Fiona hid her scowl, though she didn’t bother to deny to herself that her lowering mood had nothing to do with his sexual advances or accusations of frivolousness. It was becoming clear that Gabriel Forrester wasn’t a fool. Nor was he going to make it easy for her to cast him as one. She supposed, though, if it had been too easy then she wouldn’t so keenly enjoy the thought of seeing him run when she succeeded.
“Nae. I dunnae want a thing from ye,” she muttered, sitting down beside him. “Come along, lads,” she ordered, taking up the reins and bracing her feet to hold the horses as she released the brake. “Four of ye should do today, since we’ll have His Grace to help.” There. He wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of that without looking proud—or at least delicate.
For once she had a plentitude of volunteers; evidently the lads expected more excitement today. Four of them climbed up to sit along the narrow sides of the wagon, six pitchforks driven like grave markers into the smelly mound in the middle.
“Hup,” she called, flicking the reins and nearly losing young Andrew overboard as the wagon lurched into motion. Unfortunately Major His Grace Forrester kept his seat as if he’d ridden on a wagon a hundred times. Perhaps he had, though.
“Where are we going?” he asked, turning slightly away from her as they took the rutted dirt road that curved parallel to Loch Sìbhreach heading west. Given the way his attention had been focused on her from the moment they met, Fiona wondered what had happened. He’d avoided kissing her before breakfast, but just a few minutes ago had suggested a rendezvous in the linen closet. She thought he’d forgotten whatever it was that had annoyed him, but perhaps not. The moment she began mentally reviewing her actions, though, she sternly stopped herself.Idiot.She didn’twanthis attention.
Just then, though, she realized he wasn’t slighting her—not consciously, anyway—but that he’d shifted to keep his gaze on the trees to their right. Highlanders always had a mind toward potential enemies, but this duke had elevated alertness to an art form.
“We had a rock slide during the rain a few weeks ago,” she explained, refusing to be pleased when he faced her again, “and it halved the downslope pasture we use fer our largest flock of sheep. They overgrazed the pasture they could reach before we knew it, and left most of the ground bare. Now that we’ve moved the flock higher up into the foothills and cleared the boulders, we’re replanting the field. The horse shit makes fer a fair fertilizer. Winter here comes hard and early, and we dunnae want what’s left of the good soil washing away with naught to hold it in place come spring.” That wasn’t the entire story, but that was all he needed to know about it.
He studied her face in that unsettling way of his. “And you decided this should be a task that you personally oversee?”
Fiona clenched her jaw. “Considering that ye’d lose the other half of yer spring grazing next year and then half yer yield of wool the year after, aye, I ken I should see to things personally. Do ye disagree, then? Do ye reckon I should sit and embroider ye an apology letter while the pasture lies bare?”
The low, rumbling laugh coming from deep in his chest made her grin before she could stop herself. “An embroidered apology would at least demonstrate sincerity, considering how much work you’d have to put into it.”
“I’ll keep in mind how much effort it takes to convince ye of anything, then,” she retorted, doing her best not to be amused. “It all comes doon to one fact: good grazing pasture makes fer healthy sheep, which makes fer good-quality wool and meat, which makes fer more blunt in yer pockets, Yer Grace.”
“I wasn’t disputing your decision, Miss Blackstock. I only asked you to explain your reasoning.”
Fiona rolled her shoulders. Uncle Hamish would be advising her to stop letting the Sassenach needle her, to spend her time smiling and convincing him they had things well in hand so he could go back to his war or to one of his other estates in England and leave anything north of Hadrian’s Wall be.
The Duke of Lattimer wasn’t kissing Uncle Hamish, though. Instead he kissedher. And jumped into mudholes to rescue cows and lasses—whether they needed it or not—and rode on wagons full of horseshit without so much as batting an eye. There had to be something about Lattimer Castle or the Highlands he would think too hard, too gloomy or unpleasant, too frightening or exasperating to justify his continued presence. She would merely have to find it.
When they reached the edge of the bare area of pasture, the sight of sprouting grass where they’d spread seed and manure last week eased her mind a little. It didn’t have to be pretty, and it would likely produce as much thistle as it did grass and sweet heather, but the ground wasn’t bare. It would hold the soil against the coming rains.
“Last week’s work?” the duke asked, hopping to the ground and walking around to offer his hand to her. “You’ve covered what, a quarter of the pasture over the past month?”
“Aye.” Ignoring his hand, Fiona climbed down the wheel to the spongy ground. “In a few weeks we’ll work back across anywhere the grass didnae take.”
One of the lads, Michael, handed her a shovel. This was far from her favorite task, but she wasn’t about to stand back and watch while others labored to finish a plan she’d devised. Oh, she was certain a London lady wouldn’t step her dainty toes within a mile of the stinking field, but she wasn’t any blasted hothouse flower.
Lattimer took the spare shovel, which didn’t surprise her. She hadn’t given him the chance to wiggle out of some shoveling, at least. After five or ten minutes he would no doubt throw down the tool and demand to be returned to the castle. Or so she hoped.
Instead he stood shoulder to shoulder with the lads, asking for and taking advice on how thickly to spread the manure, how many seeds to use, and whether to work uphill or downhill. Then he stripped off his coat and tossed it onto the wagon seat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
She’d briefly seen what lay beneath the thin linen shirt, the well-toned muscle and collage of scars. Her skin heated, and with a stifled curse she turned her back and moved around to the far side of the wagon from where he worked. Aye, he was a striking man, and a fit one, with cat-quick reflexes and an evidently agile mind. But he was also English, a British army officer, and an invader at a time when she already had enough about which to worry—not thatanytime would have been opportune for his appearance in the Highlands. And she didnotfeel an attraction to him, whatever he and her body kept trying to tell her.
The goal remained; she needed to find a way to be rid of him. Manure and shoveling might not have worked, but she would figure out something. The sooner, the better.
Chapter Six
Now he knew what hell looked like. As he’d anticipated, it was filled with numbers. Gabriel shoved away from the table to pace to the tall library window. “Who the devil decided that success could only be rated by equations on pieces of paper?” he demanded.
“Because if everything had to be decided on a battlefield, you would rule the world.”
Gabriel turned around, lifting an eyebrow at Sergeant Kelgrove. The man still sat with his face buried in ledger books, and likely hadn’t even realized he’d spoken aloud. With a grin, Gabriel strode over to pour himself another glass of whisky. “And that would be a poor idea, I suppose?” he mused.
Finally Adam sat back to rub at his eyes. “I would hate to see young ladies coming to blows over who’d worn the finest gown at one of your combat soirees.” Furrowing his brow, he closed one of the books. “Though that does have some merits, now that I consider it.”
The moment his aide mentioned females, the unbidden image of Fiona Blackstock strolled into his thoughts again and put her hands on her hips to glare at him. If a lady measured the success of her gown by taking on all comers, he would put his money on his temporary estate manager. The woman didn’t back down from anything, including him.
“Agreed,” he said aloud. “Now, without causing my brain to explode, what’s afoot here?”
“Three things that I can see, Major. Firstly, you own a huge property that’s somehow managed to earn a profit of seven quid—over the last three years.”
