Highland Heiress

by Margaret Moore

  The constable looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. “I’m not saying it wasn’t, my lady, and I’d expect a man like Mr. McHeath to put up a fight, but there’ll still have to be an inquest when he’s well enough to give evidence.”

  At least the constable was willing to be reasonable, and so, therefore, was she. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to testify eventually,” she said in a more serene manner. “What about those other men he described? Have you found any trace of them?”

  “Not yet, but if they’re still around Dunbrachie, we will,” Mr. McCrutcheon answered staunchly.

  They wouldn’t if they’d already fled, and if they’d done what they’d been paid to do, she doubted they would stay in the vicinity. Or they might, if they’d been paid to make more mischief.

  It was all getting to be too much. Mr. McHeath attacked, her school burned down, Robbie suing her, her father… “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. McCrutcheon, I’d like to rest.”

  “Aye, my lady, it’s been a long night and day for you, I’m sure. There’s just one question I need to ask you. Can you think of anyone who would pay to have your school burned down?”

  She had already dismissed Big Jack MacKracken because that fire could have endangered the rest of Dunbrachie. Now she was sure he couldn’t be responsible, because he certainly wouldn’t have the money to pay anybody to do anything. And while Robbie McStuart could afford it, he had seemed so genuinely upset….

  That Gordon was hurt. Not that her school had been destroyed. “Sir Robert has been very angry with me for breaking our engagement.”

  “Oh, I doubt it was him, my lady,” the constable replied evenly.

  She should have realized that a man whose family had wielded power and influence in a village for generations might be considered above suspicion, for anything. There was no point protesting unless and until she had proof he was the person behind it. “If not Sir Robert, I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “Well, good day to you, then, my lady. You be careful now, won’t you?”

  “I will,” she assured him.

  Feeling as if she hadn’t slept in a week, Moira went back upstairs. She knocked softly on the door of the blue bedroom, which was soon opened by a sympathetic Mrs. McAlvey. “He’s sleeping like a baby, my lady. I can wake him up easy enough, so don’t you worry. He’s going to be fine, or my name isn’t Martha. You go on and have a nap yourself. You wouldn’t want him to see you with circles under your eyes, would you?”

  Moira warmed with a blush, but she didn’t disagree. She didn’t want Mr. McHeath to see her looking tired or upset.

  If she were wise, she thought as she went to her own bedroom, she wouldn’t let him see her at all. She would keep her distance from him, if only for her own peace of mind.

  And heart.

  “Well now, that’s better, I’m sure,” Mrs. McAlvey said as she briskly tucked the blanket around Gordon the following morning. “All clean and tidy and looking much more like a gentleman than a prizefighter,” she added with a wink.

  He was glad to hear it. It was bad enough he’d been in that fight; he didn’t want his face to appear as if that was the way he earned his living.

  “I’m sure Lady Moira will be happy to see you so well.”

  “I’m very grateful for her hospitality—and her father’s, too, of course.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s the earl you’re so anxious to see,” Mrs. McAlvey said with a chortle that grew into a laugh. “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that, young man. I’ve been nursing for twenty years and if you can’t learn about people in that time, you’re a dolt. Now you just have a nice nap, and you’ll be all refreshed when her ladyship comes round to see you.”

  “She may not,” he replied. “I’m sure she has better things to do.”

  Mrs. McAlvey reached into the valise at her feet and pulled out some knitting that looked like either a small blanket or a large muffler, in a rather eye-popping shade of scarlet. “She may, but she’ll come round nonetheless. She’s the sort worries about everybody, especially them that she feels responsible for, and she feels responsible for you.”

  “She shouldn’t, and I’m truly sorry for any trouble I’ve caused her.”

  “Oh, I don’t think she’s upset about having to look after you. It’s her father. He’s gone off again, probably more than half in his cups somewhere, like as not.” She regarded Gordon with a raised brow. “Surely a fellow in your profession can see there’s something amiss with the man.”

  “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him.”

  “Well, if you had, my buck, you’d know from the first glance that he drinks too much and it’s gone to his liver. His nose is red and his eyes have that yellow tint gives it away. I realized the man was a tosspot the first time I saw him in the village—and so has Dr. Campbell. But there’s not much he can do if the man won’t come and see him.”

  If the earl drank to excess, like Robbie, it was no wonder Moira had rejected his friend.

  And he sympathized with her. He’d had more than one client who overimbibed, and he saw the havoc it created for families—the uncertainty, the bitterness, the resentment, the chaos, the quarrels, the rage.

  Despite the sudden pain that made him gasp, he threw off the covers and started to get out of bed.

  “Here now! What do you think you’re doing?” Mrs. McAlvey demanded.

  “Getting up,” he replied, although he felt dizzy and sick when he moved, and his side burned as if it were on fire.

  But he couldn’t stay here, not if it meant trouble for Moira, and conflict with her father. After all, he’d prepared the initial papers for the lawsuit. Of course the earl would want him gone at once.

  The miracle was that Moira hadn’t.

  “Oh no, you’re not,” Mrs. McAlvey exclaimed, pushing him back down. “You’ve had a bad blow to the head and you’ll open that cut in your side, you great daft git!”

  He tried to sit up again, but she held him down, and she had the strength of the Titan, or so it seemed. “I have to go!” he insisted.

  “Not yet! You know what the doctor said—or do you want to have a relapse, maybe even kill yourself? That’d be a fine way to thank the young lady!” Mrs. McAlvey declared as she examined the bandage at his side. “You have opened that wound! I’ll have to rebandage it. It’s going to hurt, but it’s no more than you deserve for disobeying the doctor, and me.”

  Open wound or not, he had to leave.

  “Stay still!” Mrs. McAlvey barked as she started to undo the bandage. “Whist, the blood’s dried and this is going to stick.”

  And then she tugged. He yelped from the pain—and everything went dark.

  Later that day, after Mrs. McAlvey told Moira that Mr. McHeath shouldn’t be disturbed but she could see him tomorrow, Moira rode along the road leading to her school. Since those two men and that dog hadn’t yet been found, she wasn’t alone; Jem and another groom rode behind her.

  She wanted to survey the damage before she met with Mr. Stamford to decide what ought to be done next.

  As they traveled through the wood, the sun peeked out from behind high clouds and the song of birds broke the quiet. It was so lovely here, away from the dust and grime of the city. And peaceful, too, when all was well.

  In spite of recent events, she felt happy, and not just because Mr. McHeath was recovering. A brief note from her father had arrived while she was napping. Although all it said was that he had arrived safely in Peebles and would be back before the end of the week, she could take comfort from the fact that if he was with his cronies who led him astray, he wouldn’t have written at all.

  She was also sure it would be better if he stayed away until Mr. McHeath was well enough to go to Sir Robert’s. Her father wouldn’t be pleased to have Mr. McHeath for a guest.

  He would likely be even more upset to discover his daughter secretly wished she could change places with Mr. McHeath’s nurse. She wanted to be the one to lay a napkin over his chest before
he ate, to change his bandages, to cover him, to talk or simply sit in silence as he healed.

  A pony cart came into view.

  A pony cart driven by Sarah Taggart, and she had her two friends with her. As usual, Miss Hornby had on a bonnet with far too much ornamentation, and too little in the way of flattering colors for her complexion. Miss Swanson had on a prettier ensemble of Nile green, and Miss Taggart’s pelisse was of superfine wool in a lovely shade of blue. If only her personality could be as nice as her taste in clothes!

  Had Moira been alone, she would have ridden off the road into the trees to avoid them. Since she wasn’t, she had no choice but to remain where she was and be exquisitely polite.

  “Good day, Miss Taggart, Miss Hornby, Miss Swanson,” she dutifully greeted when the cart came abreast of her horse.

  “Good day,” Miss Taggart answered, apparently for all three. “Oh, dear, you have had a time, haven’t you? You look utterly done in.”

  If ever wolfish derision was clothed in the sheep’s wool of sympathy!

  “How is poor Mr. McHeath? I do hope he wasn’t too badly hurt!” Miss Hornby said, interrupting the chilly silence.

  Moira had always thought Mabel Hornby would make a good friend if she weren’t a satellite of Sarah Taggart. “He was quite seriously injured, but he’s getting better, I’m happy to say.”

  “So he’ll be leaving you soon?” Sarah Taggart archly inquired.

  She made it sound as if Moira and Mr. McHeath would be ending an affair, and Moira didn’t doubt she meant it as a jab. Her arrow went far wide of the mark, though, for instead of making Moira angry, it elicited exciting images of being in bed with Gordon McHeath. Being naked with an equally naked Gordon McHeath. Being intimate with him. Touching and kissing and caressing.

  “I said, will he be leaving you soon?” Sarah repeated more forcefully.

  “As soon as he’s able,” she replied, her fantasy acting as a most effective calming agent, so that Sarah’s attempts to upset her seemed like the pesky buzzing of a harmless insect. “He has to wait for Dr. Campbell’s permission.”

  “How fortunate for you. He must be most fascinating company.”

  “He’s a very interesting man,” Moira agreed, “but of course I want him to get well as quickly as possible.” She gave Sarah her most empty smile. “Don’t you?”

  “Naturally,” Sarah snapped as a blush reddened her cheeks.

  “You’re lucky you’ll get to keep him for a while longer,” Emmeline said, as if he were a pet, “since he’ll have to be well enough to travel to Edinburgh before he can leave.”

  “He need only be well enough to go to McStuart House,” Moira corrected.

  “Oh, dear, she doesn’t know,” Sarah said with a smug glance at her friends.

  “She must not,” Emmeline agreed.

  “We only learned about it ourselves,” Mabel noted, earning her a censorious glance from Sarah.

  “Sir Robert’s not in Dunbrachie,” Sarah announced with a superior air, as if Moira must be stupid not to know his whereabouts. “He’s gone to Edinburgh. On business, I understand. Legal business.”

  Moira waited for Sarah to make a snide remark about the lawsuit.

  It didn’t come.

  Instead, she said, “There’s a rumor going about that he wants to sell McStuart House. He must not want to stay where there are so many unpleasant memories.”

  Relieved that Sarah was still ignorant about the action for breach of promise or she surely would have mentioned it by now, Moira had a few darts of her own to launch. “Perhaps he’s so ashamed of his behavior, he thinks he should sell his family’s home and never show his face here again. Obviously there’s nothing and no one here to tempt him to stay.”

  Sarah’s lips curved up in a most unladylike and ugly scowl before she delivered a vicious slap of her reins on her pony’s rump. The poor beast gave a startled whinny and took off down the road. With a little shriek, Emmeline Swanson grabbed her bonnet and Mabel Hornby clung to the side of the cart for dear life, although she also managed to call out, “Give Mr. McHeath our best wishes!”

  As the cart disappeared around a bend, Moira realized the men behind her were stifling guffaws. She smiled, too, for a moment. Then she sighed as she thought of Mr. McHeath going back to Edinburgh.

  Where he belonged. And she did not.

  There was nothing she could do about that. There was something she could do for the children of Dunbrachie, however, so she nudged her horse to a walk and continued toward the charred remains of the school, although that was not uppermost in her thoughts. Why was Robbie leaving Dunbrachie? How could he even think of selling his ancestral home…unless he had to. But why? The scandal of their broken engagement affected her far more than him.

  Why else would a man sell his family home?

  Because he no longer wanted it?

  In Robbie’s case, that was unlikely. He’d been too proud of that house, and its history. He’d been so happy showing her all the portraits and explaining who was who in the family tree. Why else?

  A house such as that took a lot of money to maintain. And Robbie spent a lot of money, on entertaining and clothing. Was it possible he no longer had the funds to maintain it?

  And if he was lacking the money for that, how desperate might he be for funds? Desperate enough that he would want to marry a wealthy man’s daughter?

  If so, wouldn’t that make the breaking of that engagement even more devastating for him? That would explain so much….

  They were about fifty yards away from the ruins of the school when she saw something that made her rein in quickly and signal for her men to be quiet.

  Somebody was already there.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” Moira shouted, her grip tightening on her reins.

  His face and hands and clothes black with soot, Big Jack MacKracken came out from behind a half-fallen wall.

  “Why are you here?” Moira demanded as her men rode up beside her and Jem reached for his riding crop.

  Big Jack didn’t answer. He stood where he was and, to Moira’s even greater surprise, Lillibet came around the wall, her face and hands and clothing equally dirty. She smiled up at her father before saying, “We’re cleaning away the burned wood from inside, my lady.”

  Moira wouldn’t have believed that explanation if Big Jack had been here by himself. Since Lillibet was with him, it seemed more plausible. Unfortunately, however, as she knew from sad experience, a daughter might be all too willing to make excuses for an errant parent’s behavior.

  “Is that so, MacKracken?” she asked, nudging her horse a little closer.

  “Aye, my lady,” he said, his face reddening beneath the soot as he twisted his equally filthy cap in his big hands.

  She halted her horse and, after a moment’s hesitation, dismounted. “I thought you didn’t approve of my school.”

  “Well, my lady, it’s like this,” the big man began, shuffling his feet like an embarrassed lad. “I didn’t hold with it, but that don’t mean I’m willin’ to let some ruffians come to Dunbrachie and burn anything. Seems the least I can do is offer a bit of a hand with the cleaning up.”

  It was a start, anyway. “I’m grateful for your help,” she answered sincerely. She was about to offer to pay him, when Robbie’s stinging words about being an arrogant Lady Bountiful came to her mind. “Thank you.”

  Nevertheless she simply couldn’t let this opportunity to speak on behalf of his children pass without further comment. “Perhaps when my school’s rebuilt, you’ll let Lillibet come. She’s a very clever girl—just the sort any shopkeeper would be happy to hire if she could read and do figures.”

  “I’ll think on it,” Big Jack muttered, glancing down at his daughter, who looked up at him as if she’d just been given a seat at a banquet.

  Moira didn’t press him further. “Will you show me what you’ve done?”

  “Aye, my lady,” he replied with a
nod.

  “A most excellent recovery,” the doctor said two days later as he packed up his medical bag after examining the bandage over Gordon’s eye and his side, leaving his patient to gingerly button his nightshirt. “I think another day or two, and you should be able to ride in a carriage. Not if it goes a gallop, of course, but a nice leisurely journey should be possible.”

  “Thank you, Doctor, for your excellent care,” Gordon replied, knowing he should sound happy, even if he wasn’t.

  Well, he was glad to hear he was healing; he wasn’t so happy to hear he could leave, even though he had no right to stay.

  Mrs. McAlvey, standing near the door, delicately cleared her throat. “I had a most excellent nurse, too,” Gordon said.

  “Indeed, you have. Mrs. McAlvey is one of the best.”

  The older woman justifiably beamed. “I’ll be glad to continue, if you need my help when you go home.”

  “Thank you,” Gordon said.

  “Ah, my lady!” the doctor exclaimed as Lady Moira herself appeared on the threshold.

  As always, she was simply but exquisitely dressed, her glossy brown hair modestly styled, her gown a day dress of pale green sprigged muslin. Most beautiful of all was her shy smile, yet it was even more thrilling to know that beneath that bashful exterior lurked an amazingly passionate woman.

  Even though she had only looked in on him briefly at night and in the morning for the past two days, his admiration and desire had not diminished. If anything, his appreciation for her excellent qualities and his own passionate yearnings had increased, so that he longed for those few brief moments in her company or even just a glimpse of her smile.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been feeding this young man,” the doctor declared, “but his recovery is remarkable. Mr. McHeath should be quite fit to travel in another day or two.”

  “So soon?”

  He mustn’t attach any significance to her surprised query. Or think that was disappointment in her doe-brown eyes. He’d learned the folly of thinking a woman’s reaction or expressions meant more than they did. Hadn’t he?