“Lattimer, MacKittrick, whatever name it goes by, is falling apart. Losing sheep’s the least of its troubles. Ye, yer old uncle, his father before him, nae a one of ye’s given a damn aboot this place. I reckon ye’ve heard there’s a curse.”
“I have.”
“Well, it’s real. It’s ye Sassenach killing this land. Too many fields have gone fallow, yer irrigation system’s half rotted and clogged with roots and fallen trees. Ye had two sizable villages here, but one of ’em burned to the ground and the other’s filled with cotters well past their prime because all the young folks have either taken employment here at the hoose or fled to Inverness. Ye’ve sheep, cattle, fish, textiles, crops, whisky, and pottery that all need a plan, nae just someone to count them up.”
That hardly sounded fair to Fiona, but Gabriel kept his objection to himself. Whether he agreed with the information being handed him or not, it still might prove useful.
Dunncraigh took a deep breath. “What does that all mean, ye may ask? Especially to a man nae accustomed to owning more than yer pistol and a hat? It means a man with his sights set on a different life has nae business keeping this property. It’s nae a hobby. The people here arenae soldiers, and they cannae manage withoot help from a laird. Ye can only fight one war, and ye’ve already said this one doesnae interest ye. And thisisa battlefield—a war against the weather, the price of wool, sickness, ill chance—it’s a new fight every day, and ye never get to declare victory. Nae here. So ye go play soldier duke, lad, until ye realize ye cannae be both and ye cannae give away one of them. And then ye’ll still have yer other, comfortable profitable properties in England, where the fight’s much easier. Sell this one to me, and I’ll be its general.”
It was all just words, things he’d thought of in passing before. Lined up, piled together all at once, though… Gabriel pushed back against the sensation that he couldn’t breathe. All the weight of Lattimer, of the smaller estates in Cornwall and Devon, of his regiment, the work he’d put into his career, the men he’d watched die, the lives he’d saved—it wanted to crush him. And not just because of the added weight of his new responsibilities. It finally occurred to him—he wasn’t Major Gabriel Forrester any longer. He would never, could never, be that man ever again. Nothing, not a damned thing in his entire life, could be as it was. And there stood Dunncraigh, looking at him calmly, expecting an answer.
“I’ll think about it,” he grunted, and turned away.
He needed to move, to catch his breath, to give his mind a moment to churn his flashes of thought into something coherent. If there was anything coherent to consider.
Sense lay in there somewhere. Kelgrove couldn’t help—the sergeant had already realized that no one would allow a duke onto the battlefield. Why hadn’theseen it? Because he simply couldn’t imagine anything else? Because fighting, leading troops into battle, had taken up nearly half of his life?
He wanted to talk to someone. And only one countenance pushed its way through the muddle of his thoughts. Only one person he knew would be forthright and honest, without worrying over being insubordinate or losing employment or position.
Before he’d consciously decided his next step he found himself walking up to the outlying buildings of Strouth. His legs were tired, which made sense considering he’d walked mostly uphill for better than a mile.
“Yer Grace,” a young lady carrying a milk pail squeaked, nearly dropping her load.
“Good morning,” he said, almost reflexively. “Have you seen Fiona? Miss Blackstock?”
“Aye. She brought a sack of apples up to the church. I think she’s still there, Yer Grace.”
“Thank you.”
The small stone-and-wood church lay at the highest end of the pathway that meandered among the cottages, with the inn, the smithy, and the handful of shops that made up the village ranged below that. The other inhabitants he encountered looked surprised to see him on foot, but otherwise went about their own tasks. They had their own lives to see to, and he had made it clear that he had no interest in them—whether that had been his intention or not.
He pushed open the faded gray door of the church and stepped inside. It smelled of roses and mildew, a heady and slightly nauseating combination. Only one of the pews sat occupied, by a rotund woman wearing a matron’s cap who snored enthusiastically. It struck him that he didn’t know her name, or her family, and yet at this moment her welfare was his responsibility.
Fiona sat in an alcove to one side of the altar, opposite the priest’s vestry. Father Jamie Wansley, who evidently worried about an English army marching on Strouth, sat next to her. They both munched on apples and were chuckling over something.
Jealousy stabbed at him again, sharp and unexpected. Last night, and for days before that, he’d felt a connection. Was he the only one? Should he even have come here, or was he being an idiot twice over?
She turned her head and saw him. “Ga— Yer Grace. I didnae…” She trailed off, her expression shifting from amused to alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
All he needed was for Father Jamie to begin a rumor that the Duke of Lattimer had lost his damned mind. Gabriel forced a smile. “Nothing. You’d mentioned something about new windows for the church, and I wanted to take a look for myself.”And to see you,he added silently, hoping he wasn’t on the verge of making the worst mistake of his life. It didn’t feel that way, but the time had long passed when he relied on feelings over facts. Or was that time gone, along with what he’d thought would be his future? And Fiona Blackstock was all that remained—if she remained. For him.
Chapter Twelve
Fiona blinked. She and Gabriel hadn’t conversed about church windows that she could recall, but if he’d gone to the bother of conjuring an excuse to be there, something had clearly happened. Setting aside her half-eaten apple, she stood up. “Of course. Father, will ye excuse me? I’ll show His Grace that cracked window. That’s a good place to start, I reckon.”
The parson stood to sketch a deep, too formal bow. “Of course. I’m honored by yer presence at our humble place of worship, Yer Grace. Any repairs ye can make fer us would be welcome.”
As soon as the priest vanished into his vestry and closed the door behind him, no doubt to compose a list of all repairs he’d ever dreamed of, Fiona sat down again. “What is it, fer God’s sake? Ye look like death shook ye and threw ye into a ditch.”
He glanced over at her, briefly amused. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. This man who’d traveled the world and faulted her for not seeing enough of it, had for some reason set his sights on her. And now, when something had sent him here to her with an excuse on his lips—the first lie she’d ever heard him utter—she felt… Despite what she knew, what she’d been raised to believe about foreigners in general and English in particular, she wanted to see that troubled look gone from his face. And she felt worried. What in the world could upend a man who not only faced death every day, but went riding out looking for it?
“Dunncraigh offered to purchase Lattimer from me. Take it off my hands.”
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Lattimer, actually returning to Maxwell hands again? That should have left her elated. Gabriel meant to leave anyway, so what did it matter? Except that he should have been elated, as well, and instead he looked almost angry. And he’d come to find her.
“When Wellington told me I’d inherited a dukedom,” he said after a moment, his gaze on the pulpit, “he said he was sorry to have lost a fine officer. It never occurred to me that he knew what he was saying. That last day, when he knew about my title and I didn’t, he pulled me out of the field to go stand on a hill and watch the battle from safety. I couldn’t do it. I saw a mistake my lieutenant was making, one that would cost lives and perhaps even the battle, and I charged in to set things right. That’s when I got this.” He gestured at where the fresh scar on his forearm lay.
“Ye’re a brave man, Gabriel. I’ve nae doubted that, from the moment we first met.”
