Hero in the Highlands (27 page)

That hardly sounded fair to Fiona, but Gabriel kept his objection to himself. Whether he agreed with the information being handed him or not, it still might prove useful.

Dunncraigh took a deep breath. “What does that all mean, ye may ask? Especially to a man nae accustomed to owning more than yer pistol and a hat? It means a man with his sights set on a different life has nae business keeping this property. It's nae a hobby. The people here arenae soldiers, and they cannae manage withoot help from a laird. Ye can only fight one war, and ye've already said this one doesnae interest ye. And this
is
a battlefield—a war against the weather, the price of wool, sickness, ill chance—it's a new fight every day, and ye never get to declare victory. Nae here. So ye go play soldier duke, lad, until ye realize ye cannae be both and ye cannae give away one of them. And then ye'll still have yer other, comfortable profitable properties in England, where the fight's much easier. Sell this one to me, and I'll be its general.”

It was all just words, things he'd thought of in passing before. Lined up, piled together all at once, though … Gabriel pushed back against the sensation that he couldn't breathe. All the weight of Lattimer, of the smaller estates in Cornwall and Devon, of his regiment, the work he'd put into his career, the men he'd watched die, the lives he'd saved—it wanted to crush him. And not just because of the added weight of his new responsibilities. It finally occurred to him—he wasn't Major Gabriel Forrester any longer. He would never, could never, be that man ever again. Nothing, not a damned thing in his entire life, could be as it was. And there stood Dunncraigh, looking at him calmly, expecting an answer.

“I'll think about it,” he grunted, and turned away.

He needed to move, to catch his breath, to give his mind a moment to churn his flashes of thought into something coherent. If there was anything coherent to consider.

Sense lay in there somewhere. Kelgrove couldn't help—the sergeant had already realized that no one would allow a duke onto the battlefield. Why hadn't
he
seen it? Because he simply couldn't imagine anything else? Because fighting, leading troops into battle, had taken up nearly half of his life?

He wanted to talk to someone. And only one countenance pushed its way through the muddle of his thoughts. Only one person he knew would be forthright and honest, without worrying over being insubordinate or losing employment or position.

Before he'd consciously decided his next step he found himself walking up to the outlying buildings of Strouth. His legs were tired, which made sense considering he'd walked mostly uphill for better than a mile.

“Yer Grace,” a young lady carrying a milk pail squeaked, nearly dropping her load.

“Good morning,” he said, almost reflexively. “Have you seen Fiona? Miss Blackstock?”

“Aye. She brought a sack of apples up to the church. I think she's still there, Yer Grace.”

“Thank you.”

The small stone-and-wood church lay at the highest end of the pathway that meandered among the cottages, with the inn, the smithy, and the handful of shops that made up the village ranged below that. The other inhabitants he encountered looked surprised to see him on foot, but otherwise went about their own tasks. They had their own lives to see to, and he had made it clear that he had no interest in them—whether that had been his intention or not.

He pushed open the faded gray door of the church and stepped inside. It smelled of roses and mildew, a heady and slightly nauseating combination. Only one of the pews sat occupied, by a rotund woman wearing a matron's cap who snored enthusiastically. It struck him that he didn't know her name, or her family, and yet at this moment her welfare was his responsibility.

Fiona sat in an alcove to one side of the altar, opposite the priest's vestry. Father Jamie Wansley, who evidently worried about an English army marching on Strouth, sat next to her. They both munched on apples and were chuckling over something.

Jealousy stabbed at him again, sharp and unexpected. Last night, and for days before that, he'd felt a connection. Was he the only one? Should he even have come here, or was he being an idiot twice over?

She turned her head and saw him. “Ga— Yer Grace. I didnae…” She trailed off, her expression shifting from amused to alarmed. “What's wrong?”

All he needed was for Father Jamie to begin a rumor that the Duke of Lattimer had lost his damned mind. Gabriel forced a smile. “Nothing. You'd mentioned something about new windows for the church, and I wanted to take a look for myself.”
And to see you,
he added silently, hoping he wasn't on the verge of making the worst mistake of his life. It didn't feel that way, but the time had long passed when he relied on feelings over facts. Or was that time gone, along with what he'd thought would be his future? And Fiona Blackstock was all that remained—if she remained. For him.

 

Chapter Twelve

Fiona blinked. She and Gabriel hadn't conversed about church windows that she could recall, but if he'd gone to the bother of conjuring an excuse to be there, something had clearly happened. Setting aside her half-eaten apple, she stood up. “Of course. Father, will ye excuse me? I'll show His Grace that cracked window. That's a good place to start, I reckon.”

The parson stood to sketch a deep, too formal bow. “Of course. I'm honored by yer presence at our humble place of worship, Yer Grace. Any repairs ye can make fer us would be welcome.”

As soon as the priest vanished into his vestry and closed the door behind him, no doubt to compose a list of all repairs he'd ever dreamed of, Fiona sat down again. “What is it, fer God's sake? Ye look like death shook ye and threw ye into a ditch.”

He glanced over at her, briefly amused. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. This man who'd traveled the world and faulted her for not seeing enough of it, had for some reason set his sights on her. And now, when something had sent him here to her with an excuse on his lips—the first lie she'd ever heard him utter—she felt … Despite what she knew, what she'd been raised to believe about foreigners in general and English in particular, she wanted to see that troubled look gone from his face. And she felt worried. What in the world could upend a man who not only faced death every day, but went riding out looking for it?

“Dunncraigh offered to purchase Lattimer from me. Take it off my hands.”

For a moment she couldn't breathe. Lattimer, actually returning to Maxwell hands again? That should have left her elated. Gabriel meant to leave anyway, so what did it matter? Except that he should have been elated, as well, and instead he looked almost angry. And he'd come to find her.

“When Wellington told me I'd inherited a dukedom,” he said after a moment, his gaze on the pulpit, “he said he was sorry to have lost a fine officer. It never occurred to me that he knew what he was saying. That last day, when he knew about my title and I didn't, he pulled me out of the field to go stand on a hill and watch the battle from safety. I couldn't do it. I saw a mistake my lieutenant was making, one that would cost lives and perhaps even the battle, and I charged in to set things right. That's when I got this.” He gestured at where the fresh scar on his forearm lay.

“Ye're a brave man, Gabriel. I've nae doubted that, from the moment we first met.”

“It's not about that.” He scowled. “I wasn't supposed to go. I should have sent a runner to order Lieutenant Humphreys to slow his advance and look for French cavalry on his flank. The runner would have taken too long, between receiving the message and delivering it, if he'd even survived the run through the middle of the battle, but that's what I should have done. Dukes don't lead from the front. They advise, or fund, or supervise drills and formations in their unblemished dress uniform.”

“Ye're a duke. I imagine ye could do as ye like.”

He shook his head, his expression becoming rueful. “I could, yes. And I'd be forced to surround myself with soldiers whose only duty was to protect me. I could charge into a fight, and they would all die. Because of me. For me. Not in order to win a battle for Britain.”

That made sense. She'd been surprised to hear that he meant to return to the war in the first place, but he'd been so certain of it that she hadn't questioned. “Ye've been too close to the trees to see the forest, I suppose,” she mused.

“I didn't see the trees, either. God, what a fool I am.”

She frowned. “Ye're a great many things, Gabriel, and I've called ye most of them, but I dunnae think ye're a fool.” Fiona shook his sleeve. “Is that what Dunncraigh said to ye? That ye were a duke and didnae want to be saddled with Lattimer?”

“That's precisely what he said. No one told me, you know. Those damned solicitors spent hours detailing how much money I had at my disposal, the artworks I now owned, how many estates I'd inherited. Not one of them could say what owning property
meant
.” He slammed a fist into the base of the window.

Given the force of the blow, she was surprised the stone didn't give way. “Gabriel.”

“These people here,” he went on, ignoring her protest. “You look after them. You bring them apples, change their dirty bedding, employ them at the house when they wouldn't be able to find food or a roof elsewhere. That's what a duke—a laird—is supposed to do.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Is this it?” he returned, more forcefully. “A fight … a fight that can't ever be won? Tilting at the same bloody windmill on the same bloody patch of land for the rest of your bloody life? What—”

“Then sell it,” she interrupted, matching his volume. “If Lattimer is nothing but a chain holding ye doon, then sell it. Put it oot of yer mind.”

Gabriel clamped his jaw closed. “Dunncraigh said I'm the curse. My ancestors and I. That we're the reason for this mess.”

Later Fiona would have to give herself a stern talking-to over why she felt the need to be so damned honest with this man, when it might be easier, and it would certainly be much simpler, to let him think what he chose and keep her blasted mouth shut. “It isnae
you,
” she said, emphasizing the word. “Or them. It's that there's been nae a man to see anything
but
that windmill. This place isnae a windmill, Gabriel. It's nae some broken princely manor, and it's nae a pile of muck withoot a speck of value. It's nae a burden. But to know that, ye have to see it differently.”

“See it how?”

She pursed her lips. Her clan chief wanted this property. For that to happen, Gabriel would have to sell it. Given that, she had no business encouraging him about anything. But he wasn't only asking her about Lattimer. He was asking how he was supposed to live the rest of his life.

Loyalty, kinship, clan—yesterday the Duke of Dunncraigh had admitted that he hadn't stepped in to help stop the sheep thefts. He said he'd stayed away because he was in the middle of arguing with the English government over whether he could purchase Lattimer outright. Strategically it made sense, given that the less profitable the property was the more eager the Crown would be to dispose of it. But this place wasn't just property. It was people. Her people, and even more directly, the Maxwell's people. As far as she was concerned, people should not be a strategy. And her clan chief should have known that.

“Come with me,” she said, wrapping her fingers around Gabriel's and pulling.

If he hadn't wanted to go with her she would have had better luck pulling a boulder up a hill, but after two or three hard tugs his hand tightened around hers and he stood. He truly wanted an answer, then. And she would give him one, because in the last eleven days he'd done more for Lattimer than any Maxwell laird. What she didn't know was whether the answer she gave him would be the one he wanted to hear. Or what it would mean for her.

They left the church behind and headed down the slope toward the heart of the village. As they neared Ailios's cottage, though, Gabriel pulled his hand free of hers and stopped. “I don't want to see Ailios and be reminded that she hates Englishmen,” he said. “I'm not in the mood for torture today.” He turned, looking back in the direction of the castle. “What I
am
in the mood for is liquor. A large quantity of it.”

“Eyes open and mouth closed,” she said crisply. “And ye need a change of clothes, now that I look at ye, ye redcoat.”

“Fiona, I—”

“Nae.” She stepped around in front of him to make certain she had his attention. “Ye asked me a question. I think the answer is someaught ye have to see, and nae words I can say to ye. And if ye think I'm nae risking anything by being seen holding hands with ye, especially while ye're in that uniform, think again.”

His shoulders lowered, though she wasn't certain if it was acquiescence to her argument, or overall defeat. “Then find me a blanket I can put over my shoulders.”

“Mm-hm. This way.”

She led him to the smithy. Tormod MacDorry was the only man in the village of a size with Gabriel, though convincing him to lend out his clothes to a Sassenach, especially with the Maxwell wandering about, could be problematic. Luckily, though, Tormod didn't seem to be home.

Fiona knocked at the door of the cottage that backed up against the smithy, waited a moment, then knocked again. When no one answered she pushed open the door, tightening her grip on Gabriel's hand to pull him in after her.

“I'm not stealing another man's clothes,” he stated.

Putting her hands on her hips, Fiona whirled around to face him. “Stop being a petulant boy and make a decision, then. Ye cannae stop being a duke, and that means ye cannae live yer life as ye intended. So ye can weep and stomp yer feet, or ye can choose a new life. Do ye have any idea how many people never get that chance?”