“While ye wait, would ye care fer some tea, or perhaps someaught more substantial?” Hamish asked. “Mrs. Ritchie’s the finest cook in these parts, and Fiona’s seen to it that the larder’s full.”
“I’d rather take a walk through the house and about the grounds,” the black-haired demon said. “I like to know my surroundings.”
“Of course,” her uncle replied. “I’ll summon one of the men to take ye aboot.”
“I have a steward to do that,” the duke countered. “Unless you have an objection to accompanying me, Miss Blackstock.”
“I have nae objection, Yer Grace.” None that she had any intention of discussing with him, anyway.
A slight smile touched his mouth, but not his eyes. “It’s Major Forrester, or Gabriel, if you please.”
“Fer Saint Andrew’s sake,” she burst out, before she could stop herself. “I’m nae calling ye either one of those. Ye can be Yer Grace, or Lattimer. I’ll nae have ye back in London telling all yer pretty friends how ignorant Highlanders are of proper custom.”
He laughed, though she didn’t see anything the least bit amusing in the entire conversation. But then she hadn’t just inherited ten thousand acres of land that should have belonged to native Highlanders. “What’s so amusing?” she demanded aloud.
“I don’t have any pretty friends,” he returned, “and I doubt any of them are in London, either. Most of them are still in Spain, fighting Bonaparte.”
She wishedhestill was. “A shame ye had to leave them.”
“I’ll agree with that, Miss Blackstock. And ‘Lattimer’ suits me better than ‘Your Grace,’” he continued, his eyes dancing now. “I’ll attempt to remember to answer to it.” The duke gestured her toward the hallway door. “Shall we?”
“Dunnae ye wish to clean up first?” she returned, sending his stiff, filthy red attire a pointed glance. “And nae look so much like an English soldier, perhaps?”
He followed her gaze. “I have nothing else to wear. We’ll begin outside, and I’ll stomp off some of the mud.”
“Ye might’ve done that before,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that?”
Fiona took a quick breath. “I said I’ll have a bath drawn fer ye,” she said aloud. “Fer after yer inspection.”
“It’s not an insp—”
“The weather’s getting worse. We’d best be off.” She pretended not to hear his protest, and instead led the way back into the hallway and toward the front door.
The idea that he had nothing to wear but his uniform surprised her, and she couldn’t push that aside as she led him out to the garden and the landscaped part of the grounds. He’d jumped into the mud without hesitation, even though she hadn’t needed saving. But what self-respecting duke with at least three estates and thousands of pounds of income annually didn’t even own a second coat? The Beast of Bussaco, apparently.
She wasn’t fooled by the way he pretended to be straightforward and direct, either. Officers didn’t do anything but give orders, finding ways to gain clever nicknames without actually earning them. Whatever the head groom said, Major Forrester couldn’t possibly be any different. It wouldn’t be long before he’d begin ordering her people about and sending for his military friends, and more than likely hiring a man to take her place. Well, then. She would make certain he was well gone before any of that could happen.
***
“What do you make of this?” Gabriel asked, submerging in the copper bathtub and then resurfacing to shake out his wet hair. He’d lived in dirty uniforms when necessary, but it felt odd and barbaric to do so in such lavish surroundings. And none of the servants had been particularly happy to see him eat dinner in the mud-caked uniform, but he hadn’t had much choice. He’d asked for an old blanket to throw over the dining room chair, at least.
Across the ridiculously large and stiflingly opulent bedchamber, Adam Kelgrove unpacked the saddlebag he’d brought and set the simple shaving accoutrements on the carved mahogany dressing table. “The castle looks in need of some repairs, but it seems to be well cared for, and the gardens are simple, but well maintained. Animals look healthy, and no one’s in rags. I didn’t spy any silver candlesticks, but from the state of your welcome I’d say they chose not to set them out for you.”
His aide paid attention; that boded well for Kelgrove’s future as the likely next steward of Lattimer. Because pretty and petite or not, Fiona Blackstock was not a steward. Females didn’t become stewards. It didn’t take any London bronze to know that. “I agree,” he said aloud. “So did Miss Blackstock refuse to send the estate books to the solicitors because there’s no money in this place, or because she’s stubborn and devious?”
“Or because she’s a half-wild Highlander?” Kelgrove added with a brief grin.
Jest or not, that could well be the answer. She simply didn’t want to be dictated to by any Englishman. She clearly didn’t wanthimthere. Gabriel remained unsure, though, whether her hostility came from her dislike of the Sassenach, or because she knew she’d been caught out pretending to be her brother for God knows how long and that now she was very likely to be replaced by a man.Verylikely.
Considering that on first meeting him she’d sent him into a bog, she had reason to be worried. Generally people who tried to kill him didn’t live long enough to make a second attempt, but this was so-called civilization. If he wanted to be rid of Fiona Blackstock he would have to explain himself to her, probably making her cry, and hand her her papers—if she had papers. Since she’d taken over the duties of her late brother without bothering to inform old Lattimer or his solicitors, he doubted she had anything but an almost admirable amount of mettle. If sending her away left her in need of consolation, he’d be more than happy to see to that before she went, too.
Outside the curtained windows came a low moaning, the tone rising and sinking in time with the sputtering of the fire in the stone and marble fireplace. “Wind’s picking up,” Kelgrove noted unhelpfully, walking over to collect the last bits of Gabriel’s uniform and dump them into a basket.
“It should drive off the fog, anyway. I want a better look at the land and how it’s being used.”
“Well, you’ll be doing that naked,” his aide noted. “Your trunk won’t be here for another three days.”
