Hero in the Highlands (14 page)

“I couldnae say if he slept well or nae,” Tilly returned, and giggled again. “It would be improper to call on his bedchamber while he was in there. After he walked doonstairs I went in to tidy the room. He'd pulled the pillows and blankets onto the floor and slept there, like a hound. I didnae know if I should leave him a nest there, or nae.”

He'd slept on the floor? She could attempt to put that to ignorance of the proper ways of dukes, but she couldn't believe that he didn't know how to use a bed. Englishman or not, Gabriel Forrester demonstrated less … refinement than she'd expected. She'd always had a vision of the English as delicate, civilized tea drinkers who preferred words to action. He didn't fit any of her preconceived notions, which made him difficult to dismiss. All she knew at the moment was that he wasn't civilized, or delicate. Hard and heated seemed a much better description.

“Isnae that odd, Miss Fiona?” Dolidh said, lifting an eyebrow.

Fiona shook herself. “Aye. To be certain. I'd wager the Duke of York doesnae sleep on the floor.”

The two maids exchanged a look. “We were saying, too, it was odd that he claims his valet, that Mr. Kelgrove, isnae a valet and has him sleep in a proper bedchamber like a gentleman.”

It made sense if Sergeant Kelgrove had plans to be Lattimer's next estate manager. “Oh. Aye. Odd,” she said aloud. Taking a breath, she backed out of the room again. “Remember, keep yer voices doon.” She started down the hall, then remembered Lattimer's request and had to return to the linen closet. “Tilly, fetch Sergeant Kelgrove and send him to the breakfast room, will ye? His Grace requests his presence.”

“I'll fetch him right away, miss. I suppose he'll be eating with ye, as well?”

Fiona shrugged. “Who the devil knows what these Sassenach are aboot?”

She certainly didn't. Because she thought she'd figured out Lattimer and his entire character within two minutes after they'd officially met—and yet every time she'd expected a particular response from him, he'd surprised her. Every blasted time. She needed to do better, needed to figure out what motivated him other than lust for her, if she ever hoped to be rid of him. For heaven's sake, she'd spent far too much time thinking about him already.

*   *   *

“I've seen it on a map, Miss Blackstock,” Gabriel said, refusing to be led into the stiflingly book-bound library. “I'm asking you to ride some of the paths with me and point out anything of significance.”

She stayed just inside the doorway, as if she thought it was some magical force rather than a dislike of the musty smell of the old, old books that kept him in the hallway. “And I told ye that I have tasks to see to, and those ledger books to organize fer yer inspection. I'll nae have ye dragging me aboot the countryside and then accusing me of neglecting my duties.”

Thus far her duties seemed to consist of blocking him at every turn, and she was damned good at that. “You don't have duties, because no one hired you to work here. But you go about your day, and I'll allow you to drag me about the countryside or linen closet or wherever it may be. In fact, I recommend that we begin in the linen closet.”

He watched for her reaction; if she gave a single sign that she truly found his attention offensive or unwelcome, he would swallow his bloody pride and step back. In none of their previous encounters had she seemed the least bit reluctant, but neither would he have guessed that she'd been kissing some other man directly after leaving him at the stable until he'd overheard her doing so.

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.