Page 61 of Hero in the Highlands
“So now ye figure the Sassenach’s the one to break the curse, do ye?” Hamish Paulk’s voice drawled from down the hallway.
Her shoulders stiffened, the warmth of her insides cooling, as if she’d just been dumped into Loch Sìbhreach. “I figure he’ll see that we have seed fer planting, that the irrigation trenches are repaired, and that the hoose keeps standing,” she commented, turning around to face her uncle as he approached. “Whether that breaks the curse or nae, it’s someaught.”
“And ye reckon the Maxwell wouldnae have done the very same thing? And that his attention wouldnae have benefited every Maxwell fer a hundred square miles?”
“I dunnae care aboot a hundred miles. His sheep would have driven oot every Maxwell fer fifteen square miles,” she returned, deliberately using the size of the Lattimer estate. Fiona narrowed her eyes. Never in her life had she spoken like that to her uncle. Instead of being mortified, however, she felt… strong. Because even though Gabriel had closeted himself with Sergeant Kelgrove to draft letters to his London solicitors, she wasn’t alone. “Ye and my grandfather and his grandfather have been the only chieftains here fer a hundred years, Uncle. Dunncraigh’s lived quite well withoot a chieftain at MacKittrick Castle. And withoot paying us any heed at all, in fact, except to complain aboot who owns the property.”
“A Sassenach owns th—”
“This property would be naught but grazing land fer Domhnull Maxwell’s sheep, and ye know it. He could look well by nae displacing anyone else aboot Dunncraigh, and still have space to make his money. He looks after his own. That hasnae included us since the Crown took MacKittrick.”
“But it would have included here again, if he owned MacKittrick. I’ve yet to meet anyone who can guess what the duke has up his sleeve, much less a female with but four years’ experience managing a ruin of an estate. Ye’re selfish, lass, convincing the major to stay on so ye dunnae lose yer own position. I’m ashamed of ye. Ye’re nae better than yer brother, making a big noise when ye should keep yer damned mouth shut.”
She blinked. “What ‘noise’ did Kieran make?” she asked, ice gripping her chest.
Her uncle leaned closer. “One nae as loud as the one ye made today, Fiona.” He straightened. “Ye mark that while ye watch the Sassenach change everything, bring in his Sassenach staff and a highborn Sassenach wife to bear him the next Duke of Lattimer. In six months, lass, ye’ll be nae more than a maid, if the duchess allows ye to stay at all. Ye’ll clean his piss bowl and be his whore, and ye’ll nae be a Maxwell ever again.” He turned around to walk back up the hallway. “Never again.”
Fiona stood where she was for a moment, her back to the tranquil view out in front of MacKittrick. Lattimer, rather. Hamish hadn’t touched a hair on her head, but all the same she felt like she’d been slapped. She’d come to welcome the fact that Gabriel had the power to stand against Dunncraigh, but at the same time she’d forgotten something vital. Gabriel didn’t talk like a duke or act like one, and she’d never heard of any aristocrat at all who insisted his steward call him by his Christian name.
But hewasa duke. One of considerable wealth and property. And given both his strong sense of duty and the ramshackle way he’d inherited, he likely would decide to marry and have children, and do it fairly quickly. If nothing else, he wouldn’t want to see Lattimer abandoned to the fates again. And of course she’d been the one to convince him of that.
Generally she appreciated irony. Not today, however. She didn’t consider herself particularly naïve, either, but had she been? When she’d spoken to the staff earlier, she’d meant every word she said. She’d imagined the next months, the next years, and in her dreams it had been the two of them, Gabriel and her, together. They would reclaim MacKittrick together. But none of her daydreams had concerned themselves with English laws and proper aristocratic wives for the most aristocratic of titles.
A tear plopped onto the back of her hand. Shaking herself, she wiped the wet off on her skirt, then rubbed her arm across her face. What mattered was that the land and the people prospered. Who accomplished that deed didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered.
“Miss Fiona?”
Jumping, she looked up. “Dolidh. Ye startled me.”
“I was just asking, miss,” the maid said, while a trio of others waited a few feet away, “do ye truly believe His Grace—Lattimer, I mean—is the one to break the curse?”
“Aye. I truly believe he’ll be the one to make MacKittrick a proud, grand place again.”
The girl grinned. “And what of ye and His Grace?”
Fiona’s cheeks warmed, despite her best effort to remain cool and collected.Good glory.They knew? “Beg pardon?”
The others giggled. “Dolidh says he’s sweet on ye,” Tilly took up. “And Niall Garretson told Oscar Ritchie he saw ye kissing oot by the mill.”
“Well, I say ye shouldnae be spreading such idle gossip,” Fiona managed, fighting against the renewed urge to cry. Tomorrow—or the next day, perhaps—she would have figured it out, how to turn away those questions with a smile. Today she wanted to stop thinking about anything.
“Och, well, then,” Dolidh returned, still clearly amused. “He’s a fit man all alone in the Highlands. I’d wager he’s aching by now fer a willing lass to warm his bed.”
Oh, now she wanted to begin pulling the maid’s hair. For Boudicca’s sake, she had no idea what to feel, except that she knew she hurt. Damn Uncle Hamish, anyway. He might have let her be a fool for a few more days. She was much happier being foolish.
Tilly abruptly gasped. A heartbeat later all four maids had scurried for the stairs. Fiona looked up the hallway, then ducked inside the music room and closed the door, pushing down on the handle as she did so to keep it from squeaking.Damnation.
She’d known the Duke of Dunncraigh was still at Lattimer. Somehow she’d expected, though, that he and his men would pack their things and stomp directly from their guest bedchambers to the front door. What had they been doing in the north wing, tramping the floor looking for any sympathetic souls?
The door’s handle lowered, and she hurriedly backed deeper into the room. Hamish railing at her had been harrowing enough. She wasn’t certain she could bear hearing the Duke of Dunncraigh hurling the same ugly arguments at her, particularly when they made so much sense. And what Hamish had said about Kieran and the “noise” her brother had made… She didn’t even want to think about it.
To her surprise it was Artur Maxwell, though, who strolled into the room. Sending her a sideways glance made a bit comical because of his black eye, he wandered over to the pianoforte and pressed a few of the keys. High-pitched discord echoed into the room, oddly reminding her that she needed to have the instrument tuned.
“If ye’re here to make threats and howl at me like a banshee, Hamish Paulk already gave me that speech.” She folded her arms across her chest.
He sat down at the pianoforte, flipping the tail of his English coat out behind him, and began playing a jaunty Scots tune. The words, as she recalled, were exceedingly bawdy and rather insulting. Artur played well, better than she did, more than likely.
“So ye’re here to serenade me?” she shot out. “I’m nae impressed.”
