Hero in the Highlands Page 8

  “This should’ve turned his hair white,” Hugh protested. “It would’ve done that fer me.”

  “Well, it didnae trouble him a whit,” she snapped back, still trying to dispel the image of that hard-muscled chest. For God’s sake, he’d been shot at least thrice, and it looked like someone had gone after him with a saber on more than one occasion. Oscar had mentioned cannonfire, as well. And he’d made it clear what he wanted of her. Had she convinced him that she wanted nothing to do with him? Damnation. She hadn’t even convinced herself.

  “Nae a whit?”

  “He’s got the wind crying through those holes in the chimney, too, but that didnae seem to bother him, either.” At the disappointed looks on the servants’ faces, she relented a little. “Tell the rest of the staff to go on with spreading the ghostly tales, but dunnae be so obvious aboot it that he catches onto the idea we’re trying to drive him off. The only way he’ll stay gone is if he doesnae want to come back.”

  “We’ll see to it, Miss Fiona.”

  As the butler slipped out of the dark passageway and back into the storage room where she stood, she caught his arm. “Did Ian come by fer supper?”

  Fleming nodded. “Aye. He’s got only half a dozen men watching the road tonight, because of the weather.”

  “He should’ve kept them all oot. We dunnae need more troubles right now to add to the ones we already have.”

  “Seems to me it’s the other way round. It’s him we dunnae need adding to our troubles.” The butler jabbed a finger toward the passageway and the master bedchamber beyond.

  Oh, she agreed with that. “Either way, one calamity at a time is more than enough fer me. Send Ian to see me when he gets back in the morning. And keep him clear of His Grace.”

  After the two men had gone, she shut and locked the storage room door behind her and the hidden passageway beyond that. The last thing she needed was for someone to decide to take matters into his or her own hands and spoil the game entirely. Of course, if one of the castle’s actual old ghosties went for a walk about the master bedchamber, she had no objection at all. It was a popular room for the spooks, after all. As she’d told the duke, there were several old Maxwells who had no reason to want a Sassenach back in the castle and claiming it for himself.

  For the past twenty years Uncle Hamish, as both a clan chieftain and a local aristocrat, had been the closest they had to someone of the new Lattimer’s rank—though Gabriel Forrester seemed closer to a groom than a duke, truth be told. Never in her wildest imaginings had she thought the major who’d jumped into the mudhole to rescue her, whether she’d required assistance or not, would be the new Duke of Lattimer. If he hadn’t been in a uniform, she would even have enjoyed his attention. If he hadn’t been wearing anything at all, she would have appreciated him even more.

  Fiona clenched her jaw. That was enough of that, damn it all. She didn’t appreciate him. She wanted him gone. Getting rid of him now wouldn’t be as simple as misdirecting him or even convincing him that his presence was both unnecessary and unwise. The man had a piece of paper proving that he had the right to be at Lattimer and to claim it for himself. Further, he had the right to see all of them—those who’d been living and working on this land for generations—gone, if he chose to do so.

  An English soldier, for God’s sake. His ilk had been hated and feared in the Highlands for better than four hundred years before the battle at Culloden. While he was far too young to have fought on that field, he hadn’t come to Scotland simply to view the scenery. He’d come because he had questions about the property’s finances. Questions she’d stupidly refused to answer. She might have lied and kept him away for a time, if she’d known they’d found an heir for the property, if she’d known that heir was Major Gabriel Forrester. But now he was here, and he no doubt wanted to know how much money he could shake out of Lattimer. Nor would he be the only Sassenach ever to bleed the Highlands to pay for a luxurious life in the soft south.

  For a moment she considered going back into the storage room and pulling some more of the strings, after all. Something was bound to frighten him. She’d like nothing better than to see him fleeing shirtless into the night—and only because shirtless meant he’d panicked. Not because he looked fit and muscular and she hadn’t minded at all taking a gander at him, scars and all. No, that would be ridiculous. Her, thinking carnal thoughts about a Sassenach simply because he thought them about her.

  As she’d said, they needed to make certain that this duke would leave of his own accord and, just as importantly, never wish to return. His arrival had set the household—and the countryside—on its ear, and yes, that seemed to be her fault. She’d decided not to let a nose-in-the-air solicitor order her about, and apparently that had consequences. She should have known better, but no one had bothered to be concerned about Lattimer until the old duke’s death had revealed that his own solicitors hadn’t done their jobs. Her lack of cooperation, though, meant that no one had felt it necessary to inform her either that a new duke had been found, or that he was heading north for a visit.

  First thing in the morning she needed to go speak with Oscar Ritchie. The head groom at least knew of Major Forrester, which was more than she or anyone else she’d encountered could claim. The more information she had, the easier it would be to form a strategy to be rid of the new duke before he could make things worse than they already were. Before he could kiss her again and she forgot how much she was supposed to dislike him.

  Finally she shut herself inside her own bedchamber and sank into the chair set before the fireplace. The room sat only four doors down from Lattimer’s, and while she would have preferred to be farther away, this room had been hers since her second birthday—which had coincided with old Lattimer’s exit. Aside from that, she wanted to be close enough to hear if any trouble should raise its head.

  Her mind centered on how to best be rid of this large, troublesome Englishman, and her drifting thoughts swirled about a fresh bullet scar on a muscular arm, an assessing pair of light gray eyes, and a mouth that seemed almost cruel until he grinned. And when he kissed her … Now she didn’t know whether to fall asleep and dream about him, or stay awake to think about him all night. Blast it all.

  * * *

  Gabriel pushed aside the heavy curtains, then stilled with his hands gripping the green, linen-lined silk. “Good God,” he breathed, his bare feet, the chill in the air, the rumbling hunger in his stomach all forgotten.

  Before him, stretching out over perhaps half a hundred miles, lay the Scottish Highlands. The land directly beyond Lattimer’s formal gardens sloped off gently to the shore of a vast blue lake that curved to the east out of sight beyond a cluster of tumbled ruins on the rocky bank. Trees edged down to the western shore and up the hill beyond, with patches of purple heather and thistle carpeting open meadows. Beyond the lake, rough, rock-tumbled hills lifted into craggy white mountains that stood starkly silhouetted by the rising sun.

  Of all the places he’d been in the world, of all the things he’d seen, this … humbled him. Belatedly two things occurred to him: he didn’t know the name of the lake, and most of what he could see belonged to him.

  He’d known since he’d first donned a uniform that he was made for war. The idea of people trying to kill him, the violence, the cold and the heat, the long days of battle and the longer nights of waiting for the battle to come—he relished the things that broke other men. He was accustomed to responsibility and command, but owning land, being responsible for people who carried rakes and hoes rather than muskets and rifles, fell so far out of his realm of expertise he couldn’t even sight it over the horizon.

  Gabriel took a slow breath. He knew battle. And Lattimer had just become his battleground. If he looked at it that way, the castle was his command tent. The Highlands was his battlefield, and the Highlanders were either his troops, or the enemy’s. In the next few days he would have to decide which, and then act based on that fact.

  As he turned to f
inish dressing, he caught sight of a lone figure strolling through the garden in the direction of the stables. Even with a heavy coat and a sturdy hat jammed low on her dusky hair, he recognized Fiona Blackstock. From that attire she was either dressed to go riding, or to rob a mail coach. Though the latter would certainly be an interesting twist, he had to assume she meant to trot off somewhere out of his reach.

  Every good victory came with a prize, and she would be his. That didn’t mean, however, that he was going to let her make more trouble while she was here. If she thought riding out early would keep her clear of him or give her the opportunity to gather reinforcements, she didn’t know him at all. In addition, somewhere between the mudhole and the drawing room she’d learned his name, and before he’d given it to her. Someone here knew him, and he needed to figure out who that was. Not because he had anything to hide, but because this campaign looked to be about strategy and leverage. He needed to know who stood on the field of battle.

  Swiftly he finished buttoning his donated trousers, but that still left him without boots or a coat or jacket. He checked outside his door, but either Kelgrove hadn’t yet risen, or the sergeant hadn’t been able to chisel the mud off his Hessians.

  Pulling the bell seemed too regal, but as far as he knew people didn’t walk about half naked in proper houses. Scowling, he grabbed hold of the thing and yanked it down a half-dozen times, then went digging through the chest and wardrobe to find them empty of everything but an old, yellowed cravat.

  His door slammed open. “Major!” Kelgrove panted, diving into the room pistol first.

  “Put that down, Adam,” Gabriel ordered, sidestepping out of range.

  “But…” Kelgrove straightened. “From the way you were slamming that bell about, I thought you were being strangled with the rope.”

  “I didn’t know how emphatic to be. I need my boots. And a coat.”

  “I still have your coat soaking. The boots are wearable, but you’d never pass inspection with them.”

  “The boots, Sergeant. And any coat will do, as long as it’s warm. I’ll meet you at the stable.”

  “Are we leaving?” Kelgrove looked hopeful at that idea.

  “No,” he returned, though he could damned well sympathize. “Our task here isn’t finished. I’m going for a ride.”

  “I … Of course, sir.”

  The lord of the manor was more than likely expected to use the grand staircase at the front of the house, but Gabriel opted for the more direct route of the servants’ stairs at the back. Even indoors the wood and stone beneath his bare feet felt half frozen, but Fiona already had a head start on him. He wasn’t going to wait about for perfectly shined shoes.

  “Yer Grace,” a redheaded young lady announced as he reached the bottom floor, giving him a deep curtsy and nearly dropping the stack of linens she carried.

  “Good morning,” he replied, settling for a polite nod as he moved past her. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to how Wellington and his lordling flock addressed their servants, but most of them were men he didn’t care to emulate in war, which gave him no desire to do so in peace.

  “Ye’ve nae shoes on, Yer Grace,” the woman noted, the tone of her voice alone telling him that she thought him mad.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. Thank you.”

  He’d thought most everyone in the household would be out in the main part of the house, likely looking for a glimpse of him, but servants still seemed to be everywhere. By the time he reached the door past the kitchen he’d been made aware at least a dozen times that he was barefoot. These Highlanders were a helpful lot. His feet were numb with cold by the time he reached the stable on the far side of the garden. If he didn’t catch up with Miss Blackstock, he wasn’t going to be amused. He dodged a clump of horseshit and put his hand on the stable door.

  “… called Beast doesnae fill my heart with hope,” Fiona’s honeyed voice came, and he lowered his hand again.

  “I wasnae in the Sixty-eighth regiment,” a male voice returned, “so I can only tell ye what all of us saw and heard. And that was how Major Forrester made his way past the Frenchies’ cannons to their munitions wagons, set fire to ’em, and sent ’em rolling doon the hill into the middle of the French troops. They scattered like cockroaches, Miss Fiona, instead of marching on us.”

  “Well.” Silence. “That doesn’t sound beastly, Oscar.”

  Gabriel nodded to himself. He hadn’t thought so, either. The act had been meant to disrupt France’s advance and to save English lives, and in that he’d succeeded. The rest, the nickname and the absurd amount of notoriety and praise it had gained him, was ridiculous.

  “They say he’s unstoppable,” the Oscar fellow continued in his thick brogue. “And fearless. Nae a man I’d like as an enemy.”

  “I suppose if he’d stayed in Spain or in England I’d like him just fine,” she returned. “But he came here, and I’ll nae have any Sassenach dictating to me, whatever papers he brings with him.”

  “I’d nae wish to go against either of ye.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. If he comes looking fer me, tell him I’ve gone to the mill or someaught.”

  The large stable doors rattled, and almost without thinking Gabriel ducked around the side of the building. A horse headed away from him down the hill at a canter, and the doors closed again. So she rode places alone. He couldn’t imagine any London lady doing that, but he had very limited personal experience with anything proper.

  He waited long enough for her to be reasonably out of sight, then strode back around and pulled open the stable door. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to the large group of grooms and stable boys measuring out hay and oats for the dozen horses in residence, and pulled his saddle off its post.

  “Yer Grace,” the oldest of them exclaimed, and trotted over to grab hold of the other side of the saddle. “I’ll see to this.”

  Gabriel recognized him as yesterday’s guard with the pitchfork, and now he knew the voice, as well. “And you are?” he asked, releasing his grip.

  The man bowed, walking backward toward where Union Jack stuck his head over the stall door and nickered. “Oscar Ritchie, Yer Grace. Lattimer’s head groom, if ye please.”

  “Ritchie. Are you related to Mrs. Ritchie, the cook?”

  He grinned. “Aye. My good wife, she is. Ye want yer Jack saddled, do ye?”

  “If you please.”

  “Ye ken ye’ve nae shoes on, Yer Grace.”

  Gabriel sighed. “Yes.”

  “Rollie over there’ll lend ye his boots.”

  The youngest of the stable boys, a lad with bright red hair and cheeks to match, frowned. “I willnae. My ma gave me these boots.”

  “I’ll worry about my own boots,” Gabriel broke in, trying to decide how to broach the subject of military service without sounding like he’d been eavesdropping, but then deciding that holding on to that piece of information might be wiser for the moment. Despite his reputation to the contrary, he did know something about patience.

  The groom bent in another bow. “As ye say, Yer Grace.”

  While he slipped the bridle on over Jack’s head, Kelgrove skidded into the stable. “I did what I could, Major,” he panted, squatting in front of where Gabriel seated himself to pull on the boots, “but you shouldn’t ever wear them to see Wellington again.”

  “For the devil’s sake, Kelgrove, they’re boots,” he retorted, stomping into the left one. “They serve a purpose. I don’t give a damn if I can see my reflection in them or not.”

  “Of course not, sir. But I do.” The sergeant stood, shaking out a heavy brown woolen coat. “I found this in the attic, with a selection of your predecessor’s clothes. Most are too small and more fit for a costume party, but a few of them are passable. Thank God you found trousers, though, because no one’s been willing to lend you anything but kilts.”

  Gabriel shrugged into the coat, then took hold of Jack’s bridle. “Thank you. I’ll be back shortly.”
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  Kelgrove stepped in front of him. “Major, you cannot go riding by yourself. It isn’t…” And he sent a look at the interested grooms surrounding them. “It isn’t safe.”

  Swinging into the saddle, Gabriel inclined his head. “‘Safe’ hasn’t concerned me in quite a long time, Adam. And find me a harder mattress, will you? I nearly drowned in that one.”

  Without bothering to wait for an answer, he ducked beneath the stable door and sent Union Jack galloping down the slope toward the lake. It felt like an hour since he’d heard his quarry depart in that direction, but it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes at most. Still, given the dense clusters of trees, with narrow streams and pathways leading up through the shallow hills all along the shore, she could be anywhere. Except the mill, of course.

  Slowing Jack to a canter, he considered. She had no idea he rode behind her, so she wouldn’t be hiding or trying to cover her tracks. He reckoned that she had a specific destination in mind, especially given that his pocket watch read barely six-thirty in the morning.

  The trail forked in three different directions ahead, and he pulled Jack to a halt and hopped to the ground. With the damp and then the wind yesterday, the myriad tracks were faint and dulled at the edges—with the exception of a quartet of deer and a horse with metal shoes. “There you are,” he murmured, mounting Jack again and heading away from the lake and up the trail that paralleled a stream toward the top of the hill.

  A few minutes later the trail topped a rise, opening out to a heather-filled meadow split by the curving stream. On either side of the water, and joined by a stone bridge that looked Roman, was a village of perhaps three dozen small stone and wattle houses, a blacksmith, a tavern, a church, and a shop or two. He knew at least one village lay on Lattimer land, so he supposed this could be it—Strouth. More buildings and people for whom he was responsible. More weight to sit upon his shoulders—because while he was accustomed to holding lives in his hands, those were soldiers, men who for the most part had signed up to face danger and death. Here there were undoubtedly women and children, babies and grandparents, all people with whom he had little experience—and no idea how to protect.