Fiona stopped her retreat, uneasy alarm running through her. “‘The Beast of Bussaco’?” she repeated.
The groom nodded. “Aye. He’s been stabbed, shot, and near blown to the devil by cannonfire, but nae a man’s been able to stop him. I dunnae ken why he’s here, but he’s nae some fancy fellow parading aboot in a uniform.”
“Thank ye, Oscar. I’ll be cautious, but ye do recall I’m nae a man.”
His mouth twitched. “I’d nae go up against either of ye, Miss Fiona.”
Major Gabriel Forrester. Having a name to go with the face shouldn’t have mattered, but it did. And now she knew a little of his reputation, as well. Whether that would give her an advantage when he told them whatever it was he wanted, she had no idea, but at least she no longer felt completely blind. And she knew something of what lurked behind that pleasing countenance of his. Things that didn’t surprise her. Not when she looked into those eyes.
“The day room is up the stairs and first door on yer right,” Uncle Hamish was saying, as if it weren’t a very bad idea to invite a dangerous foreigner, an enemy, to join them for tea and biscuits. As she topped the stairs her mother’s brother snagged her elbow, drawing her up against him. “Be polite, lass,” he murmured. “We dunnae need the army deciding Lattimer would make a fine post for a hundred of their soldiers.”
That actually troubled her even more than the way men kept grabbing at her today. They’d gotten word that old Lattimer had died, back when the solicitors had been sending their insulting letters—as if she and the Maxwells had been cheating them or something. But no heir had been found. Did that mean Lattimer had gone to the English Crown? That they could indeed use it however they saw fit? “I’ll behave,” she agreed. “But he cannae set up a military post if nae a man ever sets eyes on him again.”
“We’ll worry aboot that later, Fiona.” He released her and strolled into the room. “I’m Sir Hamish Paulk. My home, Glennoch Abbey, is a mile west of here. And ye’ve met my niece, Fiona Blackstock.”
She folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the major to introduce himself. Would he refer to himself as the Beast of Bussaco? He’d asked for—demanded to see, rather—Kieran, and as far as she was concerned, that meant whoever he was, he could deal with her. If he wouldn’t lower himself to speak with a woman, then he could go drown himself. She certainly wouldn’t weep any tears to see him gone.
He remained standing close by the window, which, she supposed, given the filthy state of his uniform, could be out of concern for the furniture. Or perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the company of Highlanders. The other fellow, the stocky, short one who looked several years older than his commander, had placed himself on the other side of the room by the hearth. Strategy? Or washesimply chilled by the fine Scottish summer day?
“Lattimer’s solicitor wrote you several times, asking for a report of the estate’s earnings,” Major Forrester said, his gaze on her. “Your response was not diplomatic.”
So hewashere because of that. Fiona kept her chin high. “His questions werenae diplomatic. But I’m nae saying another word to ye until ye introduce yerself and tell us why ye’re here. I ken who ye are, Major Gabriel Forrester.”
He paused for the barest of moments. “And how do you know that?” he asked levelly.
“Ye’re nae the only man here to have served in the army,” she retorted, not about to single out Oscar Ritchie for attention from someone his own people called the beast of anything. “But whoever ye are, I’m nae impressed by any man who gets himself lost, then thinks he can order us aboot because he wears a red coat.”
His bisected left eyebrow lifted. “Got myself lost, did I? Very well, then.” Brushing off his dirty fingers, he dug into his coat and produced a folded paper. It was nice, heavy paper; vellum, unless she was mistaken. Whatever was written on it was likely important, damn it all. Keeping his gaze on her, he handed the missive to her uncle. “As your niece so astutely noted, I am Major Gabriel Forrester, commander of the Sixty-eighth Foot division, which is presently in Spain.”
Uncle Hamish unfolded the paper and read through it. His craggy face went gray, his gaze lifting, wide-eyed, to Major Forrester. He took an abrupt seat on the arm of the couch. “I—this—ye dunnae expect me simply to believe this, do ye?” He clenched the heavy vellum hard in his hands.
“No, I don’t. Kelgrove?” The major inclined his head in his companion’s direction, and that soldier stepped forward to deliver a leather-covered bundle of still more papers to her uncle.
Whatever was afoot, just seeing Hamish Paulk unsettled gave Fiona uneasy shivers down her spine. She wanted to yank the vellum out of his hand and read it for herself, but she had the distinct feeling that that wouldn’t reassure her. The last thing she wanted confirmed was that her nightmares were coming true, that the English Crown was taking possession of Lattimer.
“Uncle?” she finally urged, as he read through the additional pages with an increasingly grim expression on his hard-featured face.
Slowly he looked up. “Well. This isnae what I expected today.” His dark eyes glanced from her to their unwanted guest. “Fiona, it seems Major Forrester here is the great-nephew once removed of Ronald Leeds.” As she was absorbing that bit of information, he took a deep breath. “What that means,” he said, and motioned with the papers he still held in one hand, “whatthismeans, is that—according to a great many solicitors and members of the English Parliament and Prince George—he’s the new Duke of Lattimer.”
Fiona’s heart went ice-cold and fell all the way to her toes.Him?Not just another power-hungry Sassenach, here to claim ancestral Maxwell land just like the old Lattimer and his father before him, but all thatanda soldier. She looked over at him, to find his light gray gaze still on her.
“Surprise,” he said, in the same tone she’d used on him earlier.
Well. If they were playing a game of who had the bigger secret, she supposed he’d won this round. But putting a name on paper and claiming what came with it were two very different things, and bits of paper and vellum had never much impressed Highlanders, anyway. So aye, he could surprise her today. But by the end of this he would be the one running back south with his tail between his legs, and she would be the one laughing at his red-coated backside as he fled.
She shook herself back to the present just in time to hear Uncle Hamish ordering Fleming, Lattimer’s longtime butler, to open one of the room suites on the south end of the castle for His Grace’s use. “Nae,” she interrupted. “The Duke of Lattimer should have the lord’s chambers. Fleming, open the master suite.”
Hamish sent her a glance, brow lowering. “Fiona, ye ken Lattimer’s old rooms havenae—”
“Because His Grace hasnae been here for two decades,” she cut in. “Ye can see he’s here now, and he should have the laird’s bedchamber.” As she spoke, she kept her level gaze on her uncle, daring him to countermand her orders. He might be the chieftain of this bit of clan Maxwell, but the running of this estate was hers. He didn’t even lay his head here. And however polite he might be now, he couldn’t like having an English duke about when for the past twenty years men had bowed only to him and the other clan leaders who came calling.
As she’d expected, he finally nodded. “Aye. Ye’ve the right of it, Fiona. The master’s chambers fer the master of the house.”
With a nod and a suspicious look at their new employer and his companion, Fleming galloped off to air out the quartet of rooms and see fresh linens laid. She would have to go up there herself later to make certain everything had been seen to. Thankfully a handful of hours of daylight remained; going into the master suite after dark was a task no one in his right mind wanted under the best of circumstances.
“Thank you,” the duke said. “Do as you will, but I’m accustomed to sleeping on a cot with a stretch of canvas for a roof. Any bed will do.”
“We’re nae as primitive as that,” she returned. “And we’ll see to it ye have yer due.”Oh, that they would.
