“Have ye, now? Then offer me a whisky and we can get acquainted.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Fleming, have someone fetch a bottle, if you please. One of the hidden ones; not the newborn piss you generally serve. We’ll be in the drawing room.”
Hamish didn’t like that, but Hamish Paulk wasn’t his main concern. This was about sharing information he wanted known, and acquiring more than the other side realized they were giving.
“I’ve lads outside who’ll need beds,” Dunncraigh stated, not moving.
“And I have enough footmen to see them all to rooms,” Gabriel returned. He was outnumbered already; hell, he had been from the moment he’d first arrived. “They can leave their weapons in the stable; I don’t like armed men in my home.” Unless they were him, of course.
“Ye heard His Grace, Artur. See to it.”
“Aye, m’laird.” The well-dressed man sketched a bow and then exited out the front door.
Fiona cleared her throat. “This way then, Yer Grace. Yer Graces,” she said, stepping well around Gabriel and heading up the stairs. As she passed, he could practically feel the air vibrating around her. Whether it was from worry or from anger, he couldn’t say. Not without giving her more of his attention than he dared at the moment. That didn’t make him want to do it any less, however.
It was an odd duality. Nothing distracted him from battle. His life, the lives of his regiment, the entire allied army might depend on his insight and concentration. He didn’t waver in his attention. Ever. Being in Fiona’s company, though, listening to her, touching her, had shifted from being a challenge with a very pleasant reward to an obsession that wouldn’t end with them naked together. At the moment he couldn’t reconcile the two halves of his desire—wanting her now and wanting her always—with his life and career, but he would have to do so. Soon. She pushed at his thoughts, set him afire. But he couldn’t give in to that. Not now.
The duke and Hamish followed her, while he fell in behind them. The two men now at his back were likely still armed, but Kelgrove would be behind them. Most men, he knew, hesitated before striking a blow. It was a huge gap, the divide between contemplating an action and taking one. For him that space didn’t exist. If anyone moved, he would be there first. The mobile chess game topped the stairs and proceeded into the drawing room, and the sergeant closed them in.
“Your Grace,” Gabriel said, gesturing at the most comfortable of the plush, overstuffed chairs in the room. Without waiting for a response he turned to hold a chair for Fiona, then moved to claim one that backed against a wall.
“Hamish says ye’ve a plan to stop the sheep thefts that’ve been plaguing ye,” Dunncraigh offered, pulling a pipe from his sporran. He lit a spill on the lamp beside him and held the burning roll of paper to the pipe’s bowl and puffed until it began to glow red.
Someone had told Hamish about the sheep situation, then. He wondered who that might have been. “I haven’t been here long enough to be plagued by anything,” he returned, “but yes, I believe diverting another thirty men to overseeing the flocks will discourage the thieves. Likely some local poachers or brigands. Hopefully they’ll move on by the end of the week to find easier prey.” Or more likely they would be lured out by his apparent stupidity and arrogance and strike again, and he would have them at a time he could plan and predict.
“Aye, nae doubt that’ll end it. Ye’ve put the fear of English soldiers into ’em, anyway.”
Ah, the “insulting through pleasantries” portion of the conversation. Well and good, but Gabriel was more curious aboutwhyDunncraigh felt the need to insult him. The duke was the undisputed power here; as far as he knew, every Highlander on Lattimer land owed the Maxwell fealty. Even the uncharacteristically quiet one sitting halfway across the room. Everything she did was for the Maxwell, or for clan Maxwell, anyway. If there was a difference between the two, he hadn’t yet seen it.
“I’m glad to hear that you’ve taken an interest in my sheep woes,” he said aloud, clenching his jaw to remind himself not to look at Fiona. He sat forward. “Haveyouhad any thefts?”
Dunncraigh gave a short laugh. “There’s nae a soul would dare steal from me,” he commented through a haze of pipe smoke.
“But someonehas,” Gabriel countered. “The people here are all part of clan Maxwell, Miss Blackstock informs me. My sheep and the income they bring are vital to them. You knew about these thefts, and they’ve been going on for two years. I have to conclude that you’ve deliberately chosen to do nothing to help your own clansmen.” More a straight-up insult than a gentle poke, but he was only a soldier.
“That’s uncalled fer, Lattimer,” Sir Hamish put in from his own seat, close by his precious laird.
“I disagree.”
“That’s because ye know naught of Highland ways, Lattimer,” Dunncraigh took up. “Of course this is my clan, but this bit of it lies on yer land. Before King George—the first one, ye ken—stepped in, Lattimer—MacKittrick, rather—was Maxwell property. MacKittrick was a Maxwell chieftain. These people were his responsibility, and he answered to Dunncraigh. My great-grandfather Dunncraigh.” He took another long draw from his pipe. “Now these people are fer ye to look after. I cannae change their birthright fer the convenience of the Lattimer line, and they were born part of my clan, but the responsibility goes to ye.”
“I’m aware of that,” Gabriel returned evenly. He might prefer pistols to saber-rattling, but that didn’t mean he had no skill at fencing. “But old Lattimer died just under a year ago. As far as you were aware, this place had no laird at all for most of that time. And little prospect of finding one.”
“It still doesnae have a laird. It has a Sassenach duke.” The Scottish duke pointed his pipe stem at Gabriel. “And before ye say someaught that I might find insulting, I did try to step in after old Lattimer died with nae an heir anyone knew of. I petitioned the English Crown to return the land to Maxwell hands. I offered to purchase this old wreck outright. But they had Lattimer’s mess, all his properties and holdings, to untangle, and so I had to sit on my arse and wait until they declared Ronald Leeds to be withoot issue or heirs. And then they found ye.”
When Dunncraigh gestured for Fleming to refill his glass of whisky, Gabriel risked a glance at Fiona. Her sun-kissed face had grown pale, her gaze and her attention flitting between her uncle and the duke. No one in London had bothered to tell him that Dunncraigh had tried to reclaim Lattimer, and he supposed at the time it wouldn’t have mattered to him. It felt significant now, as did the fact that Fiona hadn’t mentioned it to him. Then again, she was part of clan Maxwell. And while they had a mutual attraction, not by any stretch of the imagination would he say they had mutual trust.
Sir Hamish polished off his own whisky in time with the duke. They likely shat at the same time, as well. “Even while old Lattimer was alive and this property was his responsibility, he mostly couldnae be bothered to take an interest,” Paulk commented. “It’s old land, Lattimer. Roofs leak, millstones crack, and people claim untended property fer themselves. Missing sheep, I’m afraid, is only the latest trouble here. This place has a curse on it, ye ken.”
That nonsense again. “It is an old place,” he agreed. “And after becoming acquainted with it and its ‘troubles,’ as you call them, I have to commend Miss Blackstock for the care she’s taken of it.”
Hamish looked over at her. “Aye. She’s done a fine job, untried lass that she is. Better than we expected.”
Abruptly Fiona stood. “Thank ye fer saying so. And speaking of which, I need a word with Fleming and the cook, or it’ll be boiled potatoes fer dinner.”
Gabriel wanted to leave with her, and not just because of the unfinished business between them. That could wait, he reminded himself, and stayed seated. This match wasn’t finished yet.
“So the lass has been helpful to ye?” Dunncraigh asked, crossing his ankles.
