Page 16 of Hero in the Highlands
Gabriel rolled his left shoulder, the arm still a little stiff from the rifle shot he’d taken. “I’ve been told that I’m wealthy now. Send a requisition for a second uniform tomorrow. And see if there’s a tailor in that village—Strouth, isn’t it?—in the meantime. Just my being here has the locals spinning. If I go about naked people could die.”
Adam snorted. “With your permission, Major, I’m going to send for two uniforms. And when they arrive, I’m going to burn this one.” He hefted the basket, heading for the door. “I’ll see if I can at least save the boots. Pull that rope on the wall there if you need me,” he said, gesturing at a heavy, tasseled pull by the bed. “It’ll ring in the servants’ quarters. I’ll be in the kitchen seeing if I can render any of this wearable again, and I’ll more than likely be weeping.”
With a chuckle, Gabriel settled lower in the blessedly warm water. “Find yourself a bed, not in the servants’ quarters. You’re not a servant. Wake me at six, and locate some damned trousers for me.”
A moment later he found himself alone. Lined with interspersed panels of heavy wood paneling and burgundy and gold wallpaper, and liberally decorated with large, stuffed animal heads, the room seemed close despite its size. Two sets of three tall, rectangular windows, presently closed tight behind dark curtains the color of wet pine needles, allowed a view of the world outside. Dominated by a large oak bed that practically required a ladder to mount, the bedchamber clearly belonged to a wealthy, powerful man who liked to be reminded of what he owned. Except that that man now happened to be him, and he didn’t feel nearly as comfortable with his possessions.
Even with three days spent fencing with the late Ronald Leeds’s solicitors to learn about the late duke’s investments and his holdings, he hadn’t felt the slightest connection to the man or his… things. In fact, he’d mostly felt annoyance—though perhaps fury was a better word—at his great-uncle once removed, for upending a simple, orderly life. The fact that his sister could benefit from his altered circumstances seemed the only positive turn in any of this.
Here, however, surrounded by echoes of the man and his ancestors—the ones who’d evidently taken the land and MacKittrick Castle from clan Maxwell in the first place—he had his first real sense of who the former Duke of Lattimer actually was. If this room truly was an indication of the man’s character, Gabriel didn’t much like the late Ronald Leeds and his exaggerated sense of self-importance.
The wind’s moaning resumed, the sound cold and mournful. The fire sputtered again, turning the room into a cave of deep, flickering shadows. He’d have to bank the fire before he retired for the night, or risk the wind pushing hot coals off the hearth and onto the old Persian rug set before it. Black-eyed Fiona wouldn’t weep any tears at his demise, but he was loath to make things that easy for her.
While the bathwater had been hot he hadn’t minded the dirt so much, but now that it had begun to cool he became very aware of the layer of mud settling beneath his arse. With a sigh he stood, stepping onto the chill stone floor and knotting the coarse linen towel around his hips.
He emptied the glass Kelgrove had left beside the bath of its generous pour of whisky, and walked barefoot across yet another dark, moth-eaten Persian rug to refill it. Three weeks ago imagining anything beyond how he meant to keep his men and himself alive beyond the next day, how he meant to win his next battle, had seemed a waste of time. If he everhadindulged in daydreams, he would never have been able to conjure anything as absurd as this. Even as a holiday. Him, the Duke of Lattimer, standing in a grand room in an ancient house set on more land than some of the American Colonies could claim for themselves.
The painting of a dog and yet more damned roosters that hung on one side of the chimney banged and set itself off kilter by a good two inches.Hm.Stepping up to the wall, he nudged the painting back to level. A gap or two in the chimney wouldn’t surprise him in the least, given the state of the rest of the building, but that could be dangerous. He’d have to look into it in the morning.
On the other side of the chimney a book jumped, and three tomes shot out and fell to the floor four feet away from where they’d begun. “Ah,” he said aloud, squatting down to retrieve the books. “You’re a ghost.” Gabriel turned the books over in his hands. “A ghost who doesn’t care for poetry. Well, I’m not fond of it, either.”
The idea of spirits wandering about the old castle—or anywhere, for that matter—didn’t particularly surprise him. In twelve years of fighting he’d seen too many things that neither logic nor the church could explain. The idea of some spook here in the room with him actually felt… not quite comforting, but almost fortunate. At the least, books flying off shelves kept him from dwelling on why he’d come here and what the devil he was supposed to do about it. He’d be more comfortable if someone would just point a gun a him.
“You make a fucking ridiculous duke, Gabriel,” he muttered, downing half the whisky in the glass and setting the rest aside for the ghost. The sooner he made Kelgrove’s new position official and returned to his own duties, the better.
He needed to leave as soon as possible, to go back to his command before he could lose the edge that kept his men and himself alive. Because while this might be a proper setting for a duke, it was too much, too opulent, and too frivolous for Major Gabriel Forrester—and that was the only person he knew how to be.
Someone knocked at his door, and he walked over to pull it open. Black eyes widened, and Fiona took a quick step backward. “I— Where’s yer damned valet?”
Gabriel allowed himself a grin, both at her discomfiture and because she’d stopped his mind from traversing a road he had no wish to explore. Yes, she’d caused him to jump into a mudhole, and then get lost in a bog for nearly three hours, but at this moment he felt grateful. “Adam Kelgrove isn’t a valet. He’s my aide-de-camp. And I sent him off to bed. Is there something you required?”
“I— Nae. I dunnae require a thing from ye.” She looked down at his hands. “Ye like poetry, do ye?”
For a bare moment he’d hoped she would say yes, she did require something, and that it was sex. That was what he wanted of her. The chill from the hallway began to wash into the room and swirl up his legs beneath the towel. “No. I don’t read poetry. Evidently there’s a ghost in here.”
“Aye? I’m nae surprised. There are nasty spirits all aboot the castle.”
Gabriel nodded. “No doubt. I’m getting cold standing here, so either come in or go away,” he said, turning his back to head for the fireplace where it was warmer, and setting the books down on the mantel. “And I assume you wanted me in this room because of the wind stirring up the fireplace and that attractive moaning sound it makes? And the ghost, of course.”
She followed him into the room, closing the door behind her. The hairs on his arms lifted; perhaps she did want something, after all. He damned well hoped so. Gabriel took a slow breath.
“I wanted ye in here because it’s the laird’s bedchamber,” she retorted, hefting the bundled material she carried against her chest. “Do the ghosties and the wind trouble ye, Lattimer? I can give ye a different room. It willnae be as grand, of course.”
“Don’t bother. It’s out of the weather, which puts it above most places I’ve spent the night.” He faced her again, and caught her quick gaze lifting from his torso back to his face again. From her expression, though, he couldn’t tell whether the patchwork of scars that decorated his back and chest intrigued or horrified her. He was accustomed to both reactions from the fairer sex.
“Dead Highlanders looking fer bloody vengeance against an English soldier dunnae trouble ye, either?”
Faint suspicion over the ghostly events and her timing in coming to call on him touched him, but he set it aside for later. Instead he chuckled. “Dead enemies don’t trouble me much at all, Miss Blackstock. Not nearly as much as live ones.”
Her scowl deepened. “Well, then. Suit yerself.” She tossed the bundle of cloth at his bare chest. “Ye said ye had naught else to wear. Seems foolish to me that ye’d ride all the way to the Highlands withoot a change of clothes, but mayhap that’s the way of Sassenach these days. Those”—and she gestured at the bundle—“belonged to my brother. Ye’re of a height, I reckon.”
“Thank you.” He wouldn’t put it past her to have sprinkled them with pepper, but he did appreciate the gesture. “And I do have clothes; my trunk should be arriving via mail coach by the end of the week.”
She folded her arms across her rather modest bosom. “Mail coach? Ye’re the mighty Duke of Lattimer. Ye can purchase a dozen coaches, ye ken.”
When had it happened, that other people understood his life better than he did? “I suppose so. I’ve recently been handed an entirely new set of rules. I’m still learning them.”
“Ye admit to that?” She sounded surprised.
