The tune banged to a halt. “Hamish Paulk is a small-minded man who’d cut off his own feet if my uncle said he was too tall.” He sighed. “That said, ye ken Uncle Domhnull knows it was ye who told the servants here they could trust Lattimer. Ye did a fair job of turning a Sassenach major from the scourge of MacKittrick into its bloody savior. And I think that’ll be very interesting once yer English soldier takes a wrong step and the lot of ye realize he cannae walk across the surface of the loch.”
“He’ll do as any good landlord ought, and that’s all any of us has the right to expect.”
Artur laughed. “It may be all any of ye has the right to expect, but ye ken ye’ve made every lass and lad on his land think he’ll be performing miracles.” Standing, he sketched a bow before he turned back to the door. “Dunnae trouble yerself though, Fiona. When he falls, the Duke of Dunncraigh will be aboot to set things right again fer all the Maxwells.”
“Fer all the Maxwells but me, ye mean. Go on and make yer threat; it’ll itch at ye until ye scratch it.”
“Ye’re mistaken, lass. He’ll set things right fer ye, certain as anything. The two of ye may find ye disagree aboot what that entails, though.”
With that he slipped out the door again. After all the clever turns of phrase and sideways threats from Artur and Hamish, she almost wished now that it had been Dunncraigh stomping in and simply bellowing at her. At least Artur had only spat his venom about how Gabriel would eventually stumble. All in all, she would have to say that Hamish’s words had cut more deeply.
If she wanted proof that she was no longer welcome in clan Maxwell, though, they’d provided it. However this went, she, at the least, could never go back. And if her uncle was right about what Gabriel would do next, and it certainly made logical sense, shewasstill alone. And always would be, now.
She could of course try telling herself that it didn’t matter. The tenants and staff and workers here could call themselves whatever they wished—clan Maxwell, or not. As long as someone who cared about them remained on the premises, she’d far exceeded her own best expectations. So if Gabriel didn’t care for her as much as she’d come to care for him, it didn’t matter. Except that it did matter, but only to her.
Chapter Fourteen
The last thing Gabriel had ever expected to do when he set out to restore order to some unseen property in the Scottish Highlands was to set up a rebel encampment in the middle of enemy territory and then ask his former foes to join him in deposing their own ruler. What surprised him was that so many of them had agreed to do so. According to Kelgrove, less than a half-dozen of his hundred servants had slipped out the back way, belongings in hand. Generally he met traitors with the point of his sword, but he let them go without word or ceremony. If they chose to return by the end of the week, he would allow that, as well. This might well be battle, but it was the least straightforward one he’d ever fought. And the one with the most doubtful—and yet important—outcome.
The number of converts to his cause was likely why the trio of black coaches were on the front drive and stacked with luggage. If Dunncraigh hadn’t been so masterfully outflanked by a slip of a lass who possessed a heart as big as the Highlands, it might well have been a different duke fleeing the premises. But there they were, the Scottish duke and his men, descending the main stairs to join him in the foyer.
But where was the lass? He’d assumed she would be somewhere in the background flitting about—though “flitting” didn’t seem the right word for a woman with a tongue as sharp and nerves as steady as hers—to calm the worries of the staff, but Dunncraigh’s exit would look much more definitive if Fiona stood beside him in the foyer to watch the Maxwell depart.
Just as the duke reached the main floor, though, Gabriel felt her arrive, a rush of warmth and electricity directly beside him. At that moment, it might have been damned Bonaparte himself standing there glaring at him from the foyer, and Gabriel wouldn’t have so much as blinked. Confidence, ease—he was accustomed to feeling them, but not because someone else stood with him. Becauseshestood with him. Without looking back at her, he descended the stairs.
“I’ll nae shake yer hand, Lattimer,” Dunncraigh said, pausing as Hamish Paulk helped him on with his coat. “I consider ye and all who stand with ye to be scoundrels and traitors, none of ye worthy of—”
“Good-bye, Your Grace,” Gabriel interrupted, to stop any further threats and insults to his servants. “Best of luck with your sheep.”
Fiona’s fingers brushed his, though he wasn’t certain if it was out of appreciation or because he was pushing too hard. Despite her insistence that this was all about the good of his tenants, however, he knew it was also about strategy and positioning. And he damned well wanted to remind everyone in earshot about where the Maxwell’s priorities lay.
He followed the men outside. Above him he had no doubt every window was filled with eyes gazing down at the drive. They would see their laird leaving, but they would also see him staying, Fiona beside him. And as far as he was concerned, that last bit was a sight to which they’d best become accustomed.
“Ye remember my offer, Lattimer,” the duke said, pausing halfway inside his massive coach. “After ye’ve failed here I’ll still purchase the land from ye. And anyloyalMaxwells will be welcome to stay.” His steely gaze flicked to Fiona and back again.
“Thank you for wishing us ill. I’m certain we’ll all give your words the weight they deserve.”
“Bah.”
With a last glare Dunncraigh vanished inside the coach. Gabriel stepped forward and closed the vehicle’s door himself, so the footman wouldn’t have to do it.
As the coaches rolled away down the rutted drive, he turned his back on them to face Fiona. The sarcastic comment he’d been about to make faded as he took her in. She’d been crying. And that was unacceptable. “A word with you, Miss Blackstock?” he said, motioning her toward the castle’s massive front doors.
“Of course.”
She led the way into one of the dark, windowless storage rooms directly off the foyer. Gabriel took a candle from a hallway sconce and followed her inside, shutting the door behind him. The room was littered with rolled carpets and chairs badly in need of new upholstery. He set the candle on a frayed seat beside the door and faced her.
“What’s wrong?”
Her responding laugh had an edge of hysteria to it. “‘What’s wrong’?” she repeated. “Ye—we—just threw my clan chief oot the door.”
Gabriel scowled. “And?”
“And what?”
“You knew what we were doing.” A thought abruptly occurred to him, and he snapped his mouth shut over what he’d been about to say. Something inside his chest wrenched, painfully. He didn’t like the sensation. “You think you made a mistake.”
With a scowl she rushed forward to put a hand over his mouth. The candle flickered wildly. “Nae, I dunnae think I made a mistake,” she hissed. “And keep yer voice doon, or ye’ll open that door to find everyone’s fled the hoose.”
