“Go,” he whispered, and nudged her toward the door.
Fiona wasn’t certain she could walk in a straight line. Taking a deep breath and trying to shake the lust from her skin, she stepped forward and pulled open the door, making it into the hallway just as Fleming reached her. “Were ye calling fer me?” she asked, brushing at her eyes and making herself yawn. “I think I fell asleep on the ledger. Do I have ink on my forehead?”
That should have elicited at least a smile from the butler, but it only earned her a quick glance and a head shake. “I didnae want to say anything to the laird until I spoke to ye,” he said, his voice low and tense, “but I feared I’d have to go to him when I couldnae find ye.”
Her annoyance began to shift to alarm. “Ye did find me, Fleming. What the devil’s afoot, then?”
“A coach and four just came over the hill. Three more and yer uncle Hamish are with it. I cannae say fer certain, but I’d wager it’s the Duke of Dunncraigh. The Maxwell’s come to see the new laird.”
Chapter Ten
By the time Gabriel tucked his shirt back into his trousers and retrieved his coat from the floor, the entire castle practically reverberated with excitement. This Dunncraigh was the man they all wanted here. The Maxwell had their trust and their allegiance in ways a Sassenach soldier could never hope to accomplish—and not after only ten days in residence.
Another general had arrived on the field. At best that meant a shift of strategy, a reassessment of troops and the fragile, tentative loyalties he’d been cultivating. At worst, he would have a full-blown rebellion on his hands. Through all that, however, one thought stuck in his mind and refused to be dislodged—Fiona wanted him, and nothing this Dunncraigh said or did was allowed to interfere with that.
Before he left Fiona’s office, he replaced the ledgers in their drawer, then locked the desk and pocketed the key. Theoretically Dunncraigh could be a jovial, dim-witted drunkard who’d gained his position only because he’d been born into it. He supposed that happened as often in the aristocracy as it did in the army. But Gabriel had never planned a battle strategy with the idea that his foe would be incompetent. Or that his opponent would be alone and without allies—or in this case, that Dunncraigh couldn’t recruit them from his own damned household.
The side door of the office opened into a sitting room, which in turn opened either to the hallway or to a small gallery. From the gallery Gabriel made his way through another sitting room and what he assumed was supposed to be the steward’s office, since it was smaller and much more plainly appointed than the office Fiona currently used. He exited into the hallway at the foot of the servants’ stairs and made his way quickly and quietly up to his own bedchamber. Apparently all of the ten thousand servants he employed had made for the windows at the front of the house, hoping for a glimpse of their beloved duke.
Shoving aside the cot he’d had brought in, he grabbed the bellpull and yanked on it, then dug into his wardrobe. Thank God for Kelgrove and his obsession with clean, presentable attire.
“Dunncraigh—the duke, that is—just walked into your foyer.” Adam shoved open the door and swiftly closed it behind him. “You’d almost swear he owned the place.”
“Almost.” Gabriel stomped into his second boot. “Help me with this, will you?”
The sergeant hesitated, then hurried up to help him into his fresh crimson coat with its emerald facings. “I thought you’d decided that wearing this was a bad idea, Your Grace.”
“If I’m about to meet the man I expect to find downstairs, he’ll make certain everyone remembers who and what I am. This way I can greet a fellow duke in dress attire and cut him off at the knees at the same time.” He glanced at Kelgrove. “You got a look at him, then? I don’t suppose he was a drooling simpleton?”
“I saw him through a window. Then someone started shouting that you were shaking the bell off its hinges. I didn’t notice any drooling.”
Gabriel nodded. “I’ll forgo the shako and the sidearms,” he decided. “I’ll leave it to you whether you want to be a civilian or a soldier.”
“I’ll have to be a civilian, then, because I’m not leaving your side until I know no one’s going to try to put a broadsword through you.”
“Or a knife in my gizzard?”
“That, too.”
For the first time in ten days, Gabriel felt like himself. He had no sheep thefts or other domestic problems to solve, no woman to chase, no worry that some fake ghost would begin lobbing books at his head in the night. The heavy, close-fitting wool coat, snug white trousers—he could barely remember a time when he hadn’t worn them. As for Fiona, the day he based his actions on whether she approved them or not, that would be his last damned day. She knew who he was in the uniform or out of it, and they’d been a literal inch away from having sex on what was probablyhisdesk.
With Kelgrove on his heels, he walked to the head of the main staircase. He could hear them below, voices he didn’t recognize mingled with that of Hamish Paulk and the sweeter tones of Fiona. They spoke in Gaelic, which brought his level of alertness even higher. It might have been habit, or it might be the Highlanders attempting to keep something from the two Englishmen residing in the house. Either way, it would stop. Nobody got to plot against him in his own bloody house. Even if he’d never owned one before.
For the second time that afternoon he felt the tensing of his muscles, the deep, slow breathing, the sense that the world around him, the unnecessary objects and sounds, faded while the goal before him became more clear, more vibrant. Fiona had done it to him the first time, as unexpected as it had been. This time, it was his old companion, war. If this wasn’t a battle, he would be disappointed. His body, his mind, were certainly ready for one. And the devil knew he had some excess frustration wound into it all.
Black eyes caught his and widened as he reached the landing. Gabriel wanted to keep his attention on her; she was by far the brightest object in the room. It took more willpower than he expected to look away and refocus. Sir Hamish had donned a crisply pleated kilt of red and green and black, the Maxwell colors. He’d known, then, that the duke was coming. Perhaps Dunncraigh had even stopped at Glennoch before arriving at Lattimer.
A trio of younger men stood ranged just outside the inner circle. Two wore plainer versions of the Maxwell plaid, while the third had dressed more like an English gentleman. What they wore didn’t matter, though; at this moment they were there to guard the duke, and he would keep an eye on all of them.
The man at the center of the gathering stood a little over six feet in height, his shoulders broadened by silver epaulets that adorned his black jacket. Like Paulk he wore a dress kilt, long white stockings, and ghillie brogues. Unlike Paulk’s, they were fine but not as crisp, as if he lived in them for longer than an afternoon. Deep green eyes beneath thick, neatly trimmed hair the color of bleached bones looked up at him, the mouth below thin and straight.
Gabriel added the new information in, filling the empty bits of his knowledge. The duke wielded power, and was accustomed to doing so. He expected reverence, but prepared for enemies. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the Maxwell was nobody’s fool.
“The Duke of Dunncraigh, I presume,” he said aloud, stopping at the bottom of the stairs.
“Aye. And ye would be Lattimer.” Dunncraigh said the last word like an insult, which wasn’t surprising. None of the Highlanders liked the name the English king had given to the castle. To them it would always be MacKittrick.
“Gabriel Forrester. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
