But he was a duke. One of considerable wealth and property. And given both his strong sense of duty and the ramshackle way he’d inherited, he likely would decide to marry and have children, and do it fairly quickly. If nothing else, he wouldn’t want to see Lattimer abandoned to the fates again. And of course she’d been the one to convince him of that.
Generally she appreciated irony. Not today, however. She didn’t consider herself particularly naïve, either, but had she been? When she’d spoken to the staff earlier, she’d meant every word she said. She’d imagined the next months, the next years, and in her dreams it had been the two of them, Gabriel and her, together. They would reclaim MacKittrick together. But none of her daydreams had concerned themselves with English laws and proper aristocratic wives for the most aristocratic of titles.
A tear plopped onto the back of her hand. Shaking herself, she wiped the wet off on her skirt, then rubbed her arm across her face. What mattered was that the land and the people prospered. Who accomplished that deed didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.
“Miss Fiona?”
Jumping, she looked up. “Dolidh. Ye startled me.”
“I was just asking, miss,” the maid said, while a trio of others waited a few feet away, “do ye truly believe His Grace—Lattimer, I mean—is the one to break the curse?”
“Aye. I truly believe he’ll be the one to make MacKittrick a proud, grand place again.”
The girl grinned. “And what of ye and His Grace?”
Fiona’s cheeks warmed, despite her best effort to remain cool and collected. Good glory. They knew? “Beg pardon?”
The others giggled. “Dolidh says he’s sweet on ye,” Tilly took up. “And Niall Garretson told Oscar Ritchie he saw ye kissing oot by the mill.”
“Well, I say ye shouldnae be spreading such idle gossip,” Fiona managed, fighting against the renewed urge to cry. Tomorrow—or the next day, perhaps—she would have figured it out, how to turn away those questions with a smile. Today she wanted to stop thinking about anything.
“Och, well, then,” Dolidh returned, still clearly amused. “He’s a fit man all alone in the Highlands. I’d wager he’s aching by now fer a willing lass to warm his bed.”
Oh, now she wanted to begin pulling the maid’s hair. For Boudicca’s sake, she had no idea what to feel, except that she knew she hurt. Damn Uncle Hamish, anyway. He might have let her be a fool for a few more days. She was much happier being foolish.
Tilly abruptly gasped. A heartbeat later all four maids had scurried for the stairs. Fiona looked up the hallway, then ducked inside the music room and closed the door, pushing down on the handle as she did so to keep it from squeaking. Damnation.
She’d known the Duke of Dunncraigh was still at Lattimer. Somehow she’d expected, though, that he and his men would pack their things and stomp directly from their guest bedchambers to the front door. What had they been doing in the north wing, tramping the floor looking for any sympathetic souls?
The door’s handle lowered, and she hurriedly backed deeper into the room. Hamish railing at her had been harrowing enough. She wasn’t certain she could bear hearing the Duke of Dunncraigh hurling the same ugly arguments at her, particularly when they made so much sense. And what Hamish had said about Kieran and the “noise” her brother had made … She didn’t even want to think about it.
To her surprise it was Artur Maxwell, though, who strolled into the room. Sending her a sideways glance made a bit comical because of his black eye, he wandered over to the pianoforte and pressed a few of the keys. High-pitched discord echoed into the room, oddly reminding her that she needed to have the instrument tuned.
“If ye’re here to make threats and howl at me like a banshee, Hamish Paulk already gave me that speech.” She folded her arms across her chest.
He sat down at the pianoforte, flipping the tail of his English coat out behind him, and began playing a jaunty Scots tune. The words, as she recalled, were exceedingly bawdy and rather insulting. Artur played well, better than she did, more than likely.
“So ye’re here to serenade me?” she shot out. “I’m nae impressed.”
The tune banged to a halt. “Hamish Paulk is a small-minded man who’d cut off his own feet if my uncle said he was too tall.” He sighed. “That said, ye ken Uncle Domhnull knows it was ye who told the servants here they could trust Lattimer. Ye did a fair job of turning a Sassenach major from the scourge of MacKittrick into its bloody savior. And I think that’ll be very interesting once yer English soldier takes a wrong step and the lot of ye realize he cannae walk across the surface of the loch.”
“He’ll do as any good landlord ought, and that’s all any of us has the right to expect.”
Artur laughed. “It may be all any of ye has the right to expect, but ye ken ye’ve made every lass and lad on his land think he’ll be performing miracles.” Standing, he sketched a bow before he turned back to the door. “Dunnae trouble yerself though, Fiona. When he falls, the Duke of Dunncraigh will be aboot to set things right again fer all the Maxwells.”
“Fer all the Maxwells but me, ye mean. Go on and make yer threat; it’ll itch at ye until ye scratch it.”
“Ye’re mistaken, lass. He’ll set things right fer ye, certain as anything. The two of ye may find ye disagree aboot what that entails, though.”
With that he slipped out the door again. After all the clever turns of phrase and sideways threats from Artur and Hamish, she almost wished now that it had been Dunncraigh stomping in and simply bellowing at her. At least Artur had only spat his venom about how Gabriel would eventually stumble. All in all, she would have to say that Hamish’s words had cut more deeply.
If she wanted proof that she was no longer welcome in clan Maxwell, though, they’d provided it. However this went, she, at the least, could never go back. And if her uncle was right about what Gabriel would do next, and it certainly made logical sense, she was still alone. And always would be, now.
She could of course try telling herself that it didn’t matter. The tenants and staff and workers here could call themselves whatever they wished—clan Maxwell, or not. As long as someone who cared about them remained on the premises, she’d far exceeded her own best expectations. So if Gabriel didn’t care for her as much as she’d come to care for him, it didn’t matter. Except that it did matter, but only to her.
Chapter Fourteen
The last thing Gabriel had ever expected to do when he set out to restore order to some unseen property in the Scottish Highlands was to set up a rebel encampment in the middle of enemy territory and then ask his former foes to join him in deposing their own ruler. What surprised him was that so many of them had agreed to do so. According to Kelgrove, less than a half-dozen of his hundred servants had slipped out the back way, belongings in hand. Generally he met traitors with the point of his sword, but he let them go without word or ceremony. If they chose to return by the end of the week, he would allow that, as well. This might well be battle, but it was the least straightforward one he’d ever fought. And the one with the most doubtful—and yet important—outcome.
The number of converts to his cause was likely why the trio of black coaches were on the front drive and stacked with luggage. If Dunncraigh hadn’t been so masterfully outflanked by a slip of a lass who possessed a heart as big as the Highlands, it might well have been a different duke fleeing the premises. But there they were, the Scottish duke and his men, descending the main stairs to join him in the foyer.
But where was the lass? He’d assumed she would be somewhere in the background flitting about—though “flitting” didn’t seem the right word for a woman with a tongue as sharp and nerves as steady as hers—to calm the worries of the staff, but Dunncraigh’s exit would look much more definitive if Fiona stood beside him in the foyer to watch the Maxwell depart.
Just as the duke reached the main floor, though, Gabriel felt her arrive, a rush of warmth and electricity directly beside him. At that moment, it might have bee
n damned Bonaparte himself standing there glaring at him from the foyer, and Gabriel wouldn’t have so much as blinked. Confidence, ease—he was accustomed to feeling them, but not because someone else stood with him. Because she stood with him. Without looking back at her, he descended the stairs.
“I’ll nae shake yer hand, Lattimer,” Dunncraigh said, pausing as Hamish Paulk helped him on with his coat. “I consider ye and all who stand with ye to be scoundrels and traitors, none of ye worthy of—”
“Good-bye, Your Grace,” Gabriel interrupted, to stop any further threats and insults to his servants. “Best of luck with your sheep.”
Fiona’s fingers brushed his, though he wasn’t certain if it was out of appreciation or because he was pushing too hard. Despite her insistence that this was all about the good of his tenants, however, he knew it was also about strategy and positioning. And he damned well wanted to remind everyone in earshot about where the Maxwell’s priorities lay.
He followed the men outside. Above him he had no doubt every window was filled with eyes gazing down at the drive. They would see their laird leaving, but they would also see him staying, Fiona beside him. And as far as he was concerned, that last bit was a sight to which they’d best become accustomed.
“Ye remember my offer, Lattimer,” the duke said, pausing halfway inside his massive coach. “After ye’ve failed here I’ll still purchase the land from ye. And any loyal Maxwells will be welcome to stay.” His steely gaze flicked to Fiona and back again.
“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.
Hero in the Highlands Page 24