As she left the sitting room, she ran straight into the Englishman’s hard, muscled chest. Before she could stop herself she’d grabbed his arm—and then nearly fell over anyway when he twisted faster than lightning to shove her backward against the wall and hold her there with a hard left forearm across her throat.
For a bare second the look in his eyes—dangerous, deadly, and very, very calm—actually frightened her. Then with a blink he became the cynical, sexy thorn in her side once again. “I beg your pardon,” he said, relaxing his arm but not moving away from her. “Did I hurt you?”
“N… No. Of course not.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Blackstock,” he murmured, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I expected you to be in the breakfast room.”
Fiona kept her head lowered; if she looked up at him, with his face so close to hers, she might—he might… She should have been frightened, she supposed. He looked like a soldier, but just there for a moment she’d seen it. The whip-fast reflexes, the immediate assumption that his life was being threatened, and his very swift, decisive reaction. But she didn’t feel afraid. Startled, yes, but mostly she wanted him to kiss her again.
“I needed a word with one of the maids,” she improvised, freeing a hand to gesture down the hallway toward the breakfast room.
He caught that hand with his free one, folding his fingers around hers. “Did you?” he returned, his hold more gentle than she expected. “You weren’t hiding?”
“Of course I wasnae hiding,” she retorted. “Now let go, before someone sees ye and drags ye oot fer a hanging.”
His mouth curved. “Still tempted,” he whispered, then straightened. “After you,” he returned in a more normal tone, releasing her and stepping back.
She refused to smooth her gown or give any other evidence that she felt the least bit… disappointed. He’d mauled her an hour ago, and now nothing? Humph. Turning her back, she strode for the breakfast room. Mrs. Ritchie the cook apparently thought the duke needed to eat a great quantity of Scottish fare, because as Fiona swept into the room the sideboard practically groaned with the weight of all the food—everything from haggis to porridge and toast to black pudding and bread-and-pork sausages and boiled eggs. It would either make him fall in love with the Highlands, or flee at top speed. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the latter.
“Do ye need me to explain what’s here?” she asked him.
“I’ll manage,” he returned, his voice a bit flat. “One of you send for Kelgrove, will you?” he continued, glancing at the quartet of footmen who’d been lounging in the corner and sprang upright upon their arrival.
“I’ll fetch him,” she said quickly. God knew she could use a moment to pull her thoughts back together again.
Fiona wasn’t surprised that Lattimer wanted his sergeant to join them for breakfast. Kelgrove clearly wasn’t any typical manservant. In fact, she’d thought since yesterday that the duke meant for Sergeant Kelgrove to replace her as estate manager. Well, if the sergeant had as little experience with managing a property as his commander seemed to, she would make certain his ignorance showed. No Sassenach was allowed to replace her simply by virtue of the fact that the new prospect was English, and a man.
She turned down the next hallway, then slowed as she caught a few words of conversation from the first-floor linen closet. “… doesnae even ken how to sleep in a proper bed,” one of the maids, Tilly, was saying.
“And the Sassenach callusbarbarians.Amadans,the lot of them. The sooner Miss Fiona boots him oot on his arse, the better, I say.”
“Do ye reckon it’s the curse bringing him here? He couldnae have come at a worse time.”
“Aye, he could’ve,” Dolidh’s voice returned. “What if he’d ridden up three springs ago when all the fields flooded?”
“That would’ve been the old duke. And thatwould’vebeen worse. At least this one’s handsome.” Tilly giggled. “My mama said the old one had a face like a bowl of porridge.”
Fiona pushed the door open the rest of the way. “Keep yer tongue-wagging confined to below stairs,” she said, eyeing Tilly and Dolidh as they gathered sheets and towels to go upstairs. “I might’ve been him, and then where would we be?”
Tilly dipped a shallow curtsy. “We’ll be more cautious. Even if he wasnae a Sassenach, having a duke aboot will take some getting used to.”
“Aye, that it will,” she agreed. “Though hopefully he’ll be gone before we have a chance to get accustomed to him.” And before she could begin to be tempted by his very carnal line of thought. She slipped in, shutting the door of the small room behind her. “Did I hear ye say Lattimer didnae sleep well?” If the roomhadunnerved him despite his dismissal of specters, that could make removing him from the property considerably easier. The sooner, the better, as far as she was concerned.
“I couldnae say if he slept well or nae,” Tilly returned, and giggled again. “It would be improper to call on his bedchamber while he was in there. After he walked doonstairs I went in to tidy the room. He’d pulled the pillows and blankets onto the floor and slept there, like a hound. I didnae know if I should leave him a nest there, or nae.”
He’d slept on the floor? She could attempt to put that to ignorance of the proper ways of dukes, but she couldn’t believe that he didn’t know how to use a bed. Englishman or not, Gabriel Forrester demonstrated less… refinement than she’d expected. She’d always had a vision of the English as delicate, civilized tea drinkers who preferred words to action. He didn’t fit any of her preconceived notions, which made him difficult to dismiss. All she knew at the moment was that he wasn’t civilized, or delicate. Hard and heated seemed a much better description.
“Isnae that odd, Miss Fiona?” Dolidh said, lifting an eyebrow.
Fiona shook herself. “Aye. To be certain. I’d wager the Duke of York doesnae sleep on the floor.”
The two maids exchanged a look. “We were saying, too, it was odd that he claims his valet, that Mr. Kelgrove, isnae a valet and has him sleep in a proper bedchamber like a gentleman.”
It made sense if Sergeant Kelgrove had plans to be Lattimer’s next estate manager. “Oh. Aye. Odd,” she said aloud. Taking a breath, she backed out of the room again. “Remember, keep yer voices doon.” She started down the hall, then remembered Lattimer’s request and had to return to the linen closet. “Tilly, fetch Sergeant Kelgrove and send him to the breakfast room, will ye? His Grace requests his presence.”
“I’ll fetch him right away, miss. I suppose he’ll be eating with ye, as well?”
Fiona shrugged. “Who the devil knows what these Sassenach are aboot?”
