Before him, stretching out over perhaps half a hundred miles, lay the Scottish Highlands. The land directly beyond Lattimer’s formal gardens sloped off gently to the shore of a vast blue lake that curved to the east out of sight beyond a cluster of tumbled ruins on the rocky bank. Trees edged down to the western shore and up the hill beyond, with patches of purple heather and thistle carpeting open meadows. Beyond the lake, rough, rock-tumbled hills lifted into craggy white mountains that stood starkly silhouetted by the rising sun.
Of all the places he’d been in the world, of all the things he’d seen, this… humbled him. Belatedly two things occurred to him: he didn’t know the name of the lake, and most of what he could see belonged to him.
He’d known since he’d first donned a uniform that he was made for war. The idea of people trying to kill him, the violence, the cold and the heat, the long days of battle and the longer nights of waiting for the battle to come—he relished the things that broke other men. He was accustomed to responsibility and command, but owning land, being responsible for people who carried rakes and hoes rather than muskets and rifles, fell so far out of his realm of expertise he couldn’t even sight it over the horizon.
Gabriel took a slow breath. He knew battle. And Lattimer had just become his battleground. If he looked at it that way, the castle was his command tent. The Highlands was his battlefield, and the Highlanders were either his troops, or the enemy’s. In the next few days he would have to decide which, and then act based on that fact.
As he turned to finish dressing, he caught sight of a lone figure strolling through the garden in the direction of the stables. Even with a heavy coat and a sturdy hat jammed low on her dusky hair, he recognized Fiona Blackstock. From that attire she was either dressed to go riding, or to rob a mail coach. Though the latter would certainly be an interesting twist, he had to assume she meant to trot off somewhere out of his reach.
Every good victory came with a prize, and she would be his. That didn’t mean, however, that he was going to let her make more trouble while she was here. If she thought riding out early would keep her clear of him or give her the opportunity to gather reinforcements, she didn’t know him at all. In addition, somewhere between the mudhole and the drawing room she’d learned his name, and before he’d given it to her. Someone here knew him, and he needed to figure out who that was. Not because he had anything to hide, but because this campaign looked to be about strategy and leverage. He needed to know who stood on the field of battle.
Swiftly he finished buttoning his donated trousers, but that still left him without boots or a coat or jacket. He checked outside his door, but either Kelgrove hadn’t yet risen, or the sergeant hadn’t been able to chisel the mud off his Hessians.
Pulling the bell seemed too regal, but as far as he knew people didn’t walk about half naked in proper houses. Scowling, he grabbed hold of the thing and yanked it down a half-dozen times, then went digging through the chest and wardrobe to find them empty of everything but an old, yellowed cravat.
His door slammed open. “Major!” Kelgrove panted, diving into the room pistol first.
“Put that down, Adam,” Gabriel ordered, sidestepping out of range.
“But…” Kelgrove straightened. “From the way you were slamming that bell about, I thought you were being strangled with the rope.”
“I didn’t know how emphatic to be. I need my boots. And a coat.”
“I still have your coat soaking. The boots are wearable, but you’d never pass inspection with them.”
“The boots, Sergeant. And any coat will do, as long as it’s warm. I’ll meet you at the stable.”
“Are we leaving?” Kelgrove looked hopeful at that idea.
“No,” he returned, though he could damned well sympathize. “Our task here isn’t finished. I’m going for a ride.”
“I… Of course, sir.”
The lord of the manor was more than likely expected to use the grand staircase at the front of the house, but Gabriel opted for the more direct route of the servants’ stairs at the back. Even indoors the wood and stone beneath his bare feet felt half frozen, but Fiona already had a head start on him. He wasn’t going to wait about for perfectly shined shoes.
“Yer Grace,” a redheaded young lady announced as he reached the bottom floor, giving him a deep curtsy and nearly dropping the stack of linens she carried.
“Good morning,” he replied, settling for a polite nod as he moved past her. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to how Wellington and his lordling flock addressed their servants, but most of them were men he didn’t care to emulate in war, which gave him no desire to do so in peace.
“Ye’ve nae shoes on, Yer Grace,” the woman noted, the tone of her voice alone telling him that she thought him mad.
“Yes, I’m aware of that. Thank you.”
He’d thought most everyone in the household would be out in the main part of the house, likely looking for a glimpse of him, but servants still seemed to be everywhere. By the time he reached the door past the kitchen he’d been made aware at least a dozen times that he was barefoot. These Highlanders were a helpful lot. His feet were numb with cold by the time he reached the stable on the far side of the garden. If he didn’t catch up with Miss Blackstock, he wasn’t going to be amused. He dodged a clump of horseshit and put his hand on the stable door.
“… called Beast doesnae fill my heart with hope,” Fiona’s honeyed voice came, and he lowered his hand again.
“I wasnae in the Sixty-eighth regiment,” a male voice returned, “so I can only tell ye what all of us saw and heard. And that was how Major Forrester made his way past the Frenchies’ cannons to their munitions wagons, set fire to ’em, and sent ’em rolling doon the hill into the middle of the French troops. They scattered like cockroaches, Miss Fiona, instead of marching on us.”
“Well.” Silence. “That doesn’t sound beastly, Oscar.”
Gabriel nodded to himself. He hadn’t thought so, either. The act had been meant to disrupt France’s advance and to save English lives, and in that he’d succeeded. The rest, the nickname and the absurd amount of notoriety and praise it had gained him, was ridiculous.
“They say he’s unstoppable,” the Oscar fellow continued in his thick brogue. “And fearless. Nae a man I’d like as an enemy.”
“I suppose if he’d stayed in Spain or in England I’d like him just fine,” she returned. “But he came here, and I’ll nae have any Sassenach dictating to me, whatever papers he brings with him.”
“I’d nae wish to go against either of ye.”
