Fiona nearly did look over her shoulder at him then. “Why is it good that the Duke of Dunncraigh thinks ye’re an idiot?”
“Because I’m not one.”
“That doesnae make any damned sense. And stop talking to me.”
“No. I have more questions for you. And I like the sound of your voice.”
Port or brandy would have been amuchbetter choice than tea, she decided. There he went, looking for trouble. If he found some, if the sheep or whatever came next made him stay on for an additional week or a month, would he consider that to be good or bad news? And what would it be for her? A pleasant romp beneath the bedsheets was one thing—especially when she knew his thoughts and his heart lay on the Continent with his regiment. Bedding him even let her thumb her nose a little at her uncle and the Maxwell; they’d both likely turn up their toes and fall into their own graves if they knew she’d been naked with—or rather, would be naked with—the Sassenach duke.
If he continued to find reasons to stay, though, the entire equation changed. The question of her loyalties, of her… affections would cause all kinds of additional trouble. Not for him, because he would always have the next horizon on his mind, but for her, because she would never be going anywhere.
“I dunnae want to answer yer questions,” she finally whispered back, when she realized she’d been silent for too long. “They always mean trouble fer me.”
“I could say the same about you. I’d be happy not to talk, if you’d excuse yourself and join me somewhere more private. I’m not finished with you, Fiona.”
Oh, she should just tell him that that had been a mistake, and that they were lucky Dunncraigh’s arrival had interrupted them when it had. But the sensations and the memory were too fresh, and for God’s sake she’d been hard-pressed not to stare at the front of his close-fitting white breeches all night. But it hadn’t been a mistake. It had been a risk, and one she remained willing to take. Once they had the house to themselves again, that was. “The Duke of Dunncraigh and his men are staying here, Gabriel. Ye ken they’d string ye up by yer bollocks if they caught ye with me.”
He cleared his throat, obviously finding the threat amusing. “They could try,” he returned.
“Fiona, ye’re quiet this evening.”
She just managed to keep from jumping as Artur Maxwell dropped onto the couch beside her. “Am I? I’ll admit, I didnae wake this morning with the thought that the Duke of Dunncraigh would come calling.”
Where most of the Maxwell’s inner circle wore more traditional Highlands garb, the duke’s nephew had always preferred English attire. It made him stand out, she supposed, just as the crimson coat Gabriel wore set him apart from the crowd. The difference, though, lay in the why: the gentleman’s clothes were a costume for Artur, a way to gain attention. For Gabriel, they were simply the outer skin of who he was. And who she’d begun to wish he wasn’t.
“We do make a stir, I suppose,” Artur returned with a charming grin. He glanced over his shoulder. She followed suit, expecting to find Gabriel looming, but he’d strolled over to converse with the other duke in the room. “Uncle Domhnull wanted to surprise the Sassenach,” he went on. “We didnae want to have to listen to any pretty speeches aboot the English saving Highlanders from ourselves.”
“I dunnae think Lattimer knows any pretty speeches.” If he did, he’d never attempted to regale her with one. No, he clearly preferred directness with a touch of sarcasm. Veiled threats and pretty words hiding lies—those were tricks for other men.
Light green eyes assessed her bosom. “And how are ye faring here, with a murdering brute fer a master?”
Answering that question today was far more complicated than it would have been a week ago. She didn’t want to seem flippant, because evidently Dunncraigh had had a say in allowing her to take on Kieran’s job. On the other hand, too much dedication, too much praise for her new employer, and she’d be seen as a traitor to her clan. Fiona sighed. All this because she loved what she did and wanted to continue doing it.
“He worries aboot the missing sheep, and I see to everything else. Nae much different from before we even knew he existed, if a mite louder.”
Artur chuckled. “Lattimer doesnae mean to stay, I hear, so ye’ve nae much longer to listen to him.” He glanced toward the ceiling. “It’s a shame the way this place has been falling to rubble. Hopefully its fortune—and yers—will alter soon.”
She smiled. “It willnae, according to the curse. I dunnae think Lattimer’s likely to wake up as a Highlander.”
Brushing his fingers along her forearm, Artur stood again. “Aye, but heisthe last of his line.”
A sudden shiver ran up her spine. “But fer his younger sister, aye,” she blurted, not certain what had made her want to be certain everyone knew that Gabriel was not entirely alone in the world, but convinced it was vital that she do so.
“A sister? Well. I suppose even the devil had parents.”
As accustomed as she was to danger in her everyday life, for a moment Fiona couldn’t help wondering if she hadn’t just saved Gabriel Forrester’s life. If so, she didn’t feel even an ounce of regret. Sassenach or not, he was trying to help. And that was more than any of the other men in this room had attempted.
The drinking and sly insults continued until past midnight. As the clock in the foyer began chiming the quarter hour, Fiona set aside her teacup and stood. “If Yer Graces have nae objection, I’m off to bed. We’ve a count of the sheep to make at sunrise.”
Gabriel was the only one who even acknowledged her, giving her a brief nod from where he stood between Dunncraigh and Sergeant Kelgrove. She wouldn’t want to be Kelgrove tonight, a southern commoner caught between an English and a Scots duke. Of course she didn’t precisely envy her own situation tonight, either.
The hallway outside the sitting room had a chill to it, and she took a deep, grateful breath at the absence of both the heat and the tension. Immediately, though, the noise of more conversation hit her. Far too many servants milled up and down the hallway and spilled into the library and the billiards room where a handful of the Maxwell’s men had retreated to play.
She caught the arm of a second footman as he walked by. “Lochie, Fleming’s likely to be caught up till daybreak. I want ye and four others walking the floors all night. Make shifts if ye want, but five of ye are to be awake and alert at all times.”
He tugged on his forelock. “I’ll see to it. Are ye expecting trouble, Miss Fiona?”
“It does seem like it’d be a good time fer some,” she returned, and left the noise behind to ascend the stairs to the third floor and the long hallways of bedchambers. The storage room next to where Gabriel slept remained locked, so at least no one would be trying to frighten him into leaving tonight. Though knowing him, he might welcome a few ghosties after the deadly and dull drama of the evening.
