Hero in the Highlands (13 page)

His lips curved upward. “Not kissed. Kiss. Present tense. Will kiss again. Future tense.”

“I dunnae need a damned grammar lesson, ye annoying man. And ye'll have the books,” she said as evenly as she could manage. “I'm nae carrying them in my pockets, though, so ye'll have to wait until I can hand them to ye.”

“And I'll remain by your side until you do so.” He tilted his head. “Very close by your side.”

She scowled. “I think mayhap ye saw someaught in yer bedchamber last night that scared ye, after all. Or was it the banshees in the bog?”

He laughed. The sound had more than an edge of cynicism to it, which didn't surprise her. What
did
surprise her was the way the sound made a pleasant shiver run up her spine.

“What's so damned amusing aboot that?” she demanded, reminding herself how much trouble he represented. If anything, his strikingly handsome appearance made it even worse. “Do ye nae believe in fairies or banshees or spirits, at all? Ye say they dunnae trouble ye, but I ken ye trouble them, Lattimer. And they dunnae much care to see a Sassenach army officer in these parts.”

“The only bit that stays with me from last night is the way you looked me up and down, and how you tasted.”

Christ in a kilt
. “I'm nae talking aboot me,” she tried again. “I'm saying ye arenae in Spain or England or anywhere else in the wide world. Ye're in Scotland. And if ye dunnae believe in the magic of the Highlands, Lattimer, I can only feel sorry fer ye.”

The duke glanced at her again. “I believe that lead can solve a disagreement more definitively than words. I believe that nothing sobers a man faster than the sight of his own blood. I believe that the sensation of winning a fight is equaled only by sex with a warm, willing woman. If you believe in magic, Miss Blackstock, that's your choice. But I suggest you let me show you something more tangible.”

She swallowed, shivers running delicious fingers along her muscles. Tightening her fingers on Brèaghad's reins, she decided it might be wiser—and safer—to stop talking to him altogether. Fiona set her tongue hard against her teeth and sent the mare into a trot. A second later he caught up to her, chuckling.

As they trotted up past the garden and along the east wall of the castle she was fairly certain half the occupants had pressed themselves against the upper windows to stare, but she did her best not to notice. Of course they were curious, and of course they would all want to know everything Lattimer had said to her. Some of it, though, she would never repeat. And some of it she needed more time to consider. Not only their second kiss—and why, oh why was she counting them?—but his genuine concern over Mrs. Ailios Eylar. And his genuine surprise that they hadn't moved the old lass into Lattimer, as if bringing ill cotters into the grand house was something dukes did all the time. Clearly he had no idea how to be an aristocrat. For the first time, though, she wondered if that might be an unasked-for, unexpected opportunity.

As a soldier he would have seen gangrene before, but as an officer she'd assumed he'd taken pains to keep as much distance from the dirt and disease of battlefields as possible. But he hadn't even hesitated to step forward and lift Ailios into his arms as if she'd weighed no more than a feather. He hadn't flinched at the smell, or at allowing illness and disease to touch him. In fact, it hadn't troubled him at all that she could tell. And that did impress her.

At the stable she dismounted and smoothed her long green skirt down again. “If ye trust me enough to give me an hour or two,” she said, walking away toward the house as soon as Oscar Ritchie took Brèaghad's bridle from her, “I'll meet ye in the doonstairs office and have all yer wee numbers lined up nice and proper fer ye.”

“Meet me in the breakfast room in ten minutes,” he countered. “I haven't eaten yet. Have you?”

If he was asking, then at least he hadn't heard her stomach rumbling. “Nae,” she said over her shoulder. “I havenae. But the ledgers arenae—”

“I'll review the books on Friday. In the meantime I'll continue familiarizing myself…” His gaze took her in from her toes to her head. “With Lattimer.”

And he continued to spin her about. Clearly he didn't think much of her—or of any lass, more likely—having a go at managing an estate. But that didn't preclude him from lusting after her. Most of the men on MacKittrick—Lattimer—land treated her more like a sister or a daughter, and his bold gaze and bolder kisses both affected her more than she cared to admit even to herself. All that when he still obviously meant to dismiss her from his service.

Ha.
He could go about making demands and saying and doing things to make her heart race, but she knew the facts. Employed by him or not, she would be remaining in the Highlands long after he'd dipped his toes into being an estate owner and left for the Continent again. Mad, confounding, enticing Englishman. Perhaps that was what it was; she'd never understand, because he made no sense. Because he was a damned Sassenach.

She'd barely made it through the servants' area and up the stairs when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her into one of the small sitting rooms off the main hallway. Fiona yanked her arm free and spun around. “What the devil do ye think ye're aboot, Ian Maxwell?” she demanded, just remembering to keep her voice down as she closed the door behind them.

Just what she needed this morning, another of the few men who didn't treat her like a family member. She had more than enough distraction to fill her cup already. The gamekeeper sent her a lopsided grin and sagged back against the wall. “Ye said ye wanted to see me early, and that I should avoid yer new master,” he returned, folding his arms over his chest, his damp red hair glinting in the light through the east window.

“He's nae my master. He's my employer. And yers too, by the way.” Perhaps he wouldn't be her employer for long, but for the moment it suited her argument.

“Are ye saying I should show him some respect?” Ian asked, lifting a ginger eyebrow. “A Sassenach lobsterback?”

“Nae. I'm saying ye're to show
me
some respect. Show him whatever ye choose.” It was on the tip of her tongue to warn Ian not to underestimate Lattimer, but she kept her mouth shut. She hadn't figured the duke out yet, and until she did, she didn't feel comfortable giving her opinion about him.

“But ye dunnae want him knowing aboot the missing sheep.”

She shook her head. “That's fer us to deal with. I dunnae care to give a Sassenach soldier an excuse to ride aboot the Highlands hunting for trouble.” Nor did she want Lattimer to think he might be needed, because he wasn't, or that she couldn't do her job, which she could.

“Seems to me the easiest way to see to that would be to get rid of him.”

“And that is my plan,” she returned, wishing Ian had neglected to come by, after all. She had a very formidable, very compelling man to meet in the breakfast room. “We cannae kill him or half the king's army will be on our doorstep. He has to want to leave—which is why we're nae to pique his curiosity aboot anything.” She crossed the room to open the narrow door that led to the corridor along the back of the common rooms, some previous duke's way of keeping the servants as unnoticed and unseen as possible. “Which is why ye're to go back oot to the overlook with the other lads and stop the thieving.”

Ian straightened, sending her a jaunty grin as he started to stroll by her. As he drew even, though, he stopped. “Dunnae ye worry yer pretty head, Fiona. I'll find whoever's stealing from us, and I'll see to him the Highlands way—withoot any damned Englishman trying to put his own rules onto us.”

“
I'll
see to our thief,” she countered. “Once ye've caught him. So go catch him.”

“I'll go. But ye cannae send a lad oot to battle withoot a kiss.” With that he took a step forward and pressed his lips against hers.

The act stopped her for a moment—not because she didn't generally enjoy a bit of fun with the gamekeeper, but because for all his self-confidence, she definitely noted some flaws now. Hm. Lattimer had said he wasn't ham-fisted. Now she had some proof that his skills didn't end on the battlefield. “Ye're kissed, then,” she returned aloud. “Off with ye.”

Fiona closed the door on him before he could respond to that. It would only be something manly about how he'd bring her the moon itself if she asked him for it, or some such nonsense.
Men.
All she required from him was the damned sheep. The rest of the bragging and swaggering was just wasting her time when she couldn't afford to be late to the breakfast room.

Frowning, she walked back to the sitting room's main door. Ian was a handsome lad for certain, but lately he'd become a bit smug. And without much reason, as she'd discovered now that she had someone else's kiss with which to compare his. And that line of thought led her back to a six-foot Englishman who refused to relinquish her attention despite her best efforts.

As she left the sitting room, she ran straight into the Englishman's hard, muscled chest. Before she could stop herself she'd grabbed his arm—and then nearly fell over anyway when he twisted faster than lightning to shove her backward against the wall and hold her there with a hard left forearm across her throat.

For a bare second the look in his eyes—dangerous, deadly, and very, very calm—actually frightened her. Then with a blink he became the cynical, sexy thorn in her side once again. “I beg your pardon,” he said, relaxing his arm but not moving away from her. “Did I hurt you?”

“N … No. Of course not.”

“I'm sorry, Miss Blackstock,” he murmured, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I expected you to be in the breakfast room.”

Fiona kept her head lowered; if she looked up at him, with his face so close to hers, she might—he might … She should have been frightened, she supposed. He looked like a soldier, but just there for a moment she'd seen it. The whip-fast reflexes, the immediate assumption that his life was being threatened, and his very swift, decisive reaction. But she didn't feel afraid. Startled, yes, but mostly she wanted him to kiss her again.

“I needed a word with one of the maids,” she improvised, freeing a hand to gesture down the hallway toward the breakfast room.

He caught that hand with his free one, folding his fingers around hers. “Did you?” he returned, his hold more gentle than she expected. “You weren't hiding?”

“Of course I wasnae hiding,” she retorted. “Now let go, before someone sees ye and drags ye oot fer a hanging.”

His mouth curved. “Still tempted,” he whispered, then straightened. “After you,” he returned in a more normal tone, releasing her and stepping back.

She refused to smooth her gown or give any other evidence that she felt the least bit … disappointed. He'd mauled her an hour ago, and now nothing? Humph. Turning her back, she strode for the breakfast room. Mrs. Ritchie the cook apparently thought the duke needed to eat a great quantity of Scottish fare, because as Fiona swept into the room the sideboard practically groaned with the weight of all the food—everything from haggis to porridge and toast to black pudding and bread-and-pork sausages and boiled eggs. It would either make him fall in love with the Highlands, or flee at top speed. She had a feeling it wouldn't be the latter.

“Do ye need me to explain what's here?” she asked him.

“I'll manage,” he returned, his voice a bit flat. “One of you send for Kelgrove, will you?” he continued, glancing at the quartet of footmen who'd been lounging in the corner and sprang upright upon their arrival.

“I'll fetch him,” she said quickly. God knew she could use a moment to pull her thoughts back together again.

Fiona wasn't surprised that Lattimer wanted his sergeant to join them for breakfast. Kelgrove clearly wasn't any typical manservant. In fact, she'd thought since yesterday that the duke meant for Sergeant Kelgrove to replace her as estate manager. Well, if the sergeant had as little experience with managing a property as his commander seemed to, she would make certain his ignorance showed. No Sassenach was allowed to replace her simply by virtue of the fact that the new prospect was English, and a man.

She turned down the next hallway, then slowed as she caught a few words of conversation from the first-floor linen closet. “… doesnae even ken how to sleep in a proper bed,” one of the maids, Tilly, was saying.

“And the Sassenach call
us
barbarians.
Amadans,
the lot of them. The sooner Miss Fiona boots him oot on his arse, the better, I say.”

“Do ye reckon it's the curse bringing him here? He couldnae have come at a worse time.”

“Aye, he could've,” Dolidh's voice returned. “What if he'd ridden up three springs ago when all the fields flooded?”

“That would've been the old duke. And that
would've
been worse. At least this one's handsome.” Tilly giggled. “My mama said the old one had a face like a bowl of porridge.”

Fiona pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Keep yer tongue-wagging confined to below stairs,” she said, eyeing Tilly and Dolidh as they gathered sheets and towels to go upstairs. “I might've been him, and then where would we be?”

Tilly dipped a shallow curtsy. “We'll be more cautious. Even if he wasnae a Sassenach, having a duke aboot will take some getting used to.”

“Aye, that it will,” she agreed. “Though hopefully he'll be gone before we have a chance to get accustomed to him.” And before she could begin to be tempted by his very carnal line of thought. She slipped in, shutting the door of the small room behind her. “Did I hear ye say Lattimer didnae sleep well?” If the room
had
unnerved him despite his dismissal of specters, that could make removing him from the property considerably easier. The sooner, the better, as far as she was concerned.