Hero in the Highlands (5 page)

With Kelgrove on his heels, Gabriel left the room, stepped around the nosy maid, and headed back out to the street. Yes, he had a title. And it was just as well that Marjorie could benefit from it, because he didn't know how to do so. Not without losing who he was. A soldier who believed for a moment that he was entitled to something—safety, luxury, privilege—was a dead soldier.

 

Chapter Two

Fiona leaned her elbows on the railing of the graying, weather-worn fence. “What say we put in to buy a pint fer whoever finds Brian's cow?” she suggested.

The very large man standing a few feet from her snorted. “I'm nae paying a penny to find Brian Maxwell's damned cow. It's the third time this month the red's gone missing.”

The farmer in question folded his arms across his chest. “I told ye, I gave her a fine pile of hay last night. She was in the pen with the other two when I turned in.”

“When ye left fer the tavern, you mean,” Fiona broke in. “I spoke with Abraham Dinwoddie, and he said ye drank half the beer in the tavern last night.”

She'd never understood how someone could own three cows and only be able to keep track of two of them. It wasn't as if Brian Maxwell had an entire herd wandering the wilds. Two fields of wheat, three cows, a pair of hogs, and some chickens seemed fairly reasonable for a man, his wife, and their fourteen-year-old son to manage.

“I didnae!” the farmer protested. “I had but two beers, and then Tormod came in and I had to buy him a pint, and he had to buy me a pint.” He leaned around her to point a finger at the broad-shouldered blacksmith. “Ye tell her, Tormod MacDorry.”

“I may have had a drink or two with ye, but I didnae lose track of my forge, ye lout. And I've two horses to shoe this morning, with nae time to spare hunting doon yer blasted cow.”

The other four men present grumbled their agreement. Aye, they all had other things to do today, herself included. But if they left to go back to their tasks, finding the red heifer would be up to her and Brian. And Fiona doubted Brian could find his own two hands once he had a pint in him. She tucked her cold fingers into her coat pockets, and found a piece of leather that had peeled off an old pair of reins.

“I'll tell ye what, lads,” she said, pulling it free and holding the scrap up so they could see it. “I meant to send this to Inverness to have it set into a locket, but I'll give it to the one of ye who finds that cow.”

“Ye'd give us what?” Tormod asked, furrowing his brow. “Scrap leather?”

“This here is off the grip of a Cameron sword,” she said. “The very sword that split Laird Robert Kerr betwixt the eyes at Culloden.” As the only ranking Englishman to have been killed at the Battle of Culloden, Lord Robert had a certain degree of fame here that he'd likely never earned south of Hadrian's Wall. His death had become the one victory any Highlander could find in the whole disaster. And a relic from what had killed him—well, they were everywhere, and she'd yet to set eyes on one she believed to be the genuine article.

“That's nae off any sword, Miss Fiona,” young Diarmid protested.

Tormod cuffed the footman on the back of the head. “Dunnae ever accuse a lass of lying,” he grunted. “Especially nae this one.”

“I apologize to ye, Miss Fiona,” the servant said, scowling. “Ye ken I meant ye nae offense.”

“None taken. But even if I cannae prove it to ye,” she continued, “think of the bragging rights and the free beers ye'd earn fer producing this at the Fair-Haired Lass. And ye've walked all the way oot here, anyway.”

The lads from the village and the castle muttered together for another few moments, before Tormod nodded. “We've an agreement, then. Whoever finds the cow, gets the leather. But ye're paired with Brian Maxwell, Miss Fiona. Ye're the one least likely to knock him on his arse.”

She nodded, not surprised. “Let's get moving, then.”

As the others split off to search, Fiona straightened her green muslin skirt and tromped off south toward the edge of the bogs. “Thank ye, Miss Fiona,” Brian said after a few minutes of scanning the muddy ground for tracks. “I swear the gate was latched last night.”

“The gate's nearly a hundred years old. It wouldnae hurt ye to replace the ropes holding it shut. Ye cannae let her wander, Brian. The next time she eats Mrs. Garretson's onions, someone's likely to turn her into a beef stew.”

As Brian grumbled again that the red was a good cow and he'd done as he'd said, his son Brady came trotting up from the direction of Strouth. “I came all the way up along the river,” he reported, matching pace with his stouter father. “She's nae in the village, Da'. And I went through the MacKittrick gardens on the way back here just to be certain she hadnae wandered in after the flowers again.” The boy grimaced. “I saw the blacksmith oot searching to the west. I'm thinking ye've enough peepers trying to find her. I should go back to Strouth, to keep a lookout.”

Fiona stifled a grin. “Tessa Dinwoddie's oot riding this morning, I hear. Though with the fog coming in, I reckon she'll have to go back home before long.” Half the stable boys at the castle had suddenly needed something that could only be found in the village this morning, and she could swear some of the footmen had vanished, as well. That was why she'd only been able to round up five men to help her find Brian's cow. Tessa Dinwoddie's bouncing bosom was a powerful draw.

Brian cuffed his son on the back of the head. “Ye've better things to do than ogle a lass's bosom, ye half-wit.”

“I've a cracked millstone to inspect,” Fiona said, “so if I'm looking fer the red, Brady, ye're to do the same.”

“It
is
cracked, then,” Brian put in. “I heard a rumor aboot sacks of grain piling up again.” He spat over his shoulder. “Bad luck, it is. The third stone in two years.”

“It's a blasted drunk stone dresser who didnae file doon the stones evenly his last visit. Nae poor luck. He'll mend it fer free this time, or I'll try the stones on his skull.” Fiona topped the low rise overlooking the edge of the waterlogged expanse with its dead trees and leaf-covered bogs below, and stopped. Faint mooing came to her ears. “Do ye hear that?” she asked, gathering her skirt and hurrying down the rugged hillside.

“It could be an owl,” Brian stated, descending more gingerly behind her. “The red's nae foolish; she wouldnae wander oot here.”

As Fiona trotted forward, careful to stay on the path, she pointed at a clear set of hoofprints edging one of the mudholes. “Then what's that?” she retorted.

A moment later the heifer came into view. She'd stumbled directly into a large mudhole, and stood up to her chest in the thick, dark goo. Her face was muddy, her long red fur caked in the smelly stuff and sticking out in every direction. As Fiona approached, the big animal lurched forward, lowing, and managed to sink another few inches.

“Brady, go fetch us a rope,” she instructed, “and be quick aboot it.”

The lad ran off toward the village. With a scowl at where Brian Maxwell stood lamenting the heifer's eminent demise from the safety of the bank, Fiona stepped out of her heavy work shoes and waded into the mud. The stuff was cold—much colder than she'd expected even in the foggy weather, and she gasped in a breath. The bottom sloped steeply downward, and in a moment she was in up to her waist with another ten feet to go before she reached the struggling animal.

She finally stretched out to grab a handful of heavy fur and pull herself forward. “Dunnae fret, girl,” she cooed, patting the cow on the rump. “We'll get ye free of this mess.”

“Miss Fiona, are ye mad? Get oot of there before ye get kicked!”

“Ye might have said that before I waded in.” Fiona wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to move the pesky tangle of brown curls out of her eyes without depositing more mud in their place. “I'll climb oot when ye climb in, ye lazy oaf,” she retorted, grabbing the heifer's tail and pulling sideways. The cold and wet of the mud sucking around her removed the last of her amusement. “No wonder the other lads didnae want to come help ye. This is yer doing, ye ken, because ye couldnae stay away from the tavern long enough to see yer own damned fence mended. I dunnae care who ye thought needed to be bought a drink.”

With an annoyed moo the cow lifted a few inches, managed a half step forward, then sank down to her chest again. Good Lord, this muck was thicker than Aunt Dolidh's gravy. Mentally she cursed the downpour of the past three days. To her the weather bore more weight than any foul words long-dead MacKittrick could aim at his own tenants, the arrogant, selfish man.

“My Brady'll be back in a quick minute,” Brian countered, stomping a thin film of mud from the bottom of his boots. “And she isnae going anywhere in the meantime.”

“She's sinking, ye
amadan
. She'll be off her milk for a week as it is, and another six inches'll drown her if she panics.”

“Then stop yanking on her tail, woman!”

Narrowing her eyes, Fiona waded deeper into the mudhole. “Dunnae ye ‘woman' me, old man. Get in front of her and help keep her head up. I'll nae let ye lose a prime milk cow because ye dunnae want yer boots muddy.”

The heifer settled deeper on the tail of Fiona's words, and the animal's lowing took on an edge of fear. Cursing, Fiona dug both hands into the mud, leaned in, and shoved at the animal's hindquarters. Sucking cold mud slid up her shoulders to her neck, but the cow lurched forward a foot or so—before she gave up and sank again.

Today
would
be the day Tessa chose to go riding. Fiona glanced down at her mud-covered chest. Nae, she wasn't as amply proportioned as Miss Tessa Dinwoddie, but neither was she daft enough to risk complete ruin by trotting about in a ridiculously low-cut riding habit. Those mighty bosoms could spring loose at any moment, and then who knew what might befall?

“Brian, I'm nae telling ye again,” she snapped, losing her footing and nearly submerging. “Either get in here and help me or go fetch Tormod and the others. This is yer damned cow.”

The farmer looked back over the clearing as if he heard his lad returning. “There's nae need fer two of us to be trapped in the mud. And the blacksmith's likely all the way to the loch, by now.”

“Ye did notice that Brady trotted off to Strouth, when MacKittrick's closer. Ye ken he means to get a good look at Tessa Dinwoddie's bosom before he returns, aye?” The boy was fourteen. They'd likely never see him again if he got an eyeful of Tessa's breasts.

“What does th—”

“Remain calm!” a male, decidedly un-Scottish voice bellowed. “If you struggle, you'll only sink faster!”

Straining against the sucking pull of the mud, Fiona turned around. A tall, broad-shouldered man in the crisp red coat of the British army skidded down the bank toward her, one arm outstretched for balance. Black hair cut not quite short enough to disguise its wave, a flash of pale gray eyes, a hard mouth, and a thin scar running down the left side of his face—her heart jumped into her throat, and not entirely from surprise. Ares, she decided instantly. The god of war. And he'd appeared out of thin air to claim her for his queen.

“Go away!” she yelled belatedly, backing up against the cow's rump. For Boudicca's sake, an Englishman in uniform charging at her should have been the stuff of nightmares.
Was
the stuff of nightmares, she corrected herself, no matter how instantly … compelling he looked. And upended by his arrival or not, Sassenach or not, she had to admit that he was toe-curlingly magnificent. Where the devil had he come from? And what in the world was he doing here?

He paused just long enough to catch the end of a rope thrown by a second soldier farther up the bank and still on horseback. “You're in distress. I'm here to rescue you,” he returned, cocking his head at her as if she were the one who'd lost her mind.

If she was imagining English soldiers to be gods of war, perhaps she
had
gone mad. Fiona shook herself. “I'm nae in distress.” She did have a sudden flash of the sight she must be, up to her armpits in mud, more muck likely spattered on her face and in her hair. Glancing up at the far bank to send a glare at Brian Maxwell, she caught sight of the farmer's backside as he ran off in the direction of the village.
Damnation.
He'd left her alone to deal with a Sassenach. A military one whose mere appearance seemed to have turned her brains to mush.

She scowled as he waded closer, his white trousers disappearing into the dark brown muck. “Go away,” she repeated, and turned back to shove at the heifer again. If she could get the red beastie out of the mud, he'd have no reason to come any closer. Because if he touched her, bad things would happen. She was abruptly certain of that.

The first sign of anything resembling civilization in over two hours, and it came in the form of a woman in mud up to her tits. “Kelgrove, back Union Jack on my order,” Gabriel Forrester continued, wading deeper into the cold muck as he knotted a loop into the rope he carried.

She'd returned to shoving at the cow's backside, though why she thought a slip of a female like her could budge the big animal, he had no idea. For God's sake, he imagined she barely came to his chin. “Stay still, miss,” he ordered, tossing the loop over her head and down her shoulders.

“Ye bastard!” she exclaimed. “Dunnae—”

“My apologies,” he interrupted, stepping closer to her before she could lose her balance and fall. A woman wriggling against him was nothing new, but he abruptly realized that it had been a while. As he reached around her to lower the rope to her waist, his hand brushed across one breast, leaving a muddy handprint. Eyes darker than fine, melted chocolate glared daggers at him as she twisted, and he fought the unexpected, heady urge to bend down and kiss her on those fine, full lips currently scowling at him.