“Miss Fiona,” Brian Maxwell said, rising from his perch at the very front edge of one of the chairs in the sitting room, as if he’d worried he might dirty the thing. The farmer held his tam in his hands, his hair dampened and combed and his old coat buttoned.
“Good afternoon, Brian.”
“I’ve nae been summoned to parlay with a duke before,” he went on, his hat spinning a slow circle in his restless fingers. “Do ye ken what he’s after? Because my cottage has been on this land fer more than a hundred years, and I’d nae see it burned doon and my wife and bairns left to the cold because of a cow, or because he’s a yen fer grazing more sheep.”
Oh, dear.“Brian, ye—”
“I have no intention of turning you out of your home, Mr. Maxwell,” Gabriel said, stepping around her and into the room. “You have a fence problem and a wandering cow, both of which have been pointed out to you before. Why haven’t you remedied the situation?”
Brian’s face reddened. Before she even realized she was moving, Fiona had put a hand on the cotter’s shoulder and nudged him toward the table where the liquor tantalus stood. “A whisky fer ye, Brian?”
Beneath her hand she felt his shoulders lift. “Aye, Miss Fiona. That’d be grand. The walk up the hill here does make my old knees creak like a witch’s cackle.”
She unlocked the tantalus and poured him a generous glass, glowering past him at Lattimer as she did so. “Did ye hear we found the red heifer almost to the laird’s garden this morning?”
“Aye. One of the stable lads told me. And he told me what the laird said.” He glanced back at Gabriel, then faced her again. “I thought she might have trekked oot toward the river after those onions. Ye ken she’s partial to wild onions.”
“So ye’ve said. I dunnae suppose Brady and ye have managed to cut the new fence posts yet.”
The farmer shook his head. “Brady’s forever getting his chores tended before dawn, then disappearing until nearly dark. He’s but fifteen, or I’d swear it was a lass twisting his head aboot. Flighty lad he is, just like his mother.”
The rotund Mrs. Maxwell was the least flighty person Fiona could imagine, but that was neither here nor there. Brian had long ago convinced himself that he was surrounded by creatures who only wanted to be elsewhere. And perhaps he had a point. “Drink up now,” she urged, “and we’ll put our heads together to find the best way to keep the cows where they belong.”
He took his drink, sent the duke another cautious look, and wandered over to look at the trio of prize-winning cows immortalized in oil paints on the wall. “So he can’t manage his cowsandhe’s drinking my whisky?” a deep voice murmured in her ear a moment later.
Heaven’s sake, he was stealthy. Fiona turned around, looking up to meet his gaze. “Ye’re the grandest man he’s ever met,” she whispered back, “in the grandest place he’ll ever see. He’s already been knocked off his feet by ye summoning him, and then ye begin ordering him to give ye answers. He’s nae one of yer soldiers, Gabriel. He’s a small man who lives on the same patch of ground where he was born, and who fully intends to die on that same spot. And in his thinking, ye’re the one man able to take it away from him.”
The look he gave her was unlike anything she’d seen from him before. She had no right, of course, to speak to him like that; the only other duke of her acquaintance would have cuffed her just for speaking out of turn. Gabriel Forrester, however, didn’t look angry. More than anything else, he seemed… surprised. Stunned, even. And she didn’t think that was because she’d given Brian Maxwell a glass of whisky.
“He is incompetent,” Gabriel breathed, lifting his eyes momentarily to glance at Brian. “Is he not?”
“Aye, he is. I dunnae believe that to be his fault. He owns three cows and grows wheat. That’s what he is.”
Whatever he’d looked for on her face he seemed to have found, because a hard heartbeat later he strolled over to stand beside Brian. Fiona started forward as well, not certain what he meant to attempt next or how much additional trouble it might cause. Abruptly he put out an arm to stop her, unless she cared to walk her bosom straight into his palm.
“Mr. Maxwell. As I as saying earlier, how many men and supplies should I send over tomorrow to see that your fence is repaired to your satisfaction?”
Fiona blinked. That… that truly surprised her. Brian nearly dropped his glass, clearly as stunned as she was. Had Gabriel not only just listened to her unasked-for advice, but followed it? Next, pigs would be jumping over the castle.
“How do I know ye arenae offering to fix my hoose so ye can rent it to someone else and make yerself a profit?”
“Bri—”
“Because there’s a greater profit in the wheat and the…” He glanced at Fiona, and she quickly made a churning motion. “And the butter you provide for the household.”
The farmer’s chest seemed to puff up like a robin’s. “Well. I always feed my girls the sweetest grasses. If it wasn’t fer the red one and those onions, I’d nae have to have a pen at all.”
“I’ll send Rory back with ye,” Fiona put in, naming one of the gardeners. “He can read and write. He’ll make a list of the supplies ye need, and we’ll—”
“We’ll have men down there in the morning to repair that fence,” Gabriel finished.
He’d said “we,” which felt different than it did when she said it. She, of course, meant the other inhabitants of the property, the Maxwells and the Paulks and the Dinwoddies and all the others who formed clan Maxwell. Coming from him, well, she wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. But it did seem to include her. Her uncle Hamish seemed certain she was about to be sacked by Lattimer, but that “we” didn’t make it sound that way.
“Well, thank ye, Laird Lattimer. Yer Grace, I mean. I…” Brian finished off the whisky, started to set the glass aside, then changed his mind and handed it to her, all the while bobbing his head like a chicken. “I’ll be off, then. I can fetch Rory myself, if it pleases ye.”
“Aye. Thank ye, Brian.”
The farmer left the room, two footmen joining him as they headed outside to find Rory. Fiona set the empty glass down by the tantalus. There she was, alone in a room again with the Sassenach. If she did something foolish like look at him, she might grab him by his village-sewn lapels and kisshim,for heaven’s sake. Taking a breath, she made a show of snapping her fingers as if she’d just remembered something and hurried for the door.
