?”

She tried to tug her hand away, but he held it there. “What in the world makes ye think I was weeping?”

Gabriel tilted his head, wishing he had more light with which to study her face. “I may not be an expert in female behavior,” he retorted, “but I know what the aftermath of crying looks like. And since you're dancing about the question, I have to assume it's either something I've done, or something you think you've done. Or haven't done.”

“Well, ye're wrong. So ye ken even less than ye thought ye did.”

“By God, you're exasperating. Just tell me, will you?”

She met his gaze, briefly, then looked away again. With a clearly irritated sigh she jerked at her hand again, and this time he let her go. When she started for the door, though, he shifted around her to block her escape. Fiona shoved at his shoulder, but he refused to budge. Whatever troubled her, he was beginning to feel quite alarmed. Wounds, he could manage. But she wasn't physically injured.

“I cannae talk to ye with ye looking at me like that,” she burst out.

He didn't know what it was about his gaze that was so distressing, but he did know how to remedy it. Licking his thumb and forefinger, he reached over and snuffed out the candle. “Then talk to me now,” he said into the darkness.

And it
was
dark. He couldn't even make out his hand in front of his face. He could hear Fiona, though, her surprised breath as blackness enveloped them, the fumble of her hand as she brushed against a chair back and then gripped it.

“Ye're a madman, Sassenach,” she muttered, the veriest touch of amusement in her voice.

Well. He considered that to be progress. “I asked you a question, Fiona. Why were you crying?”

“Dunnae ye have more pressing matters to worry over?”

“Other matters, yes. More pressing ones, no.”

“Fer God's sake.” She took a breath. “Fine. Uncle Hamish had words with me. They cut a wee bit deeper than I expected.”

Ah, good. A target
. “How so?”

He was quite certain she growled. “He's a widower. Did ye know that?”

“No.” But he did make note of it. Hamish Paulk wouldn't leave anyone behind when Gabriel killed him.

“Dunncraigh's after him to remarry. The duke gave him a choice of three sisters. They're from a good family, and the marriage will strengthen the bonds of the clan.”

Clearly she was on her way somewhere, so he kept his silence, his face turned to where he knew she stood even if he couldn't see her there. He could still conjure her, though, every curve, the soft, curling dusk of her hair, her eyes as black as the darkness around them. The warmth of her skin, the delight of her laughter—the Fiona Blackstock he saw in his mind stood as vibrant and compelling as the actual lass before him.

“Ye're from good family, whether ye knew it or nae,” she finally went on. “Old Lattimer's line was nearly snuffed oot. Ye cannae let that happen again, or who knows what'll happen nae just here, but at yer other properties, too. Ye're the beginning of a new dynasty, Gabriel. Ye need to find yerself a lass from a respected family, an aristocratic one, and marry and have bairns.” She sniffed.

“And that makes you weep?”

“I'll … I'll miss our … our friendship, is all. Is that so daft?” she demanded damply.

For a moment he listened to her sniffling. This concept of him marrying had evidently come from her conversation with Sir Hamish, and she'd said it had cut her. And if something in all that had hurt her … He smiled in the darkness. “Would you say I'm a straightforward man, Fiona?” he asked.

“Aye. That ye are.”

“Then when I say I can't even imagine selecting some dainty finishing-school heiress, you would believe me?”

Silence. “What ye cannae imagine now and what might happen in six months are two very different things, Gabriel.”

Well, he was very much the living example of that. He could announce that he already had a bride in mind, but that was more likely to begin another argument about how he had no idea what it meant to be a duke. She preferred deeds to words, anyway. He meant to provide her with deeds aplenty. And when she looked at him and saw results rather than her very determined hope, he would say the words. All of them.

But he couldn't leave her to dwell on Hamish Paulk's words, either. Those ugly things could defeat both of them before they had a chance to begin. “I promise that I don't give a damn how your uncle thinks my life should proceed. And I promise that you will never be alone as long as my heart is beating.” Again he had to hold himself back; this didn't seem the time for words he'd only been repeating to himself for the past day or so. “Does that suffice for today?”

“Gabriel, ye dunnae—”

“Does that suffice, Fiona?” he repeated, more forcefully.

Another surprised breath. “But ye cannae, because—”

“Do you believe me?” he insisted, taking a careful step in the direction of her voice.

Her sigh didn't sound particularly happy. “Aye.”

“I'm sorry. Was that ‘I' or ‘aye'?” he asked, trying to put in the inflection she used with the latter word. He took another step, banged his shin, and corrected course.

“That's nae amusing,” she retorted.

“How do you think I feel?” he countered. “I just promised you support and friendship, and you—”

“I said ‘aye.' Yes. It sounds grand.”

That stopped him. “Am I saying the wrong thing?” he asked slowly. “I did warn you that I've had very little experience with personal entanglements.”

“Ye're going to have experience with me punching ye in the head if ye dunnae stop trying to reassure me, ye lummox.”

His seeking fingers touched cloth, and he closed his hand over her hip. “Then I'll stop reassuring you. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. There is no woman in my thoughts but you, Fiona.”

He could feel her shaking. If she had truly been speaking of nothing but friendship, if he was just the instrument through which she could save her beloved MacKittrick, he'd likely just doomed them all. Love, he was swiftly discovering, was not the wisest of emotions. It was, however, the one most difficult to ignore. And quite possibly the most difficult to prove to a stubborn Highlands lass.

A finger poked him in the eye. “Damnation!”

“Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry,” Fiona exclaimed. “I wanted to touch yer face.”

He blinked tears away. “You did, in a manner of speaking. You were going to slap me, I suppose?”

She reached out again, more carefully, touching his ear and then cupping his cheek. “I wasnae going to slap ye,” she whispered, and her lips brushed his. “And I'll nae abandon ye.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her against him. He wasn't alone, either; he didn't have to do this alone.

“Ye spin my world aboot, Gabriel,” she murmured against his mouth. “But heaven help me, I believe ye.”

Less than a fortnight ago he'd arrived at Lattimer, and in so doing had upended her entire life. Almost from the beginning he'd known what he wanted of her. Luckily logic and facts had formed the bridge, because his heart had already leaped across the river. All
she
had to keep herself afloat was hope, and for some reason the belief that he would do as he promised. Before he proposed to Fiona, before he declared himself to her, he meant to give her more than a promise. He meant to give her proof.

*   *   *

The trio of coaches stopped well into the trees and out of sight of even the highest rooftops of Lattimer. The door of the lead coach opened, and the Duke of Dunncraigh stepped to the ground, Sir Hamish Paulk on his heels like a faithful dog.

Once they emerged, Ian Maxwell kicked his heels into his gelding's ribs and made his way down the hillside to the road. Then he dismounted, removed his wool tam, and bowed. “Yer Grace, Sir Hamish.”

“Ye made it look like thievery,” Dunncraigh snapped. “I wanted accidents.”

“I'd already brought doon the cliff and moved half the flock before Lattimer arrived.” He shrugged. “I didnae know he'd be so curious. And I'd nae idea he'd be a fighter.”

“He's a damned devil, is what he is,” Hamish grumbled.

Dunncraigh put up a hand. “Spitting and growling doesnae accomplish anything. Lattimer's the new savior here—fer the moment. The clan'll see him fer who he is once anything turns ill.” He fixed his hard gaze on Ian. “We tried draining resources, but now we're against a man willing to lose blunt to keep his hold on this place.”

“Aye,” Ian agreed. “He does seem a stubborn, proud sort.”

“It isnae aboot ruining finances any longer. It's aboot the curse. Ye drive it doon their throats, lad. I want Lattimer to beg me to purchase this land so he can be rid of it. It's time fer the Sassenach to go. This is Maxwell land. Ye ken, lad?”

Ian put his hat back on his head. “I ken.” He hesitated. If he didn't press now, though, he'd likely never get another chance. And he'd definitely never get a better one. “And Fiona Blackstock?”

Sir Hamish spat over his shoulder. “Do with her as ye want. She's as useless as her brother was. Neither of them owns an ounce of loyalty to their own clan. I'm done with her.”

Swinging back up on the gelding, Ian nodded. “Consider it done, Laird Dunncraigh.”

“If ye dunnae see to it, I'll burn Lattimer to the ground.”

“My lads and I willnae fail ye. Ye've given me all the incentive I need, Yer Grace.”

Gratitude from the chief of clan Maxwell, money, and now Fiona. As the coaches departed and he trotted back up the hill, Ian grinned. The mighty Duke of Lattimer wouldn't know what hit him.

*   *   *

“Read it to me,” Gabriel said, stroking the straight razor along his right cheek. “Your voice makes everything sound more palatable.”

Fiona watched the sure-handed, soapy glide for a moment, unexpectedly mesmerized. It had been so long since the castle had seen anything resembling traditional domesticity, and Gabriel Forrester's bedchamber would have been the last place she expected to find it. If she kept staring, though, he would accuse her of being softheaded. And if there was one thing she was not, it was softheaded.

Smoothing the missive against her knee, she lowered her gaze to the neat, precise writing. The solicitor probably used a ruler to measure the height of each letter. “‘Yer Grace,'” she read aloud, “‘We can of course accommodate yer request to pay from yer accounts the goods ye've ordered to be delivered to Lattimer, as well as freeing more funds fer yer use in Scotland.”

“Well, that wasn't as bad as I expected,” he commented, moving on to his left cheek. He took more care there, moving the razor parallel to his scar rather than over it.

“Does shaving there hurt ye?” she asked, leaning closer.

“No. I'm just trying to avoid gouging myself.” His light-eyed reflection gazed at her from the dressing mirror. “You're not helping.”

“Fine, ye ungrateful lout.” Resolutely she returned her attention to the letter. “‘As we have been charged, by ye, with overseeing yer investments, however,'” she went on, “‘I feel we have a duty to inform ye that yer stated plans to restore the Lattimer property are disproportional with regard to the income therefrom derived.'”

“Hm.”

“That means ye'll be putting in more than ye'll be getting oot,” she translated.

He made a sound that might have been a chuckle. “I prefer your way with words, my lass. Go on.”

She grinned as much at the way he'd addressed her as his good humor. As he'd said, whatever else happened in their lives, they stood together. As for the fast patter of her heart, she would keep that to herself. Aye, she'd fallen head over heels for him, but Gabriel didn't need to know that. He had other, far more important, things on his mind. “‘In addition,'” she continued, “‘ye havenae provided us with instruction as to the budgetary requirements of yer Cornwall and Devonshire properties, which could result in their maintenance and repair needs nae being met in the upcoming fiscal year.'” Fiona scowled. “Ye cannae neglect Hawthorne or Langley Park, Gabriel.”