Hero in the Highlands (6 page)

Gabriel shook himself. Most of the rescues he performed involved weapons, and there was nothing soft and warm about them. He had no time for lust in the middle of a mud hole. “Slow and steady, Sergeant. Pull.”

“Stay clear of the rope, Major,” Adam returned from up on the bank.

“Don't fret, miss. I'll have you out in a moment,” he said, as calmly as he could. Then the rope went taut, pulling her back hard against him. With a grunt he lost his footing and nearly went in over his head. Grabbing onto her, he steadied himself, then had to deal with her squirming in his arms like a landed catfish.

If all rescues resulted in him having a woman in his arms, he wouldn't mind performing more of them. Even the thrashing felt … invigorating. She might claim not to need a rescue, but any damned fool could see that she required help. He hoped that once they got out of the mud she'd be grateful for the assistance. That dark, dusky hair needed fingers run through it, and someone would have to peel her out of that clinging, muddy gown.

“Damn ye,” she snapped, catching him with a flailing smack to the shoulder, but the rope held as Jack dragged the two of them backward toward the bank.

She stumbled again, and he swept both arms around her ribs. Her breasts seemed magnets to his hands, but that was hardly his fault. And he refused to feel guilty for enjoying it. He was performing a good deed, after all. “All safe now, miss,” he said in her ear, setting her upright again. Abruptly she jabbed her elbow backward into his ribs. “Damnation,” he grunted, pinning her folded arms against her chest in a hard bear hug and beginning to think she might be partly insane—a shame considering how pretty she was.

“I didnae ask fer yer aid, Sassanach,” she retorted, staggering free as soon as they reached the bank and he half tossed her to solid ground. She loosened the rope enough that she could lift it over her head, then whipped around to face him again. “Now I have to go back in for the beastie, ye
amadan
.”

She had a surprisingly delicate face, he decided, especially considering the curses spewing from her attractive mouth. “The cow?” He'd half forgotten Sergeant Kelgrove, much less the heifer.

The lass shook mud from her arms. “Aye, the cow,” she stated, still not sounding the least bit grateful. “Why the devil do ye ken I went wading in the first place? Fer a bath?”

“I'll see to the animal.” Her black gaze held his for a heartbeat, then he wrenched his attention away to take the rope from her hands and push past her.

“I dunnae ken what's so amusing, Sassenach,” she shot after him, annoyance and affront in every slender ounce of her.

Amusing?
He was grinning, he realized. “I didn't expect my day to include rescuing lasses or cows,” he returned, wading back into the muck. “Does she have a name?” he asked, dropping the modified noose around the animal's wide-spaced horns. The beast had a definite quizzical look to her, with one horn curved up and the other turned down. Poor thing. Likely no one took her seriously with a permanent jester's hat on her head.

“We call her ‘Cow.' Because she's a cow,” the young woman returned, in the same biting tone she'd used before. “Do the Sassenach name their milk cows, then? Or is it that ye think all Highlanders have quaint names for their beasts? Ye already think us fools and idiots and baby eaters, so why nae that?”

“I only asked if she had a name.” He knew they were fairly close to Lattimer Castle, but this woman would clearly be safe from the part of the curse that said death waited for English allies. He had the distinct impression that she wouldn't bat an eye if he went headfirst into the muck and stayed there. Gabriel sent her a brief, assessing look that upped the quotient of his lust even if it didn't give him any additional insight into her character, then went back to tightening the knot. “That should do it. Sergeant, get back around the tree there and use it for leverage. And you”—and he jabbed a finger at her—“toss some stones and branches in here between the cow and the bank, so she'll have some purchase for her feet.”

“I would have done that before, if I'd had some decent help,” she grumbled, but went to do as he suggested, wading back in up to her knees to place the debris. Slender and delicate as she appeared, clearly she wasn't a timid female, and that was for damned certain. Most of the women who followed the military camps had an edge of roughness to them, a toughness that he imagined came with knowing that the lad with whom they spent an hour might the next day end up dead in a ditch. In her he didn't sense that hardness, but rather something that teased at him even when he wasn't looking in her direction. Something … light.

“That man you were with. The one who ran away when I arrived. Was that your husband?”

She snorted. “If he was, I'd be a widow by sunset.”

With him pushing from behind and the horse pulling from the front, the sucking mud reluctantly gave way, and Fiona had to admit—to herself—that this man didn't seem to be a complete idiot. And the way he moved, as if he were completely unaware of the splendid figure he cut, was in itself far more compelling than she wanted to acknowledge. His appearance didn't mean anything, of course. The Bible said Lucifer had been a handsome angel, after all, and look what he'd become.

The heifer lowed as she swung slowly around and began lunging halfheartedly toward firmer ground. She must have been towing a hundred pounds of mud along with her, but once she felt hard soil beneath her hoofs she lifted her head and surged forward. The Sassenach slapped her on the rump and sent her up the bank.

For a moment Fiona wondered if she'd be the next one to get her arse slapped. He'd already put muddy handprints on her bosom. The soldier—an officer, by his epaulets—though, only plowed back to where she stood knee-deep in the mud. “Now let's get you out of here,” he said, and offered an arm.

Ha.
She'd gaped at him enough already, and she was not going to grab onto him so she could make a bigger fool of herself. Damn all Englishmen, anyway, thinking they could waltz in and do … everything better than anyone else, simply because they'd been born south of Hadrian's Wall. Gathering her sodden skirts in her hands, Fiona slogged around him and up the bank. “I didnae ask ye fer help,” she stated again, shoving heavy mud from the front of her gown before striding over to pull the rope off the heifer.

“You
needed
my help, whether you asked for it, or not,” he returned, from closer behind her than she expected. “And now that it's done, I think it's only fair that you return the favor firstly by giving me your name, and secondly by pointing me in the direction of Lattimer Castle.”

“Lattimer?” she repeated, her voice gulping the word. “What do the likes of ye bright red Sassenach want with old Lattimer?” She forced a grin. If he thought her some dim female who didn't know better than to go slogging about in mud, then she'd be one. For the moment. “Though ye're nae so bright red, now. More brownish, with some green algae.”

“You're wearing the same attire, miss,” the major said coolly, his gaze drifting down the length of her and back up to her face again. “And my business is between Mr. Kieran Blackstock and me.” He swung onto the bay and, despite the mud and water clinging to him, made the motion look both graceful and deadly.

For the briefest of moments she looked up at him, considering her answer. More than likely old Lattimer's damned solicitors had sent him to chase down the estate's ledger books, but if they'd resorted to using the military … Well, that wouldn't do at all. Cooperation, though? With the English army? That went against everything for which she stood, and more so because she liked his looks. She didn't like any Sassenach. Especially one who'd manhandled her and told her it was for her own good. They treated all of the Scottish Highlands the same way.

Steeling herself, she met his gaze, past that hard mouth and a straight, statue-perfect nose, to his pale gray eyes. The thin, straight scar that ran through his left eyebrow, skipped over the eye, and shallowed and disappeared down his cheek, made him look rakish, the sort of man who'd steal a lass's heart with nothing but a smile.

Fiona lifted one arm, gesturing northwest beyond the heather-covered hillside. “That way, aboot two miles. Keep the stream on yer right. And now we're even. Dunnae expect any more help than that.”

“And your name?”

“Ye'd have that if I asked ye fer yer help. I didnae.”

He gave a half salute as he wheeled the bay about. “You're a stubborn lass. I like that.” His precise mouth curved a little at the corners. “You should take a bath. If you change your mind and want my company, you'll find me at Lattimer Castle.”

Debating whether she felt more aggravated or more flustered, Fiona lifted her chin. “I intend to take a bath. Nae with the likes of ye aboot, though.”

“We'll see about that.” With a nod of his chin he and his companion rode off toward the sloping hillside, arrogant man. Fiona bent down to collect a handful of mud and throw it at him. Evidently he had eyes in the back of his head, because at the last possible moment he shifted sharply sideways. The mud ball hurtled past his shoulder and thudded into the lavender-colored heather beyond. As the two men trotted out of sight, she swore she could hear them chuckling.

“Laugh while ye can, Sassenach,” she murmured, “because ye'll nae be amused fer long.”

She gazed after them for a time, trying to shove her worry aside. Lord knew there would be a plentitude of time for it later, when the pretty Sassenach eventually found his way to his destination. Unless he simply vanished into the bog toward which she'd sent him. That would be a fine conclusion to the day—though not for the muddy officer, of course. Still swiping mud off her skin and clothes and refusing to feel any guilt for sending such a fine-featured man into harm's way, she collected her shoes and headed off quickly northeast, keeping the stream on her left.

*   *   *

“If there ever was a castle here, it sank into the bog long ago,” Adam Kelgrove observed, as they made their way around yet another deceptively shallow-looking pool.

With a noncommittal grunt, Gabriel pulled up Union Jack. Clearly the woman had lied to him; a foul repayment for a rescue. Of course even before he'd waded into the mud he'd known that she hadn't wanted his assistance, but firstly she'd needed it, and secondly, she'd looked as enchanting as a mud mermaid. Most people, friend or enemy, didn't attempt to lie to him, and he supposed he'd assumed she would be no different. He wouldn't make that mistake again. The question then became whether she'd merely attempted to send them away, or whether she'd meant to see them drowned in this damned bog.

He'd been a great many places in his thirty years, and he couldn't recall one that felt as utterly … desolate as the wide, shallow valley that surrounded them. No trees, no birds, no wildlife of any kind touched his sight. The overcast sky had begun to sink into the mountaintops, blending into the bog and surrounding moor to form an endless, gray nothingness. The hair at the back of his neck pricked, but he couldn't be certain whether it was the emptiness, or the sensation that it wasn't as empty as it appeared.

“What do you say, Major? Do we keep following the stream until we reach the sea?”

“No, we do not,” he returned. “We turn around and find the cow's mud puddle again, and then we head northeast from there.”

The sergeant followed as Gabriel wheeled Jack about. “Why northeast? It could be any direction but due south, since we came up that way.”

“Because she lied. And when she lied, she faced squarely southwest, as if she were protecting whatever lay directly behind her. And I imagine it was close enough that she figured she could get there and warn Kieran Blackstock of our arrival before we discovered her ruse and turned back.”

He felt his aide's glance. “You're being circumspect about all this, considering where she sent us.”

“I'm not being circumspect,” Gabriel countered, tightening his dirt-coated fingers around the reins. With most of the mud dry, he felt more like a statue than a man. But not on the inside. On the inside he seethed, both with anger and with something more primal. While he'd been admiring her backside and other attributes, the petite lass had looked him in the eye and lied to him. That required a response. And the one he wanted to give had more to do with sweat and sex than asking for an apology. “I'm being patient,” he said aloud. “Being reckless here would be both useless and unsatisfying, and potentially dangerous.”

“You do mean to get angry, though—when the situation presents itself.”

“As you know, Sergeant, no one makes a habit of lying to me. Nor do I approve of having my time wasted.” Adding to that the matter of not even being thanked for his efforts and having a clump of mud thrown at his head, and perhaps he could admit, just to himself, that he was as angry at himself for being duped as he was at the black-eyed woman for attempting the deed. Successfully managing the deed, actually. If she hadn't had mud plastering her dress against her skin and showing every curve like some erotic chocolate statue, he likely wouldn't have been as willing to believe her—and that rankled, too. He didn't make a habit of thinking with his cock.

“I imagine this would not be a good time, then, to point out that I only just got the last of the bloodstains out of that coat you're wearing,” Kelgrove said after a moment.

“No, it wouldn't be.”

“I didn't think so.”

The heavy clouds continued to settle lower as fog rose to meet them, reducing visibility with every passing minute. If the weather continued to worsen, the two of them would have to camp overnight or risk wandering directly into a deep bog. Gabriel cursed the black-eyed woman again. He'd expected trouble at Lattimer, but for the devil's sake, he hadn't even set eyes on the place yet.