doors down from Lattimerâs, and while she would have preferred to be farther away, this room had been hers since her second birthdayâwhich had coincided with old Lattimerâs exit. Aside from that, she wanted to be close enough to hear if any trouble should raise its head.
Her mind centered on how to best be rid of this large, troublesome Englishman, and her drifting thoughts swirled about a fresh bullet scar on a muscular arm, an assessing pair of light gray eyes, and a mouth that seemed almost cruel until he grinned. And when he kissed her ⦠Now she didnât know whether to fall asleep and dream about him, or stay awake to think about him all night. Blast it all.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Gabriel pushed aside the heavy curtains, then stilled with his hands gripping the green, linen-lined silk. âGood God,â he breathed, his bare feet, the chill in the air, the rumbling hunger in his stomach all forgotten.
Before him, stretching out over perhaps half a hundred miles, lay the Scottish Highlands. The land directly beyond Lattimerâs formal gardens sloped off gently to the shore of a vast blue lake that curved to the east out of sight beyond a cluster of tumbled ruins on the rocky bank. Trees edged down to the western shore and up the hill beyond, with patches of purple heather and thistle carpeting open meadows. Beyond the lake, rough, rock-tumbled hills lifted into craggy white mountains that stood starkly silhouetted by the rising sun.
Of all the places heâd been in the world, of all the things heâd seen, this ⦠humbled him. Belatedly two things occurred to him: he didnât know the name of the lake, and most of what he could see belonged to him.
Heâd known since heâd first donned a uniform that he was made for war. The idea of people trying to kill him, the violence, the cold and the heat, the long days of battle and the longer nights of waiting for the battle to comeâhe relished the things that broke other men. He was accustomed to responsibility and command, but owning land, being responsible for people who carried rakes and hoes rather than muskets and rifles, fell so far out of his realm of expertise he couldnât even sight it over the horizon.
Gabriel took a slow breath. He knew battle. And Lattimer had just become his battleground. If he looked at it that way, the castle was his command tent. The Highlands was his battlefield, and the Highlanders were either his troops, or the enemyâs. In the next few days he would have to decide which, and then act based on that fact.
As he turned to finish dressing, he caught sight of a lone figure strolling through the garden in the direction of the stables. Even with a heavy coat and a sturdy hat jammed low on her dusky hair, he recognized Fiona Blackstock. From that attire she was either dressed to go riding, or to rob a mail coach. Though the latter would certainly be an interesting twist, he had to assume she meant to trot off somewhere out of his reach.
Every good victory came with a prize, and she would be his. That didnât mean, however, that he was going to let her make more trouble while she was here. If she thought riding out early would keep her clear of him or give her the opportunity to gather reinforcements, she didnât know him at all. In addition, somewhere between the mudhole and the drawing room sheâd learned his name, and before heâd given it to her. Someone here knew him, and he needed to figure out who that was. Not because he had anything to hide, but because this campaign looked to be about strategy and leverage. He needed to know who stood on the field of battle.
Swiftly he finished buttoning his donated trousers, but that still left him without boots or a coat or jacket. He checked outside his door, but either Kelgrove hadnât yet risen, or the sergeant hadnât been able to chisel the mud off his Hessians.
Pulling the bell seemed too regal,
Her mind centered on how to best be rid of this large, troublesome Englishman, and her drifting thoughts swirled about a fresh bullet scar on a muscular arm, an assessing pair of light gray eyes, and a mouth that seemed almost cruel until he grinned. And when he kissed her ⦠Now she didnât know whether to fall asleep and dream about him, or stay awake to think about him all night. Blast it all.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Gabriel pushed aside the heavy curtains, then stilled with his hands gripping the green, linen-lined silk. âGood God,â he breathed, his bare feet, the chill in the air, the rumbling hunger in his stomach all forgotten.
Before him, stretching out over perhaps half a hundred miles, lay the Scottish Highlands. The land directly beyond Lattimerâs formal gardens sloped off gently to the shore of a vast blue lake that curved to the east out of sight beyond a cluster of tumbled ruins on the rocky bank. Trees edged down to the western shore and up the hill beyond, with patches of purple heather and thistle carpeting open meadows. Beyond the lake, rough, rock-tumbled hills lifted into craggy white mountains that stood starkly silhouetted by the rising sun.
Of all the places heâd been in the world, of all the things heâd seen, this ⦠humbled him. Belatedly two things occurred to him: he didnât know the name of the lake, and most of what he could see belonged to him.
Heâd known since heâd first donned a uniform that he was made for war. The idea of people trying to kill him, the violence, the cold and the heat, the long days of battle and the longer nights of waiting for the battle to comeâhe relished the things that broke other men. He was accustomed to responsibility and command, but owning land, being responsible for people who carried rakes and hoes rather than muskets and rifles, fell so far out of his realm of expertise he couldnât even sight it over the horizon.
Gabriel took a slow breath. He knew battle. And Lattimer had just become his battleground. If he looked at it that way, the castle was his command tent. The Highlands was his battlefield, and the Highlanders were either his troops, or the enemyâs. In the next few days he would have to decide which, and then act based on that fact.
As he turned to finish dressing, he caught sight of a lone figure strolling through the garden in the direction of the stables. Even with a heavy coat and a sturdy hat jammed low on her dusky hair, he recognized Fiona Blackstock. From that attire she was either dressed to go riding, or to rob a mail coach. Though the latter would certainly be an interesting twist, he had to assume she meant to trot off somewhere out of his reach.
Every good victory came with a prize, and she would be his. That didnât mean, however, that he was going to let her make more trouble while she was here. If she thought riding out early would keep her clear of him or give her the opportunity to gather reinforcements, she didnât know him at all. In addition, somewhere between the mudhole and the drawing room sheâd learned his name, and before heâd given it to her. Someone here knew him, and he needed to figure out who that was. Not because he had anything to hide, but because this campaign looked to be about strategy and leverage. He needed to know who stood on the field of battle.
Swiftly he finished buttoning his donated trousers, but that still left him without boots or a coat or jacket. He checked outside his door, but either Kelgrove hadnât yet risen, or the sergeant hadnât been able to chisel the mud off his Hessians.
Pulling the bell seemed too regal,
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