Fiona nodded against his chest. “That would be grand, to include them.”
“See to it, Sergeant. Make certain you ask, not order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have the kitchen bake more bread,” Fiona whispered. “And pull another barrel of whisky from the larder.”
“Adam,” Gabriel called, “you should also ask Mrs. Ritchie to bake as much bread as she can manage. We can always send back up to the house for additional supplies, if that proves necessary.”
“I’ll see to it, Your Grace.”
“And pull another barrel of whisky out of the larder.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Kelgrove paused. “Is there anything else?”
“Is there anything else?” Gabriel whispered to Fiona.
“Nae, I cannae conjure anything at the moment,” she returned softly, her voice amused.
“That will be all, Sergeant!”
“Thank you, sir!”
The footsteps retreated down the hallway. “I’m glad you locked the door,” Gabriel said, running his fingers idly down the length of buttons he wasn’t permitted to open.
“Kelgrove’s doing my tasks,” she returned, sitting upright, away from him. “I should be helping. Who knows how many questions will come up, last minute.”
“He’s aiding,” Gabriel returned. “It’s what he does. But since I’ve discovered his hidden passion for facts and figures, I’ll find something useful for him. I do have three estates and people telling me where I should spend my money.”
“Ye do mean to set yer own eyes on Hawthorne and Langley Park, I assume?” she asked, black eyes gazing down at him.
“I will,” he agreed. “Once things have calmed down here.”
“Good. Ye need to know what ye own. Ye might even decide ye prefer one or the other of them to here.”
He’d never heard anything more unlikely. She lived here, and so he preferred to be here, as well. If this was supposed to be a test of his connection to her, he could think of better, more tactile ways to demonstrate how much she meant to him. Gabriel eyed her. If he meant to be a competent landowner, he also needed to learn some finesse with words. He put his hands over hers. “Would you like to tour them with me? I’d value your opinion. And your company. And if you find somewhere you prefer to Lattimer, then we’ll talk.”
Her brow furrowed. “I’ll nae find anywhere I prefer to here, Sassenach.”
“And I haven’t had a home since I was seventeen. This one suits me quite well.” Tightening his grip on her hands, he pulled her down again. “I like the view,” he murmured, lifting his head for a kiss.
Every time she moved his cock throbbed, and as her tongue danced with his the fellow seemed to decide he was ready for another go. He could tell that she felt it, and she groaned as she moved over him. “Yer lad’s very spry today,” she noted, grinning.
“We both had a good breakfast.”
Forty minutes later he finished refastening his trousers, pulled on his boots, and did his best to straighten his cravat. He knew he looked English, and saw no reason to pretend to be anything else. His tenants knew him to be English, even the ones who hadn’t yet seen him. The sooner they could become accustomed to him, and the sooner he could become accustomed to this version of himself, the better.
It would be a fraction easier without the uniform, and he’d packed those away in his trunk. Eventually, when the idea of parting from them didn’t open a hole in his gut, he would send them up to the attic. At the least, he knew he wouldn’t be wearing them any longer. This battle required a different uniform, a different strategy, and promised a very different, and a very precious, reward.
Chapter Fifteen
“Fleming, are you joining us at Strouth?” Gabriel asked, as the old duke’s newly polished barouche stopped on the front drive.
“I … hadn’t considered it, Yer Grace,” the butler replied.
“I know you have duties here,” Gabriel said, handing Fiona into the open vehicle and feeling her squeeze his hand in approval, “but I also know the cotters see you as the household’s representative. I leave it to you to decide.”
The butler’s cheeks darkened. “In that case, I would be honored, Yer Grace,” he stated, bouncing on his toes.
Gabriel motioned him toward the barouche as Kelgrove took the seat facing Fiona. “Allow me to give you a ride, then.”
Fleming practically beamed. “I … thank ye, Yer Grace. That would save my old legs the walk. Very kind of ye.” The stout Highlander stepped up and sat beside the sergeant.
Still no “laird” within earshot, but Fleming’s willingness to join them signaled some progress. Fiona had pointed out to him several times, generally while angry, that his staff and his tenants were not an army. As the barouche topped the rise twenty minutes later and crossed from the trees into the large meadow where Strouth lay, however, he wondered if she was wrong about that.
They’d planned a picnic in the shady churchyard opposite the graveyard. With an hour still before the al fresco luncheon was even set to begin, however, he could see that the well-manicured lawn wouldn’t be sufficient. All across the meadow people stood talking, children running between the clusters and shrieking in delight at the holiday.
If he took the village and quadrupled the number of inhabitants, he still wouldn’t come close to the number presently filling the clearing. “These are all my tenants?” he muttered at Fiona, who sat beside him with a smile pasted on her face.
“Aye,” she returned. “But I didnae expect this many. They’ve come from all the way across the loch and up into the mountains, even. I doubt there’s anyone left oot there at all but fer the shepherds and the extra men ye sent to guard the flocks.”
“Can we feed them all?”
Fleming cleared his throat. “With all due respect, Yer Grace, I heard a rumor or two aboot how far word had spread, and I advised Mrs. Ritchie to begin baking two days ago.”
“Ye might have said someaught, George,” Fiona exclaimed. “I thought we’d have maybe two hundred.”
“I apologize, Miss Fiona,” the butler said. “It was only a rumor. If I’d been wrong, we’d have been donating biscuits to the church fer the next fortnight.”
“Thank you, Fleming,” Gabriel put in, before Fiona could do more fussing. “You may well have prevented this from becoming a disaster.”
“I’m pleased I could be of assistance, m’laird.”
Gabriel nodded. He was counting every “laird” as if it were a precious diamond. Whether Fleming had simply forgotten or he’d meant the word intentionally, it doubled his total.
The barouche had to slow to a walk amid the crush of people. When it began to look like someone might be injured if they continued to press forward, Gabriel instructed Kevin to stop. “We’ll walk from here,” he said, reaching over the door to open it.
Fiona stepped down first, closely followed by the butler. “If they turn on you,” Kelgrove murmured, standing, “there won’t be a damned thing either of us can do about it.”
“I know. You can return to the house if you wish.”
The sergeant frowned. “Whether you’re still my commanding officer or not, Your Grace, I don’t think there’s any call for you to insult me.”
Gabriel grinned, clapping Adam on the shoulder. “That’s what I wanted to hear. If anything does go awry, stay close to Fiona,” he said, turning to watch as she threw her arms around a young lady who looked enough like her to be a cousin.
“You expect me to hide behind a woman’s skirts?” the sergeant returned, his posture indignant.
“No. I expect you to protect her.”
“I … Very well, sir.”
That seen to, Gabriel offered his arm to Fiona. They could all say he was just being polite if they wanted to; as long as she was beside him, he didn’t care what anyone else thought. The crowd immediately surrounded them. The majority of his tenants appeared mostly curious and a little shy at meeting their landlord for the first
time in twenty years. For his part, smiling and being friendly and appearing … harmless wasn’t anything to which he was accustomed, but he did his damnedest. It went with the civilian clothes and riding in barouches and the stunning woman by his side.
Not everyone, though, seemed happy to see him. Those men, the ones on the fringes and the others who kept themselves shadowed behind their fellows, they caught and kept his attention. Had Dunncraigh sent him some troublemakers? Or were these men simply more wary and more suspicious of his motives than the rest of them? If it was the latter, they could still be reasoned with, convinced if not by his words then hopefully by his deeds. If they were the former, he might well find himself with a fight on his hands, after all. He refused to be comforted by that thought.
“Don’t glare,” Fiona said through her clenched smile as they made their way toward where the main tables had been placed. A hundred blankets covered the meadow grass around them—at least the villagers had come prepared to sit on the ground.
“I’m assessing,” he countered, but smoothed his expression anyway.
“They like ye, I think,” she continued after a moment. “I ken they’ve heard aboot the sheep, by now, and how ye helped Ailios. They’ll listen, at least, which was more than I expected.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Just what did you expect?”
Fiona shrugged, her eyes dancing. “A few cabbages thrown at ye, at least.”
If she was teasing, the day must be going well. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Rather than climbing on a chair again, this time he opted for the top of the church’s steps. Father Jamie joined them, and though Gabriel had been somewhat suspicious of the parson after Sir Hamish had spent so much time supposedly reassuring him about the Englishman who’d arrived at Lattimer, today the man looked ready to weep with joy at the sight of all his flock gathered together.
“This is grand,” he breathed, clasping his hands together. “Och, this is grand.”
Gabriel waved a hand as the horde crowded before the church. If he had his say, this would only be the first time they saw Fiona and him arm in arm here. That, though, was a promise for another day.
“Good afternoon,” he called. “Thank you all for coming. Most of you have likely heard by now that the Duke of Dunncraigh offered to purchase this property from me, and that I refused his offer.”
“We heard he’s banished us all from clan Maxwell!” an angry male voice called out—one of the men hiding himself from clear view.
“That isnae so,” Fiona took up. “We’re as important to the Maxwell as we ever were—which isnae much at all. When’s the last time any of ye set eyes on him?”
“Yesterday!” another one yelled.
“Aye, yesterday, because Lattimer being here finally made him notice us. Did ye see him when Brocair burned to the ground four years past? Or when the irrigation dam broke and flooded all the fields east of the loch? I saw his men every year, coming to collect his tithe, and I saw him when my uncle Hamish took me to Dunncraigh, but he’s nae come to visit on his own fer at least a decade.”
“My Harold died of fever three years back,” an older woman stated. “Miss Fiona came to see me and sat with me and brought me a nice meal, and saw that my roof was patched. I nae heard a word from Laird Dunncraigh, and Harold served his da’ fer all those years.”
“Laird Lattimer saved my life,” a more familiar voice said thinly. Gabriel looked over to see Ailios Eylar sitting on a chair, a blanket across her knees. “And he went oot of his way to do it.”
“I’m pleased to see you out of doors, Mrs. Eylar,” Gabriel returned, inclining his head. “But I have to argue with you on one point: I didn’t go out of my way. I’ve lived most of my life as a soldier. I looked after my men, I fought beside them, and I went where I was ordered to go. This—Lattimer, MacKittrick, whatever you choose to call it”—and he gestured at the expanse around them—“is the first time I’ve felt like I’ve had a home since I was seventeen years old.”
It felt odd to say it all aloud, but he didn’t see any point in creating some elaborate, heroic fiction about destiny. He would tell them the truth, because that was who he was. They could take that truth and either believe he could and would help them, or not. As he looked out over the sea of faces, he hoped he’d chosen the right tack.
“I’m a simple man,” he went on. “I had no idea I was related to a duke, much less that I had become his sole heir. Before this happened I thought I would be a soldier until I died or grew too old to hold a rifle.” He smiled ruefully. “I reckoned it would be the former. I didn’t expect this life. I certainly didn’t expect to find a home, or a place where I could be useful. I know you don’t trust me. You have no reason to do so. My great-uncle neglected this place to a shocking degree. But I’m not him. And it is my goal, my duty, to do better than he did.”
“That sounds like a load of shite to me!”
Fiona jabbed her finger at the light-haired man who’d yelled. “I see ye there, Cuthbert Dinwoddie. And I saw ye sleeping when a dozen head of sheep went missing. Our sheep. Ye’ve nae right to insult His Grace if ye cannae tell the difference between watching sheep awake and counting them in yer dreams.”
Cuthbert went red-faced as the villagers laughed. “And why are ye defending a Sassenach, Fiona?” he countered. “Is it because ye’ve had him beneath yer skirt, ye whore?”
Gabriel stepped forward before he’d even realized he’d done so. “You,” he said, indicating the shepherd. “Cuthbert. Come here.”
“Gabriel,” Fiona hissed behind him.
He kept moving forward, the crowd parting to let him through, until Cuthbert Dinwoddie had to choose between running away and facing him straight on. The man lifted his chin, his fists curled. “I’m ready fer ye, English,” he growled.
“Good. Then listen,” Gabriel snapped back, the clarity of his anger surprising him. “Say whatever you like about me. Respect is earned, and I haven’t earned it yet. But if you insult that woman again after all she’s done here for you and your family and your neighbors and your fellow clansmen, I will drop you where you stand.”
Cuthbert’s gaze darted here and there as he no doubt searched for an ally—or an escape. “Aye, ye’re a big man, ye are, making threats in front of all these people.”
“Look at me,” Gabriel instructed.
The shepherd hemmed and hawed for another bit, then finally met his gaze. “What?”
“Do you think I’m jesting?” He paused. With no answer forthcoming, he advanced another step. “Do you think I would hesitate for a damned second?” Another pause, silence meeting him again. “Remember that.” Gabriel took a breath. “When I arrived here, I did so with the idea of leaving again as soon as I could hire a proper steward. It took less than a day for me to realize what a mistake that would be. Fiona Blackstock literally devotes every waking minute to you and to this land. And as compelling and … inspiring as she is, I can do no less.”
Fiona had watched Gabriel stride down the steps and make directly for Cuthbert Dinwoddie, and for a long space of heartbeats she thought he actually meant to hit the shepherd. Instead, and with a few succinct words, he won over everyone in the meadow—with the possible exception of Cuthbert.
As much as she wanted to sit beside Gabriel, they’d already decided that splitting up would benefit them more. And so she sat between Ailios and William MacDorry, while the duke’s table had filled with what looked like every unmarried lass in the county.
“He seems to have a head on his shoulders, at least,” Tormod the blacksmith commented. “And Cuthbert’s a bloody idiot, which we all knew, but now it’s fer certain.”
“Ye ken ye’ll have fights, if the duke decides to repair one lad’s fence before another man’s,” William noted.
“Aye. What do ye think of a drawing, of sorts?” Fiona asked. “We’ll have to see to the major repairs first, like the irrigation gates, but then we’ll put all the houses with roofs that need patchin
g on papers and draw them from a hat. They’ll all be done, but nae one person will decide the order.”
“I reckon I could live with that,” one of the fishermen farther down the table said, nodding. “It’d be fair, at least.”
“What aboot the curse, though?” came from one of the picnic blankets to her right. “It’s all grand plans, but we’ve seen it before. Mr. Kieran managed to get the mill working again, and then Brocair burned three nights later. And a week after that, Mr. Kieran rode into the bogs and only his horse came back.”
Fiona wanted to pretend not to hear that, because she had no idea how to answer it. Facts and plans were well and good, but folk had blamed every bad bit of luck on that curse for the past hundred years.
“They say only an Englishman turned Highlander can break the curse,” another voice took up. “We have an Englishman now, at least.”
“Nae Sassenach can ever be a Highlander, and ye know it,” a third villager contributed. “It’s a curse that cannae be broken. If we fight against it, then we’ll only be putting ourselves in harm’s way. ‘His allies shall perish.’ That’s what MacKittrick said.”
“What, are ye a witch now, Letitia Garretson?” someone else countered. “Does that mean ye’ll nae ask to have yer window replaced or yer pig fence mended when the time comes fer it?”
She’d expected the pessimism and doubt, but the number of hopeful voices pleased Fiona greatly. They had a chance, she and Gabriel. They truly had a chance to make things right here. And the villagers were past ready for that, as well, or there would have been a great many more of them fretting about Dunncraigh threatening to turn his back on them. They’d realized—or some of them had, anyway—that he’d already done so.
A high-pitched scream pierced through the cacophony of conversation. Fiona looked up, alarmed. “Where did that come from?” she asked, and Ailios put a hand over her heart.
The sound repeated, a young girl’s scream, and a trio of young ones ran into view from the middle of the village. “The well!” the youngest of the Dinwoddie boys yelled. “She’s in the well!”
Hero in the Highlands Page 26