Free Hero in the Highlands by Suzanne Enoch Page B

came with it were two very different things, and bits of paper and vellum had never much impressed Highlanders, anyway. So aye, he could surprise her today. But by the end of this he would be the one running back south with his tail between his legs, and she would be the one laughing at his red-coated backside as he fled.
    She shook herself back to the present just in time to hear Uncle Hamish ordering Fleming, Lattimer’s longtime butler, to open one of the room suites on the south end of the castle for His Grace’s use. “Nae,” she interrupted. “The Duke of Lattimer should have the lord’s chambers. Fleming, open the master suite.”
    Hamish sent her a glance, brow lowering. “Fiona, ye ken Lattimer’s old rooms havenae—”
    â€œBecause His Grace hasnae been here for two decades,” she cut in. “Ye can see he’s here now, and he should have the laird’s bedchamber.” As she spoke, she kept her level gaze on her uncle, daring him to countermand her orders. He might be the chieftain of this bit of clan Maxwell, but the running of this estate was hers. He didn’t even lay his head here. And however polite he might be now, he couldn’t like having an English duke about when for the past twenty years men had bowed only to him and the other clan leaders who came calling.
    As she’d expected, he finally nodded. “Aye. Ye’ve the right of it, Fiona. The master’s chambers fer the master of the house.”
    With a nod and a suspicious look at their new employer and his companion, Fleming galloped off to air out the quartet of rooms and see fresh linens laid. She would have to go up there herself later to make certain everything had been seen to. Thankfully a handful of hours of daylight remained; going into the master suite after dark was a task no one in his right mind wanted under the best of circumstances.
    â€œThank you,” the duke said. “Do as you will, but I’m accustomed to sleeping on a cot with a stretch of canvas for a roof. Any bed will do.”
    â€œWe’re nae as primitive as that,” she returned. “And we’ll see to it ye have yer due.” Oh, that they would.
    â€œWhile ye wait, would ye care fer some tea, or perhaps someaught more substantial?” Hamish asked. “Mrs. Ritchie’s the finest cook in these parts, and Fiona’s seen to it that the larder’s full.”
    â€œI’d rather take a walk through the house and about the grounds,” the black-haired demon said. “I like to know my surroundings.”
    â€œOf course,” her uncle replied. “I’ll summon one of the men to take ye aboot.”
    â€œI have a steward to do that,” the duke countered. “Unless you have an objection to accompanying me, Miss Blackstock.”
    â€œI have nae objection, Yer Grace.” None that she had any intention of discussing with him, anyway.
    A slight smile touched his mouth, but not his eyes. “It’s Major Forrester, or Gabriel, if you please.”
    â€œFer Saint Andrew’s sake,” she burst out, before she could stop herself. “I’m nae calling ye either one of those. Ye can be Yer Grace, or Lattimer. I’ll nae have ye back in London telling all yer pretty friends how ignorant Highlanders are of proper custom.”
    He laughed, though she didn’t see anything the least bit amusing in the entire conversation. But then she hadn’t just inherited ten thousand acres of land that should have belonged to native Highlanders. “What’s so amusing?” she demanded aloud.
    â€œI don’t have any pretty friends,” he returned, “and I doubt any of them are in London, either. Most of them are still in Spain, fighting Bonaparte.”
    She wished he still was. “A shame ye had to leave them.”
    â€œI’ll agree with that, Miss Blackstock. And ‘Lattimer’ suits me better than