Hero in the Highlands (4 page)

“Scotland, eh?” Kelgrove went on. “I've never been to Scotland. Been to India, Portugal, Spain, and bits of France, but not to Scotland.”

“I've never been, either,” Gabriel replied, lifting his gaze but unable to see the horizon for all the buildings. “A few weeks there, and I'll have Lattimer Castle set right and a new steward put in place to oversee it.”

And then back to the Continent, the sooner the better. He'd asked for—and been given, with an absurd amount of ceremony—six weeks' leave, which at least indicated that the army did want him back. Whatever plotting and planning his military superiors might be up to with regard to his new title, the thought of returning to Spain and the war was the only thing keeping him from pummeling everyone in his path and fleeing to the Colonies. At least they didn't have dukes in America.

“Have you thought about what you'll tell your sister?” Kelgrove asked, pitching a shilling to an orange girl and catching one of the fruits in return.

Devil take it
. Gabriel drew Jack to an abrupt halt. He'd been sending half his salary to his sister since he'd joined the army at age seventeen. Nine years his junior, Marjorie had always seemed so … young, and far too delicate for a rough-hewn man like him to be raising. He'd seen her sent to the best boarding schools he could afford, because that had seemed far more helpful than his presence. That, though, was no excuse for not even thinking about her now. Neither was the unexpected timing of his trip to London. If his circumstances had altered, so had hers. And someone needed to tell her that.

According to the papers he'd spent the past three days signing, she'd just become the sister of a duke. At the least she needed to know that her monthly income would be increasing by a number he couldn't even fathom.

“You wouldn't happen to have her address to hand, would you?” he asked, wheeling to face his aide and refusing to admit that he had no idea where in London she resided.

“I would, Major. She's in South Kensington.”

“Well, aren't you efficient?” Gabriel returned dryly, trying to decide if that was censure he heard in Adam's voice. If it was, he deserved it.

“I thought you might wish to send her a note and then call on her this evening. You haven't seen her for some time.”

“No, I haven't,” he agreed. “But we're heading north in the morning. I'll see her now, or I'll have to send one of those paper men to talk to her until her ears bleed. I wouldn't wish that on Bonaparte.” He blew out his breath. “I had Wellington tell
me.
I have a signet ring the size of a cannonball. Perhaps she'll appreciate it more than I do.”

As they headed south toward the bank of the Thames the crowds of carts and pedestrians seemed endless, and his shoulders stiffened. Chaos and noise and bustle were nothing new, but in the army it carried with it an overall purpose and direction. On the main thoroughfares of London, with hundreds of people each concerned only with their own needs, chaos became a completely inadequate word.

“There, Major.”

Kelgrove indicated a small, narrow town house on the right, sharing common walls with the dwellings on either side. A rose trellis crawled up the left side of the door and up around the window, while a low hedge of some kind of pink flowers ran along the bottom of the walls on either side of the front trio of steps. “It looks … quaint,” he said, swinging down from Union Jack and somewhat surprised she could afford the rental of such a house with what he sent her, but she evidently spent wisely.

“It does,” the sergeant agreed. “Shall I wait for you?”

“Come with me. You're more pleasant than I am.” Taking a deep breath, he swung the brass boar's-head knocker against the dark green door. The French cavalry didn't unsettle him. Talking to a young lady with whom he had nothing in common but a set of parents—that was something else entirely.

A moment later the door opened, and he found himself looking at an older, round woman with her hair tucked into a maid's cap. “May I help you?” she asked, looking his red and white uniform up and down. “Sir?”

Marjorie had a maid
? Gabriel cleared his throat. He needed to remember to be polite and civilized. This wasn't a battlefield. “Is Miss Forrester in?”

The maid held out her hand, palm up. “Your card, sir, and I shall inquire.”

His card?
“I don't have a card.” If he did, he would only have to reprint it after today, anyway. “I'm Major Gabriel Forrester. Her brother.”

Her small eyes narrowed a little. “Wait here, then. I shall inquire, Major.” The door closed on his face.

“Rude woman,” Kelgrove commented from behind him. “She would have been falling all over herself if you'd told her you were the Duke of Lattimer.”

“But then Marjorie wouldn't know who the devil was calling on her.” He didn't give a damn what some maid thought of him in the meantime.

The door opened again. “This way, Major Forrester. Miss Forrester will be down in a moment.” Without waiting for a response the maid motioned him into the room directly off the foyer. Two chairs, a couch, and an end table sat in the center of the small, spare room, with a writing desk shoved against the near wall, a few shelves above it, and nearly every available space covered with bouquets of large, yellow daisies. Even with the fresh flowers, though, the room smelled musty, the closed-in sensation somehow made worse by the pervading scent of lemon verbena.

“This is very … cozy,” Kelgrove muttered under his breath. “Smells like a funeral, though.”

Gabriel nodded. The flowers, the scattering of books and baubles about the room, fit his nightmare of domesticity. None of it, though, felt like his memories of Marjorie. Had she changed that much? Or had he known her that little?

“Gabriel? Oh, good heavens, it
is
you!”

He faced the doorway. Marjorie was taller and slimmer at one-and-twenty than she'd been at seventeen, but that wasn't what struck him first. Rather, it was the careful bun in her dark hair, the simple, modest gown of green muslin beneath a green and yellow pelisse, the straight shoulders and level, blue-eyed gaze—somewhere over the past four years since he'd last seen her she'd grown into a pretty, clear-eyed woman.

“You look very well, Ree,” he said, smiling as he walked forward to take both her hands in his. “And you've done nicely for yourself.” Gabriel kissed her on the cheek.

She freed her fingers, stepping into the small room and shutting the door behind her. “I'm glad to see you, but what are you doing here? I thought you were in Spain.”

“I was, until just under a fortnight ago.” He gestured at Kelgrove, standing before the window like a stout, red-coated paperweight. “Ree, my aide-de-camp, Sergeant Adam Kelgrove. Adam, my sister, Marjorie.”

“Ma'am,” Kelgrove responded, bowing.

“You brought your sergeant? Is this something official, then?” she asked, frowning.

“Yes, and no.” He scowled. Fighting was so much easier than polite conversation. “Kelgrove said I should have sent word first. I apologize for not doing so. The past handful of days have been … interesting.”

Marjorie put a hand on his forearm. “You never need to apologize for visiting me, Gabriel.” She cocked an eyebrow. “Perhaps for doing it so rarely, but not for the act itself.”

He inclined his head. She'd learned polish, and that was good. Manners and refinement were better weapons than a pistol in London Society. “To it, then. It seems we had a great-great-uncle. Ronald Leeds. The Duke of Lattimer.”

A small furrow appeared between her delicate brows and then vanished again. “I heard about him. He passed away, didn't he? Five or six months ago. It was in the newspapers. They couldn't find any heirs, and speculation was that the Crown would end up with the property.” She tilted her head. “Did you inherit something? Because you already send me more than you should, Gabriel. I don't expect any more.”

“I did inherit something.” He pulled the signet ring from his pocket and handed it to her. “Actually, I inherited everything.”

Her fair cheeks paled as she stared at the absurdly large ruby in its heavy, ornate gold setting. “
What
? You— If this is a jest, it isn't the least bit amusing.”

“It isn't a jest. I had no idea, either. I've taken a leave from the army and just this morning finished three days of signing papers and answering questions about Mother and her family, to see if they matched answers they already had. It was ridiculous, but at the end they handed me that ring and a great deal more paperwork—and in essence the deeds to three estates, a large house here in London, and another one in Inverness. I need to go to Scotland to have a look at the Lattimer property, but I wanted to tell you that you won't have to rely on my salary any longer, as…” Gabriel trailed off as his sister let out a sob and sank onto the couch, the ring clutched to her chest.

“It's true?” she quavered, wiping at the stream of tears running down her cheeks. “Truly true?”

Gabriel frowned. Tears? For the devil's sake, he didn't know how to deal with tears. “It's true. But what's wrong? You've managed all this on your own,” he said, gesturing at the small house around them. “An increased income will only make keeping it up that much easier. And you'll be able to have—”

“Keeping it up?” she repeated, glancing toward the door and lowering her voice. “Do you … Why would I want to keep up this moldy, outdated rabbit hole?”

“But Kelgrove said this was your address. Your house.”

The sergeant shifted. “I never said—”

“This isn't my house. Haven't you read
any
of my letters?”

“I haven't received any letters from you in months. What are you talking about?”

She sank down on the arm of one of the chairs. “When I left boarding school, I found myself … I wanted to live in London, Gabriel. I'm an unmarried woman with … very limited resources, and so I had a choice. I could either work in a shop, or become a governess or a lady's companion.” She took a short, unsteady breath. “Eight months ago I accepted a position here, as the companion to Lady Sarah Jeffers. It gives me a roof, and food, and a gentry address, but she smells like wet wool and cats, and I … I thought I would be here forever, and then move on to sit with the next old woman who needed to purchase a friend she could order to fluff pillows against her backside.”

For a long moment Gabriel looked at his sister. For the first time it occurred to him that if for some reason he'd decided to leave the army, how limited his own choices would have been. He wasn't fit for the priesthood, for damned certain, nor could he be a law clerk or—heaven forfend—a solicitior. For a young lady with good schooling and very limited income, the choices were even fewer. Why the devil had that never occurred to him before this moment? “I'm sorry,” he said aloud. “I didn't—”

“I don't blame you, Gabriel, for goodness' sake,” she interrupted, wiping her eyes and standing again. “And I'm not complaining.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “You have every right to do so. Or rather, you did. Kelgrove, find some paper.”

The sergeant began digging through his pockets, until Marjorie directed him to the writing table. “Over there. Take what you want. If what you say is true, I can repay her for the pages, now.”

“I'm not lying to you, Ree. Not even I'm that cruel. Sergeant, write out the address of Leeds House in Mayfair, and then another note to Mr. Blething ordering him to give Marjorie whatever she requires.” He returned his attention to his sister. “I haven't seen Leeds House, but I've been told it's quite grand. It's yours. Blething is the solicitor who's been overseeing the Lattimer properties. He'll see that you have a monthly income requisite with your … new status. Hire yourself a staff, or keep whoever's there. No more cat dander or lemon verbena. Whatever else happens, I promise you that.”

This time she choked back a laugh, still mingled with tears. “Thank you, brother.”

When she flung her arms around his neck he patted her back, then extricated himself as quickly as he could. “I've done nothing. I
am
glad that one of us, at least, can benefit. As I said, I'm leaving for Scotland in the morning, but I will make an attempt to correspond with you more frequently from now on. And I will call on you before I return to the Continent.”

Before another torrent of tears or hugging could begin, he headed for the door. Battles were easy. Family was much more difficult.

“Gabriel, I—”

“You're much better suited for life in Mayfair than I am, Ree. Or rather, Lady Marjorie, now. Make good use of it.”

Before he could put his hand on the door handle she seized his fingers again. “You did the best you could by me, Gabriel. You don't owe me anything. Least of all an apology.”

He squeezed her hand and then pulled free of her grip. Being grabbed, hung onto, constricted his movement, and even in a musty house it left him uneasy. “Yes, I think I do,” he returned, and cleared his throat. “If you like, I'll leave Kelgrove here to help you remove your things from this mildewed house.” It should be him, he knew, but for the devil's sake, he needed some air before he choked on the injustice of it all. Because
he
hadn't put this right for her. That credit went entirely to luck, to a simple stroke of fate. And however little he needed it, however much he'd complained about it over the past days, to his sister this dukedom and what it represented made all the difference in the world. Damn him for not realizing that sooner.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I shall relish doing this on my own.” She sketched a shallow curtsy. “Or perhaps I shall hire someone to assist me.” Unexpectedly she rose up onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “I hold you to your word, Gabriel. You
will
come see me before you return to your wars. And you
will
be careful in the meantime. Your Grace.” She chuckled. “My goodness. You're a duke!”