Hero in the Highlands (21 page)

“Doing that very thing, Mr. Maxwell, is now your one and only task. You are to look for any tracks apart from the main flock and follow them until you either find the sheep and return it to pasture, or find where it's been taken. How many men do you command?”

Ian snorted. “‘Command'? I dunnae command a soul, because I'm nae a bloody sol—”

“How many men work with you?” Gabriel amended. “Stop dancing about and answer my questions.”

“Gabriel,” Fiona murmured beneath her breath, trying not to move her lips. “Dunnae make an enemy fer nae good reason.”

“I have a reason,” he returned, sharp and nearly silent.

“Nae. Ye dunnae.”

He shifted a little. “I looked at the ledger books, Mr. Maxwell. This thievery has been going on for some time. I would hazard a guess that the resulting reduced income concerns you and your fellows more than it does me. For one last time, then, what have you found, and who is helping you?”

Ian eyed him for another moment. Only when he nodded did Fiona let out the breath she'd been holding. “I have three lads who help me regular,” the gamekeeper said. “Fiona gave me four more. We have been looking, but I've nae run across anything yet that makes me willing to accuse anyone.”

“Hire ten more,” Gabriel said. “Or borrow them from elsewhere in the household. And don't accuse anyone. Find me the evidence. I'll see to the rest.”

“I'll do as ye say, then. All the locals will know ye're searching fer the thieves, though. The thieves will hear it, as well, and lie low.”

“Then one way or another, the thefts will stop.”

They left Ian standing there outside his cottage. Fiona could almost feel the heat from the curses he was likely sending after her. If having Lattimer stir up the cotters was indeed enough to stop the thefts, however, her shoulders were strong enough to hold against Ian Maxwell's ire. Her companion's ire, though, concerned her more.

“Why did you protect him?” Gabriel said after a moment, keeping his bay to a walk beside her and Brèaghad.

“Fer exactly why I said. Dunnae ye reckon ye have enough enemies withoot making more fer nae good reason?” She cleared her throat as his gray eyes shifted to study her. “Highlanders like to know why we're doing a thing, rather than going in blind. That's why he balked.”

“No it isn't.”

“Then enlighten me, Gabriel.”

“Why don't you enlighten me?” he retorted.

“Christ in a kilt,” she grumbled. “Nae, I willnae. Ye had a life before ye rode into the Highlands, and so did I. There's nae amount of whitewash or scrubbing that can make it otherwise. And I told ye I liked yer kisses. That doesnae make us friends or allies.”

Light gray eyes swept across her. “You, Fiona, are a difficult woman to decipher.”

“I reckon I'll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

Something had happened between them, something more than their fifth kiss. Now she couldn't seem to stop flirting with him, talking with him, teasing with him. It was an odd, electric sort of connection, a heightened awareness, almost like the moment at the starting line of a horse race when every nerve and muscle was gathered in and alert, waiting for the pistol to go off. If he hadn't realized how drawn to him she felt, he would see it soon enough—but she wasn't going to say it aloud. Not for all the tea in China.

“Ian Maxwell,” he resumed, turning his gaze toward the snow-topped peaks on the horizon. “I don't like him. He thinks he has a claim on you
now
. Not in your undiscussable past. Tell me he's wrong.”

For heaven's sake, what was she being coy for? Her pride, she supposed it was, could cause someone harm. “I'm nae involved with Ian Maxwell. Nae fer some time. And he knows that, as well.”

“Good. And thank you for telling me. I'm a man made for war, Fiona. I don't jest about the things—or the people—I require.”

The hairs on her arms lifted, and she was glad she'd donned an old spencer jacket with long sleeves. “Then ye can stop interrogating me aboot it.”

“Agreed.” He paused. “I do have another question, though. If most of the tenants aren't aware of the thefts, how have you been investigating?”

Finally, something she could answer without blushing. “Very carefully,” she returned. “I'm related in some way to most of the people in the valley, and I share a clan with all of 'em, regardless. I have to tread carefully.”

“I didn't set out to make the situation more difficult for you.” His wry smile warmed her insides even though she knew better.

“Honestly, I've been subtle through nearly two years of thievery. Ye've nae made any friends fer either of us, but if yer way works, I'll owe ye my thanks.”

“Friends,” he repeated, his tone unexpectedly thoughtful for a man who compared sex to battle. “Friends are a tricky concept. If you have them, I envy you.”

She frowned. “Ye have friends, surely. Kelgrove's yer friend.”

“I'm fond of him; I'll concede that. For most of my life I've been surrounded by people, and I've been alone in the middle of them all. It's difficult to befriend men when I have to order them into battle, and I have to watch them die. You make me think of other things, and as long as you do, I'm going to be after you. It's a powerful attraction, seeing something other than death. You're a powerful attraction, Fiona Blackstock. And kissing isn't enough.”

Heat swirled down her spine. No one had the right to be as … compelling as he was. No flowery words, no poetry, and over a matter of a few days. The way he described his life—not the sending men to die, but the being responsible for their well-being, for their safety—felt very close to her own experience. Surrounded, but alone. Even Kieran, her own brother, had become so distant and so neglectful before he finally vanished that she would never have considered confiding in him.

Could she confide in this man? That, she didn't know. But she could certainly find pleasure and solace with him. If she dared. “How do ye know I even like ye?” she asked aloud.

For the second time today that rare, fleeting grin touched his mouth. Without a noticeable motion from him, his bay accelerated into a smooth canter. “You do. You would have told me otherwise.”

*   *   *

“Ye're devoting a great many men to this, Gabriel,” Fiona noted, as she wrote out a ledger page to be devoted solely to a daily sheep count.

“I have a great many men at my disposal, thanks to your liberal hiring,” he returned, pacing to the door, leaning out into the hallway, and returning to her side again.

“If a man's employed, he's nae oot poaching or thieving.” That had been the theory, anyway. The estate still suffered from both, but it would have been much, much worse.

“Is that how you fight the curse?” he asked, finally taking a seat opposite her.

Technically this was his office, but no one had bothered to tell him that. She liked the view over the gardens and the morning sun through the window, so she wouldn't be volunteering that information, either. “It's how I look after my kin,” Fiona corrected.

“I want you to know, if I had someone taking a sheep or two, here and there, I'd let it go. But we aren't missing a dozen head this year, are we?”

She didn't need to look at the ledger to know the answer to that question. “Nae.”

“Three hundred seventy-one sheep, Fiona. That's not some poacher trying to feed his family. And I'm not going to spit over my shoulder and blame it on some curse. This needs to stop, and I will stop it. And I don't particularly care who I might anger in the process. They aren't
my
kin.”

“And ye willnae be here fer the consequences, anyway.” A week ago the idea of him leaving the Highlands would have delighted her. It would still definitely make things easier to have him gone. Most things, certainly. Fiona forced a shrug. “That's bonny. The thieves' kin can curse ye, but since it wasnae
my
doing, I can blame the damned interfering Sassenach and go on with my day.”

“As you should.”

He'd actually considered that, she realized. And it didn't give her as much comfort as it was likely supposed to. “Does that mean ye arenae going to leave Sergeant Kelgrove here to take my place?”

“I have one goal at Lattimer—to see that this estate is managed profitably and that nothing underhanded is taking place. And the concern over profit isn't on my own behalf, so stop wrinkling your nose.”

Fiona reached up to touch her face. She
did
seem to be wrinkling her nose. Until he'd said something, she thought her disapproval had been internal. “Ye're a duke,” she returned aloud. “How are ye to attend all the grand soirees in London if ye dunnae make a profit on yer lands?”

“I won't be in London.” Reaching forward, he closed the ledger and pushed it aside. “And I have other properties. I also have a younger sister. Have I mentioned that?”

“Nae, ye havenae.” And something about the information surprised her. The image of the solitary commander felt such a part of him that it almost seemed he should have sprung from the ground fully formed and armed, like Athena from Zeus's skull.

“I could have gone into business and provided her with a better life, but I didn't. I chose to fight, which left her both alone and with considerably fewer choices in her own life. She … spent the last few years as a lady's companion, and I didn't even know—not that that would have made any difference. Once I got the news about the Lattimer inheritance, I gave her the old duke's house in London, and I mean to see to it that she never has to worry about money or a damned roof over her head for the rest of her life.”

It sounded noble, a man making amends to his family for something that actually hadn't been his fault. Fiona had spent a great deal of the past few days studying this man, though. She'd spent too much time thinking about him, really, but he
had
stated, several times, that he meant to bed her. Even with all the sheep-centered activity she'd scarcely been able to think of anything else. She needed to keep in mind, though, that his original plans hadn't altered a whit. “Ye're still Major Gabriel Forrester after all, aren't ye?” she said aloud.

His brows dove together. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“What I mean is that this—Lattimer Castle—is just another passing duty fer ye. Wellington says to go win a battle over there,” she said, gesturing vaguely southeast, “and so ye do. Then ye move on to the next fight. Ye realized yer sister wasnae happy, so ye fixed it. I didnae answer yer Sassenach solicitors, so ye came to sort me oot and replace me with someone more reliable. Now ye're fighting the battle of the sheep. When ye finish with that, ye'll go on and find the next fight, and the next one.”

His light gray eyes cooled. “Considering that I'm solving a sheep problem you've been failing at for nearly two years, and that I seem to be ranking lust over practicality in allowing you to stay on here, what, precisely, is your complaint?”

She could see it, clear as daylight. When the next battle came he would leave this one behind, forgotten. Finished with. He'd do the same with her, most likely.

“Little by little this place, this land, has been failing,” she offered. “Everyone blames it on the MacKittrick curse. My
athair
—my father—pushed against the fall, then Kieran, and now me, but it's been like trying to stop water from running downstream.” Her brother had actually begun well, better than her father, even, but she could understand the slide back into chaos; there were days when she very nearly decided to simply let the dam burst, herself.

“That isn't the story you told me when I arrived.”

“I reckoned we'd be better off with ye elsewhere.” Fiona met his gaze. “So ye solve our sheep troubles and go. We'll nae have another difficulty here once ye stop the thievery.”

“That's sarcasm,” he announced. “What have I done to merit that?”

“Ha. It's what ye havenae done. But yer uncle didnae care what happened up here, so I dunnae see why ye should. Leave it to us. We
have
to be here.” With that she stood, heading around his chair and out the hallway door.

She advanced three steps toward the stairs, and then something snagged her gown, stopping her in her tracks. Then she began sliding backward, bunching up the carpet runner against her feet.

“I'm not finished arguing,” Gabriel stated from behind her.

She refused to turn around, digging her feet in harder. “I am. Stop manhandling me, ye brute!”

“No.” Hands wrapped around her waist, and then her feet left the floor entirely.

“And ye English call
us
heathens!” she snapped, twisting to swing a fist at him.

He dodged the blow, and she struck empty air. Hoisting her up, he carried her back into the office and slammed the door closed with one foot. Only then did he set her down onto the edge of the desk. “Now,” he said, grabbing both her wrists in one of his big hands, “where were we?”

Fiona kept her mouth clamped shut and glared at him. She'd spent her life surrounded by men who were bigger and stronger than she was, and she'd never given an inch. She wasn't about to begin doing so today, even if it cost her the stewardship at MacKittrick.

“Very well. I'm not much for talking, anyway.” Without another word he took her face in his palms and kissed her.

She tried to keep her mouth closed, to not kiss him back. The heat of him, though, seared straight through her skin and into her muscles and bones.

All of her logical, annoyed thoughts about the trouble he meant to leave behind for her to deal with, the way he thought
this
would win him the argument, melted in a steamy haze of openmouthed kisses. The force of his embrace tilted her head back, and she grabbed onto his lapels to keep from losing her balance. Sharp, heady desire swirled down her spine, making her fingers clench.