Hero in the Highlands (8 page)

That actually troubled her even more than the way men kept grabbing at her today. They'd gotten word that old Lattimer had died, back when the solicitors had been sending their insulting letters—as if she and the Maxwells had been cheating them or something. But no heir had been found. Did that mean Lattimer had gone to the English Crown? That they could indeed use it however they saw fit? “I'll behave,” she agreed. “But he cannae set up a military post if nae a man ever sets eyes on him again.”

“We'll worry aboot that later, Fiona.” He released her and strolled into the room. “I'm Sir Hamish Paulk. My home, Glennoch Abbey, is a mile west of here. And ye've met my niece, Fiona Blackstock.”

She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the major to introduce himself. Would he refer to himself as the Beast of Bussaco? He'd asked for—demanded to see, rather—Kieran, and as far as she was concerned, that meant whoever he was, he could deal with her. If he wouldn't lower himself to speak with a woman, then he could go drown himself. She certainly wouldn't weep any tears to see him gone.

He remained standing close by the window, which, she supposed, given the filthy state of his uniform, could be out of concern for the furniture. Or perhaps he didn't feel comfortable sitting in the company of Highlanders. The other fellow, the stocky, short one who looked several years older than his commander, had placed himself on the other side of the room by the hearth. Strategy? Or was
he
simply chilled by the fine Scottish summer day?

“Lattimer's solicitor wrote you several times, asking for a report of the estate's earnings,” Major Forrester said, his gaze on her. “Your response was not diplomatic.”

So he
was
here because of that. Fiona kept her chin high. “His questions werenae diplomatic. But I'm nae saying another word to ye until ye introduce yerself and tell us why ye're here. I ken who ye are, Major Gabriel Forrester.”

He paused for the barest of moments. “And how do you know that?” he asked levelly.

“Ye're nae the only man here to have served in the army,” she retorted, not about to single out Oscar Ritchie for attention from someone his own people called the beast of anything. “But whoever ye are, I'm nae impressed by any man who gets himself lost, then thinks he can order us aboot because he wears a red coat.”

His bisected left eyebrow lifted. “Got myself lost, did I? Very well, then.” Brushing off his dirty fingers, he dug into his coat and produced a folded paper. It was nice, heavy paper; vellum, unless she was mistaken. Whatever was written on it was likely important, damn it all. Keeping his gaze on her, he handed the missive to her uncle. “As your niece so astutely noted, I am Major Gabriel Forrester, commander of the Sixty-eighth Foot division, which is presently in Spain.”

Uncle Hamish unfolded the paper and read through it. His craggy face went gray, his gaze lifting, wide-eyed, to Major Forrester. He took an abrupt seat on the arm of the couch. “I—this—ye dunnae expect me simply to believe this, do ye?” He clenched the heavy vellum hard in his hands.

“No, I don't. Kelgrove?” The major inclined his head in his companion's direction, and that soldier stepped forward to deliver a leather-covered bundle of still more papers to her uncle.

Whatever was afoot, just seeing Hamish Paulk unsettled gave Fiona uneasy shivers down her spine. She wanted to yank the vellum out of his hand and read it for herself, but she had the distinct feeling that that wouldn't reassure her. The last thing she wanted confirmed was that her nightmares were coming true, that the English Crown was taking possession of Lattimer.

“Uncle?” she finally urged, as he read through the additional pages with an increasingly grim expression on his hard-featured face.

Slowly he looked up. “Well. This isnae what I expected today.” His dark eyes glanced from her to their unwanted guest. “Fiona, it seems Major Forrester here is the great-nephew once removed of Ronald Leeds.” As she was absorbing that bit of information, he took a deep breath. “What that means,” he said, and motioned with the papers he still held in one hand, “what
this
means, is that—according to a great many solicitors and members of the English Parliament and Prince George—he's the new Duke of Lattimer.”

Fiona's heart went ice-cold and fell all the way to her toes.
Him?
Not just another power-hungry Sassenach, here to claim ancestral Maxwell land just like the old Lattimer and his father before him, but all that
and
a soldier. She looked over at him, to find his light gray gaze still on her.

“Surprise,” he said, in the same tone she'd used on him earlier.

Well. If they were playing a game of who had the bigger secret, she supposed he'd won this round. But putting a name on paper and claiming what came with it were two very different things, and bits of paper and vellum had never much impressed Highlanders, anyway. So aye, he could surprise her today. But by the end of this he would be the one running back south with his tail between his legs, and she would be the one laughing at his red-coated backside as he fled.

She shook herself back to the present just in time to hear Uncle Hamish ordering Fleming, Lattimer's longtime butler, to open one of the room suites on the south end of the castle for His Grace's use. “Nae,” she interrupted. “The Duke of Lattimer should have the lord's chambers. Fleming, open the master suite.”

Hamish sent her a glance, brow lowering. “Fiona, ye ken Lattimer's old rooms havenae—”

“Because His Grace hasnae been here for two decades,” she cut in. “Ye can see he's here now, and he should have the laird's bedchamber.” As she spoke, she kept her level gaze on her uncle, daring him to countermand her orders. He might be the chieftain of this bit of clan Maxwell, but the running of this estate was hers. He didn't even lay his head here. And however polite he might be now, he couldn't like having an English duke about when for the past twenty years men had bowed only to him and the other clan leaders who came calling.

As she'd expected, he finally nodded. “Aye. Ye've the right of it, Fiona. The master's chambers fer the master of the house.”

With a nod and a suspicious look at their new employer and his companion, Fleming galloped off to air out the quartet of rooms and see fresh linens laid. She would have to go up there herself later to make certain everything had been seen to. Thankfully a handful of hours of daylight remained; going into the master suite after dark was a task no one in his right mind wanted under the best of circumstances.

“Thank you,” the duke said. “Do as you will, but I'm accustomed to sleeping on a cot with a stretch of canvas for a roof. Any bed will do.”

“We're nae as primitive as that,” she returned. “And we'll see to it ye have yer due.”
Oh, that they would.

“While ye wait, would ye care fer some tea, or perhaps someaught more substantial?” Hamish asked. “Mrs. Ritchie's the finest cook in these parts, and Fiona's seen to it that the larder's full.”

“I'd rather take a walk through the house and about the grounds,” the black-haired demon said. “I like to know my surroundings.”

“Of course,” her uncle replied. “I'll summon one of the men to take ye aboot.”

“I have a steward to do that,” the duke countered. “Unless you have an objection to accompanying me, Miss Blackstock.”

“I have nae objection, Yer Grace.” None that she had any intention of discussing with him, anyway.

A slight smile touched his mouth, but not his eyes. “It's Major Forrester, or Gabriel, if you please.”

“Fer Saint Andrew's sake,” she burst out, before she could stop herself. “I'm nae calling ye either one of those. Ye can be Yer Grace, or Lattimer. I'll nae have ye back in London telling all yer pretty friends how ignorant Highlanders are of proper custom.”

He laughed, though she didn't see anything the least bit amusing in the entire conversation. But then she hadn't just inherited ten thousand acres of land that should have belonged to native Highlanders. “What's so amusing?” she demanded aloud.

“I don't have any pretty friends,” he returned, “and I doubt any of them are in London, either. Most of them are still in Spain, fighting Bonaparte.”

She wished
he
still was. “A shame ye had to leave them.”

“I'll agree with that, Miss Blackstock. And ‘Lattimer' suits me better than ‘Your Grace,'” he continued, his eyes dancing now. “I'll attempt to remember to answer to it.” The duke gestured her toward the hallway door. “Shall we?”

“Dunnae ye wish to clean up first?” she returned, sending his stiff, filthy red attire a pointed glance. “And nae look so much like an English soldier, perhaps?”

He followed her gaze. “I have nothing else to wear. We'll begin outside, and I'll stomp off some of the mud.”

“Ye might've done that before,” she muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

Fiona took a quick breath. “I said I'll have a bath drawn fer ye,” she said aloud. “Fer after yer inspection.”

“It's not an insp—”

“The weather's getting worse. We'd best be off.” She pretended not to hear his protest, and instead led the way back into the hallway and toward the front door.

The idea that he had nothing to wear but his uniform surprised her, and she couldn't push that aside as she led him out to the garden and the landscaped part of the grounds. He'd jumped into the mud without hesitation, even though she hadn't needed saving. But what self-respecting duke with at least three estates and thousands of pounds of income annually didn't even own a second coat? The Beast of Bussaco, apparently.

She wasn't fooled by the way he pretended to be straightforward and direct, either. Officers didn't do anything but give orders, finding ways to gain clever nicknames without actually earning them. Whatever the head groom said, Major Forrester couldn't possibly be any different. It wouldn't be long before he'd begin ordering her people about and sending for his military friends, and more than likely hiring a man to take her place. Well, then. She would make certain he was well gone before any of that could happen.

*   *   *

“What do you make of this?” Gabriel asked, submerging in the copper bathtub and then resurfacing to shake out his wet hair. He'd lived in dirty uniforms when necessary, but it felt odd and barbaric to do so in such lavish surroundings. And none of the servants had been particularly happy to see him eat dinner in the mud-caked uniform, but he hadn't had much choice. He'd asked for an old blanket to throw over the dining room chair, at least.

Across the ridiculously large and stiflingly opulent bedchamber, Adam Kelgrove unpacked the saddlebag he'd brought and set the simple shaving accoutrements on the carved mahogany dressing table. “The castle looks in need of some repairs, but it seems to be well cared for, and the gardens are simple, but well maintained. Animals look healthy, and no one's in rags. I didn't spy any silver candlesticks, but from the state of your welcome I'd say they chose not to set them out for you.”

His aide paid attention; that boded well for Kelgrove's future as the likely next steward of Lattimer. Because pretty and petite or not, Fiona Blackstock was not a steward. Females didn't become stewards. It didn't take any London bronze to know that. “I agree,” he said aloud. “So did Miss Blackstock refuse to send the estate books to the solicitors because there's no money in this place, or because she's stubborn and devious?”

“Or because she's a half-wild Highlander?” Kelgrove added with a brief grin.

Jest or not, that could well be the answer. She simply didn't want to be dictated to by any Englishman. She clearly didn't want
him
there. Gabriel remained unsure, though, whether her hostility came from her dislike of the Sassenach, or because she knew she'd been caught out pretending to be her brother for God knows how long and that now she was very likely to be replaced by a man.
Very
likely.

Considering that on first meeting him she'd sent him into a bog, she had reason to be worried. Generally people who tried to kill him didn't live long enough to make a second attempt, but this was so-called civilization. If he wanted to be rid of Fiona Blackstock he would have to explain himself to her, probably making her cry, and hand her her papers—if she had papers. Since she'd taken over the duties of her late brother without bothering to inform old Lattimer or his solicitors, he doubted she had anything but an almost admirable amount of mettle. If sending her away left her in need of consolation, he'd be more than happy to see to that before she went, too.

Outside the curtained windows came a low moaning, the tone rising and sinking in time with the sputtering of the fire in the stone and marble fireplace. “Wind's picking up,” Kelgrove noted unhelpfully, walking over to collect the last bits of Gabriel's uniform and dump them into a basket.

“It should drive off the fog, anyway. I want a better look at the land and how it's being used.”

“Well, you'll be doing that naked,” his aide noted. “Your trunk won't be here for another three days.”

Gabriel rolled his left shoulder, the arm still a little stiff from the rifle shot he'd taken. “I've been told that I'm wealthy now. Send a requisition for a second uniform tomorrow. And see if there's a tailor in that village—Strouth, isn't it?—in the meantime. Just my being here has the locals spinning. If I go about naked people could die.”

Adam snorted. “With your permission, Major, I'm going to send for two uniforms. And when they arrive, I'm going to burn this one.” He hefted the basket, heading for the door. “I'll see if I can at least save the boots. Pull that rope on the wall there if you need me,” he said, gesturing at a heavy, tasseled pull by the bed. “It'll ring in the servants' quarters. I'll be in the kitchen seeing if I can render any of this wearable again, and I'll more than likely be weeping.”