“I very much doubt that, Fiona.”
“Well. Fine, then. I’ll send fer Brian.”
“I already have. I believe by now he should be waiting in the front sitting room. Would you care to join me?”
“So ye meant to talk to him anyway, and ye nae said anything? Ye cheated, ye big… Gabriel.”
“If you’d asked Oscar Ritchie, you would have known precisely what I did. I’ve hidden nothing from you.” Gray eyes met hers. “I doubt you can say the same.” He gestured toward the door. “After you.”
There he went again, accusing her of lying. He wasn’t supposed to have realized anything was amiss, and she had no idea how he’d discovered… whatever it was he’d found out. Or perhaps he hadn’t realized anything, and he simply had a suspicious nature. However it had come about, he didn’t seem the sort to let his questions lie unanswered.
She hadn’t actually lied, yet. Not really. Not saying anything one way or the other wasn’t lying. That tactic had little to do with the truth either, however, and with him suspecting subterfuge she couldn’t keep it up much longer.
Which gave her a choice. An outright lie, or at least a partial truth. A truth that would more than likely see him extending his stay until he’d beaten the problem it represented into submission. Fiona paused just short of the sitting room doorway. Yes, the castle had a curse on it. But a curse didn’t steal things. People did that. And Lattim—Gabriel—might actually be more help than her finger-crossing, over-the-shoulder-spitting fellows who’d evidently decided that the castle’s deepening ill fortune was both to be expected and inescapable.
“I couldn’t say for certain,” the duke drawled from so close behind her that the hair on the back of her neck lifted, “but I think you may have something on your mind. I hope it’s me.”
Fiona turned around, put both hands on his hard chest, and shoved him into the empty breakfast room opposite. He didn’t resist, which surprised her, but it seemed entirely possible that he thought she meant to kiss him again. Which she wouldn’t. Certainly not now that it had occurred to her to do so.
Shutting the door, she hauled him all the way over to the window. A little truth, a bit of truth, just enough to ease his suspicions and to aid her with catching the culprit. Then he could leave feeling he’d accomplished something, Lattimer or MacKittrick or whatever the British Crown said it should be called today would no longer be losing sheep, and then she could manage the rest once Gabriel was gone.
“If this is a seduction,” he murmured, “you don’t have to work this hard.”
Fiona stared at him, half thinking she must have slipped into another daydream. “I’m nae seducing ye. I wanted to tell ye someaught.”
He bent his head toward her. “You smell like heather.”
A slight, pleasant shiver went through her. If he hadn’t been English, and a soldier, they would likely have been naked together by now. As it was, every time she so much as glanced in his direction she thought of kissing. And kissing him only led to her wanting to kiss him more.
“Stop spouting yer nonsense,” she stated, taking half a step backward and hoping he couldn’t tell that she’d hesitated to do so.
His bisected eyebrow lifted as he relented. “Enlighten me, then. What did you want to tell me?”
“We’re missing sheep,” she said in a low voice. “It began with a few at a time, then a hundred at once. Now that they’re up in the hills, we’re losing some nearly every day. There’s nae pattern we can sort oot, and nae trace of attacks from wildcats or anything else that could be harassing them.” She scowled. “Everyone blames it on the MacKittrick curse, but I’m nae going to accept losing livestock to superstition.”
He searched her gaze, clearly trying to decipher if she was telling him the truth or not. Which she was. Just not all of it. “I’m assuming you kept this from me because you’re afraid I’ll go charging after the culprits and get myself killed.” Gabriel lowered his eyebrows. “No? Perhaps you’re worried that I would take on the task of finding the thieves and, by so doing, lengthen my stay at Lattimer.”
Well, wasn’t he the clever one? She narrowed her eyes. “Ye’re so certain of yer answer, I willnae bother with offering my own.” It certainly wouldn’t do for him to begin thinking he had everything figured out, anyway. “I will say that there’s nae a Maxwell in the Highlands who would approve of me telling ye what I just did. If ye go aboot flapping yer gobber and saying it was me who told ye, well… just dunnae do any such thing.”
As she watched, the expression on his face altered. She couldn’t quite say how, but she knew he wasn’t amused any longer, and he wasn’t going to make one of his cynical jests. For this moment, she had his complete, undivided attention. It felt like she’d stepped too close to a hungry, wild lion—or so she imagined, anyway. At the same time, that scar running down his face—she abruptly wanted to run her fingers along it.
“Whether you’re actually in my employ or not, Fiona,” he finally said, his low, precise voice quiet, “and regardless of whether we’re allies or not, your confidences are safe with me. I will protect you, with my life if necessary.”
The idea of a duke—any duke—purposely laying down his life for a castle’s steward, an estate manager, was utterly ridiculous. And yet, as she gazed into his dawn-colored eyes, she absolutely believed that he meant what he said. “Well, ye’re a madman then, Gabriel Forrester. I told ye what ye asked; do with it as ye will. I’ve nae idea who’s been doing it, and I’ve been looking. Dunnae get yerself thrown over a cliff fer some sheep.” Even though that would make things easier on her, she couldn’t say that was what she wanted, any longer. In fact, she still wanted to touch him even when she knew she shouldn’t. She settled for poking a finger into his shoulder. “And dunnae go aboot accusing the tenants or frightening the bairns. I reckon there’s nae a soul at MacKittrick who wants ye here as it is.”
“Nae a soul?” he repeated, mimicking her.
Fiona lowered her hand and took a long step backward. “Nae a soul,” she repeated, though she couldn’t muster quite as much heat as she’d intended.
“Mm-hm.”
“Dunnae push yer luck, ye demon. Ye’re nae as charming as ye think.”
“Yes I am.”
Charming didn’t quite seem the correct word; perhaps compelling, or mesmerizing, fit him better. When he walked into a room, all eyes went to him and remained there. Hers certainly did, despite her best efforts to ignore, detest, and be rid of him. On the battlefield he must have been the devil himself, tall and straight-backed and leading from the front, cutting a bloody path to victory. No, Gabriel Forrester wasn’t a Highlander. He was, however, the very definition of a man. And Fiona had no idea how much longer she would be able to resist him, or if she even cared to try.
Chapter Eight
