Hero in the Highlands Page 11

  Miss Blackstock, however, merely blew out her breath and straightened her shoulders, which he’d already come to recognize as a sign that an argument would be forthcoming—not that it took much skill to realize that.

  “It’s nae use,” she returned. “Ye’ll frighten the bairns and the lasses everywhere ye go. We have some excellent maps showing the topography of the property. And the oldest and most recent floor plans of the castle itself. I imagine a soldier would find those things more useful than he would a trudge doon to the church to carry bread to the poor.”

  No one argued with him like she did, countered his every move with a quick verbal jab or a withering look. If she’d been a soldier under his command, she would have been dressed down and sent to dig holes by now. But he’d never viewed any soldier the way he looked at her, and being aware of that didn’t make it any less frustrating. He wanted to put his hands on her, and he wanted to hear her moan with pleasure. Finesse and he weren’t friends, but he could give it a go, he supposed. If nothing else, he had to acknowledge that she wasn’t some camp lightskirt he could use for an hour and send away.

  “According to the—my—very loud solicitors in London, what little money Lattimer brings in comes from a combination of wool, textiles, ceramics, and whisky. Show me where these things are done. Please.” That was a word he didn’t use often; he hoped she appreciated it.

  Rather than giving in, though, she gestured deeper into the library where maps galore lay on a table, no doubt set out for him during the oddly lengthy luncheon in which he’d been forced to partake. He’d never eaten so much in his entire life as he had today. “I can point oot—”

  “Not on the damned maps,” he cut in. Gabriel folded his arms over his chest, ignoring the way the weight of his borrowed coat felt wrong. Soldier or not, the moment he’d arrived it had become clear that wearing a uniform here wouldn’t gain him any cooperation from anyone. “Either you escort me on your errands, or I’ll have a groom show me the property. And he may not be aware of whatever it is you don’t wish me to know.”

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed again, which only drew his attention again to her soft-looking lips. He was surprised her sharp tongue didn’t cut them. “I’ve nae secrets,” she finally retorted.

  Considering what he’d overheard earlier, he didn’t believe that for a damned minute. And if she was kissing two men without mentioning either to the other, she wasn’t as prim as she made out, either—though “prim” didn’t fit. Fiery, perhaps. Lithe and enticing but stubborn as hell suited her better. And his, whether she knew it yet or not. “And?” he prompted. “Will it be you, or the groom?”

  With an exaggerated sigh that returned his attention to her tits, she pushed past him back into the hallway and proceeded to stomp toward the main staircase. “At least old Lattimer had the good sense to stay away and let us do our work,” she grumbled.

  “I can’t imagine why he didn’t spend more time here,” he returned, falling in behind her. “You’ve all been so welcoming to me.”

  Her shoulders stiffened, but she kept walking. Turning her back was likely meant to insult him, but it gave him an unmatched view of her swaying hips. He liked gazing at her arse, at least until he could manage something more intimate. And he would do so, because whatever his mind told him about entanglements with possible enemy opponents, his body wanted her more badly with each passing moment.

  Gabriel expected to be riding Union Jack again, but as they left the castle and approached the stable, Miss Blackstock called for the hay wagon. A coach and a phaeton sat unused at the rear of the large building, but if she meant to unsettle him with poor transportation, she’d badly underestimated him. “Are we going to be hauling hay?” he asked. “A hay wagon isn’t very intimate. Cushioned, though, at least.”

  Her cheeks darkened. “I’ll show ye aboot because ye ordered me to, Lattimer,” she returned, stepping back as two stable boys brought out a big pair of sturdy gray Highlands ponies. “I’m seeing to my duties, whether ye think they’re mine or nae. So aye, we’ll be transporting someaught. It willnae be hay.”

  He started to ask what they would be transporting, but that proved unnecessary the moment the next group of stable boys appeared. Pitchforks in hand, they dumped generous plops of horseshit into the burlap-lined back of the wagon. A procession of grooms and more stable boys followed, round and around, each one adding to the load—and the smell.

  “Is this for my benefit?” he muttered, facing Miss Blackstock and immediately distracted by the sight of her pulling on a pair of work gloves. She had long, elegant fingers, better suited for an artist than for someone waiting for a shit-piled wagon. He wanted those fingers on his bare skin.

  “Nae. This is part of being Lattimer’s estate manager.” She cocked her head at him. “Ye still wish to follow me aboot, do ye, Lattimer?”

  “I don’t mind traveling in the company of shit, if that’s what you’re asking, Miss Blackstock. My only objection would be if you’re taking these men away from their duties just to see if I’ll hold a handkerchief to my nose or flee to the garden to whimper and breathe in the scent of the roses.”

  Her soft lips clamped hard together. “Ye said ye’d allow me to continue my duties. I’ve been driving this wagon once a week fer the past month, Yer Grace. It’s nae fer my amusement. Or fer yers.”

  She seemed to be in earnest, and he couldn’t quite imagine any female volunteering to sit with shit for a jest. “Good,” he returned. “Then I shall join you.” Once the servants finished loading the wagon, he climbed up to the hard wooden seat and leaned over to offer her a hand.

  Her fingers balled into a fist, then straightened, and she grabbed his wrist solidly. Even through the work glove, her elegant fingers had strength. Gabriel half lifted her as she scrambled to find a foothold. If not for the grooms and stable boys, he would have dragged her onto his lap. The pitchforks looked sharp, though, and he didn’t intend to die over a chit. Not unless her name began with “Queen” and ended with “of England.”

  “Ye can let me go now,” she muttered, just before he could realize he still held her wrist, but after he felt the fast burr of her pulse beneath his fingertips.

  “You smell better than what’s behind us,” he returned, belatedly opening his hand.

  “That isnae much of a compliment.”

  Gabriel tilted his head. More flirting? “Do you want a better one?”

  Fiona hid her scowl, though she didn’t bother to deny to herself that her lowering mood had nothing to do with his sexual advances or accusations of frivolousness. It was becoming clear that Gabriel Forrester wasn’t a fool. Nor was he going to make it easy for her to cast him as one. She supposed, though, if it had been too easy then she wouldn’t so keenly enjoy the thought of seeing him run when she succeeded.

  “Nae. I dunnae want a thing from ye,” she muttered, sitting down beside him. “Come along, lads,” she ordered, taking up the reins and bracing her feet to hold the horses as she released the brake. “Four of ye should do today, since we’ll have His Grace to help.” There. He wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of that without looking proud—or at least delicate.

  For once she had a plentitude of volunteers; evidently the lads expected more excitement today. Four of them climbed up to sit along the narrow sides of the wagon, six pitchforks driven like grave markers into the smelly mound in the middle.

  “Hup,” she called, flicking the reins and nearly losing young Andrew overboard as the wagon lurched into motion. Unfortunately Major His Grace Forrester kept his seat as if he’d ridden on a wagon a hundred times. Perhaps he had, though.

  “Where are we going?” he asked, turning slightly away from her as they took the rutted dirt road that curved parallel to Loch Sìbhreach heading west. Given the way his attention had been focused on her from the moment they met, Fiona wondered what had happened. He’d avoided kissing her before breakfast, but just a few minutes ago had suggested a rendezvous in the linen closet.
She thought he’d forgotten whatever it was that had annoyed him, but perhaps not. The moment she began mentally reviewing her actions, though, she sternly stopped herself. Idiot. She didn’t want his attention.

  Just then, though, she realized he wasn’t slighting her—not consciously, anyway—but that he’d shifted to keep his gaze on the trees to their right. Highlanders always had a mind toward potential enemies, but this duke had elevated alertness to an art form.

  “We had a rock slide during the rain a few weeks ago,” she explained, refusing to be pleased when he faced her again, “and it halved the downslope pasture we use fer our largest flock of sheep. They overgrazed the pasture they could reach before we knew it, and left most of the ground bare. Now that we’ve moved the flock higher up into the foothills and cleared the boulders, we’re replanting the field. The horse shit makes fer a fair fertilizer. Winter here comes hard and early, and we dunnae want what’s left of the good soil washing away with naught to hold it in place come spring.” That wasn’t the entire story, but that was all he needed to know about it.

  He studied her face in that unsettling way of his. “And you decided this should be a task that you personally oversee?”

  Fiona clenched her jaw. “Considering that ye’d lose the other half of yer spring grazing next year and then half yer yield of wool the year after, aye, I ken I should see to things personally. Do ye disagree, then? Do ye reckon I should sit and embroider ye an apology letter while the pasture lies bare?”

  The low, rumbling laugh coming from deep in his chest made her grin before she could stop herself. “An embroidered apology would at least demonstrate sincerity, considering how much work you’d have to put into it.”

  “I’ll keep in mind how much effort it takes to convince ye of anything, then,” she retorted, doing her best not to be amused. “It all comes doon to one fact: good grazing pasture makes fer healthy sheep, which makes fer good-quality wool and meat, which makes fer more blunt in yer pockets, Yer Grace.”

  “I wasn’t disputing your decision, Miss Blackstock. I only asked you to explain your reasoning.”

  Fiona rolled her shoulders. Uncle Hamish would be advising her to stop letting the Sassenach needle her, to spend her time smiling and convincing him they had things well in hand so he could go back to his war or to one of his other estates in England and leave anything north of Hadrian’s Wall be.

  The Duke of Lattimer wasn’t kissing Uncle Hamish, though. Instead he kissed her. And jumped into mudholes to rescue cows and lasses—whether they needed it or not—and rode on wagons full of horseshit without so much as batting an eye. There had to be something about Lattimer Castle or the Highlands he would think too hard, too gloomy or unpleasant, too frightening or exasperating to justify his continued presence. She would merely have to find it.

  When they reached the edge of the bare area of pasture, the sight of sprouting grass where they’d spread seed and manure last week eased her mind a little. It didn’t have to be pretty, and it would likely produce as much thistle as it did grass and sweet heather, but the ground wasn’t bare. It would hold the soil against the coming rains.

  “Last week’s work?” the duke asked, hopping to the ground and walking around to offer his hand to her. “You’ve covered what, a quarter of the pasture over the past month?”

  “Aye.” Ignoring his hand, Fiona climbed down the wheel to the spongy ground. “In a few weeks we’ll work back across anywhere the grass didnae take.”

  One of the lads, Michael, handed her a shovel. This was far from her favorite task, but she wasn’t about to stand back and watch while others labored to finish a plan she’d devised. Oh, she was certain a London lady wouldn’t step her dainty toes within a mile of the stinking field, but she wasn’t any blasted hothouse flower.

  Lattimer took the spare shovel, which didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t given him the chance to wiggle out of some shoveling, at least. After five or ten minutes he would no doubt throw down the tool and demand to be returned to the castle. Or so she hoped.

  Instead he stood shoulder to shoulder with the lads, asking for and taking advice on how thickly to spread the manure, how many seeds to use, and whether to work uphill or downhill. Then he stripped off his coat and tossed it onto the wagon seat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

  She’d briefly seen what lay beneath the thin linen shirt, the well-toned muscle and collage of scars. Her skin heated, and with a stifled curse she turned her back and moved around to the far side of the wagon from where he worked. Aye, he was a striking man, and a fit one, with cat-quick reflexes and an evidently agile mind. But he was also English, a British army officer, and an invader at a time when she already had enough about which to worry—not that any time would have been opportune for his appearance in the Highlands. And she did not feel an attraction to him, whatever he and her body kept trying to tell her.

  The goal remained; she needed to find a way to be rid of him. Manure and shoveling might not have worked, but she would figure out something. The sooner, the better.

  Chapter Six

  Now he knew what hell looked like. As he’d anticipated, it was filled with numbers. Gabriel shoved away from the table to pace to the tall library window. “Who the devil decided that success could only be rated by equations on pieces of paper?” he demanded.

  “Because if everything had to be decided on a battlefield, you would rule the world.”

  Gabriel turned around, lifting an eyebrow at Sergeant Kelgrove. The man still sat with his face buried in ledger books, and likely hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud. With a grin, Gabriel strode over to pour himself another glass of whisky. “And that would be a poor idea, I suppose?” he mused.

  Finally Adam sat back to rub at his eyes. “I would hate to see young ladies coming to blows over who’d worn the finest gown at one of your combat soirees.” Furrowing his brow, he closed one of the books. “Though that does have some merits, now that I consider it.”

  The moment his aide mentioned females, the unbidden image of Fiona Blackstock strolled into his thoughts again and put her hands on her hips to glare at him. If a lady measured the success of her gown by taking on all comers, he would put his money on his temporary estate manager. The woman didn’t back down from anything, including him.

  “Agreed,” he said aloud. “Now, without causing my brain to explode, what’s afoot here?”

  “Three things that I can see, Major. Firstly, you own a huge property that’s somehow managed to earn a profit of seven quid—over the last three years.”

  Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “That seems … small.”

  “That’s likely why she didn’t want to send the ledgers to those paper men of yours.”

  With a nod, he sat one haunch on the deep windowsill. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Well,” Kelgrove began, sitting back and tapping a pencil against his chin, “I’m no expert in aristocratic households, but until two days ago, and for twenty years previous to that, Lattimer has had no owner in residence. Despite that, your Miss Blackstock has been hiring servants like a madwoman. If you include the gardeners and stable boys, you have ninety staff at this house alone.”

  “No wonder I haven’t been able to turn around without having fifty people trying to bring me tea or fluff my pillows.” Ninety servants. Ninety people to serve a house full of employers, family, and guests, plus the residence itself, seemed a little excessive but not unreasonable, at least to someone who had no experience with such things. Even to him, though, ninety staff to see to the maintenance of an empty house seemed extreme. Especially with two thirds of the rooms closed, their furniture sheeted, and the fireplaces cold and dark. “Is that where the profit is going? To pay the servants?”

  “Some of it. The rest is beyond me. Some of the expenses don’t sound plausible, which leads me to the third thing. Three millstones over the past two years, a large amount of lumber, several repairs to the castle that I’m not convinced were actually made, the—
”

  “She isn’t stealing,” Gabriel cut in. He knew dishonesty, and while he believed Fiona Blackstock to be hiding a great many things from him, she wasn’t a thief.

  “That isn’t for me to say, sir.” The sergeant cleared his throat. “And … while I know you ordered me to refer to you as my commanding officer rather than as the Duke of Lattimer, I’m beginning to worry that these Scots will firstly think me an idiot, and secondly imitate my apparent lack of respect for you.”

  “So you want to call me ‘Your Grace’?” Gabriel said, sighing. The reasoning was sound, whether he liked it or not. “Fine. But for God’s sake don’t begin thinking I’m delicate.”

  Kelgrove snorted. “I don’t believe that’ll be a problem, Your Grace. Miss Blackstock, however, already is a problem, and will continue to be one until you get rid of her.”

  As Adam went about closing the rest of the ledgers and almanacs, Gabriel watched him. Almost from the moment he’d learned about Kieran Blackstock’s lack of cooperation, he’d decided that Kelgrove would be the ideal replacement. This would be the perfect moment to make that official, but even as he considered it, he knew he wasn’t about to say a word. Not yet.

  And it wasn’t only because he wanted to see Fiona out of her gown and spread beneath him, though that would have been reason enough. It felt most comfortable to put it to his curiosity about the bits of conversation he’d overheard in the small sitting room, involving some thievery and a mysterious man he hadn’t been meant to see, but who had kissed her.

  He clenched his jaw. Yes, the thievery bothered him—Lattimer and all its troubles were his responsibility, and someone either needed to tell him about it, or he would take steps to make certain he found out officially. The kiss, though, the idea that another man had put his hands on a woman he meant to claim for himself, made his blood boil. For two days he’d pretended he knew nothing about it, and for two days it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep from finding the bastard and pounding him senseless, then kissing Fiona again and erasing whatever thoughts she had of this interloper.