Highland Heiress

by Margaret Moore

  “If he wishes,” Dr. Campbell confirmed.

  And he really had to go home. “My clients were expecting me to return in a fortnight,” he said as much to himself as to her and the others.

  “Sir Robert came when you were first brought here and he said he would inform someone named Mitford,” she replied.

  How difficult it must have been for her to talk to Robbie—another debt he could likely never repay. “Mitford’s a solicitor friend who’s working with my clients while I’m away. But he has his own practice, so I shouldn’t be away longer than necessary.”

  Even if he wanted to.

  He couldn’t gauge her reaction to that.

  “Will Mr. McHeath be well enough to travel all the way to Edinburgh, Doctor?”

  The doctor’s brow furrowed. “I had assumed he would be returning to Sir Robert’s.”

  Before Gordon could correct him, Lady Moira said, “Sir Robert isn’t at home. He’s gone to Edinburgh.”

  Gordon stared at her in surprise. Why had Robbie gone there? Had he decided to tell Mitford what had happened in person—or did he have another, more self-centered reason for going? A debt? A woman? Because he simply wanted to?

  Gordon could believe any or all of those explanations might be the right one.

  “Is that so?” Dr. Campbell said as he closed his black leather bag with a snap. “In that case, I would recommend that Mr. McHeath stay here another few days.”

  “Not if my presence is an imposition,” Gordon said quickly, resolved not to be a burden for Lady Moira, or cause her any more trouble.

  “You’re most welcome to stay,” she said, her voice calm and even, without enthusiasm—or reluctance, though, either.

  Dr. Campbell’s glance went from one to the other before he said, “I’ll see myself out,” and started for the door.

  “I’d like a word with you, Doctor, about what Mr. McHeath ought to be eating,” Mrs. McAlvey said, following him.

  “Of course.”

  After the doctor had gone out, the older woman paused and looked back from the doorway, her expression grave, but her eyes shining with sympathy, making her as beautiful as an angel of mercy as she addressed Lady Moira. “However Mr. McHeath may be acting, he’s still weak as a kitten so you should only stay for a little while, my lady. Nobody I’ve nursed has ever had a setback and I won’t have Mr. McHeath be the first.”

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Lady Moira assured her.

  Only a moment, but it was more time than he’d had alone with her since that exciting, memorable encounter in the lane.

  Mrs. McAlvey nodded and went out, leaving the door open, as was only proper.

  Unfortunately, once they were alone, Gordon found it difficult to think clearly, and not because of his injuries. He’d never been so nervous in a woman’s presence before. He owed Lady Moira so much, yet all he could think about was kissing her.

  Fortunately, she kept a careful distance from the bed. “Is there anything you need?”

  You. “No, thank you, my lady. You’ve already done enough—more than enough.”

  He was afraid she might leave. He wanted her to stay, even if he could only look at her, to see her lovely, sweet face and the play of light and intelligence and vitality in her eyes.

  She didn’t leave, and he grasped the opportunity while he had it.

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t prevent your school from being destroyed. I shouldn’t have investigated on my own. Next time, I’ll go back for reinforcements before I attempt any interventions.”

  “Next time?” she asked, raising a brow as she came a little closer. “First you rescue me from that dog, then you try to stop those vandals single-handedly. Is it your habit to act like a hero?”

  He laughed, then winced at the brief spasm of pain that elicited. “Not until I came to Dunbrachie,” he said, putting his hand to his side. “Perhaps it’s something in the air.”

  “Or perhaps it’s me,” she said quietly, looking down at her hands. “I seem to have required a hero since you arrived.”

  “I’m glad.” The words escaped before he thought and he cursed himself for an idiot.

  “That is,” he amended, “I’m not glad for any trouble that befalls you, my lady, and I would happily prevent any further distress, if I could. I meant that, whatever the circumstances, I’m glad I met you, my lady.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me my lady!” she said a little peevishly as she turned away and walked toward the window, incidentally giving him a fine view of her profile. She turned back almost at once. “I’m sorry. I’m not used to it, you see. I’m not used to a title, or this house, or…or much of anything here!

  “I must sound like an ungrateful wretch,” she continued apologetically, “but so much has happened in so short a time.” With a sad smile, she started back toward him. “One moment, I was plain Miss MacMurdaugh, daughter of a Glasgow merchant, the next I’m Lady Moira, daughter of the Earl of Dunbrachie.”

  He was quite sure she had never been plain anything. “I had heard that your father came into the title recently,” he replied, not mentioning who had told him.

  “We had no idea he was even in line,” she admitted, walking toward the bed. “Papa was only distantly related to the previous earl—a third cousin.” She spread her hands. “You must just imagine it, Mr. McHeath. Suddenly this huge manor is my home, not our little town house in Glasgow, and we have so many servants and tenants we can hardly remember all their names.”

  “How long has it been since this change of fortune?”

  “A little more than a year, and there are still days I wake up and wonder if I’m dreaming. Or in the middle of a nightmare,” she finished grimly, looking down at her feet.

  Because of Robbie. And because of him, because he had agreed to help his friend bring a legal action against her.

  He threw back the covers and, holding his side, cautiously put his feet on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, rushing to his side and putting her arm under his shoulder for support. “You must go back to bed.”

  “I’m all right,” he said, masking the pain, because this was not a conversation he wanted to have lying down. “I don’t need any help.”

  He didn’t know if that was true or not, but he didn’t want to feel like an invalid when he was with her. Nevertheless, he missed the feel of her body against his as she moved away. She stayed close enough to touch, though.

  “I’ve told Robbie I won’t represent him anymore. I can’t,” he said, putting one hand on the bed to steady himself.

  “Because you don’t think the suit will succeed?”

  “No.”

  She took a step back. “Because you feel beholden to me?”

  “That’s one reason.”

  She flushed, but didn’t move away. “Because he might not be able to pay you?”

  He felt as if he’d been stabbed again. Did she really think he was that mercenary? And if she did… If she did, he was as wrong about her feelings for him as he’d been about Catriona McNare’s. “No, that isn’t a factor in my decision.”

  Her blush deepened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply… It’s just that I’ve heard something that makes me think he may be having financial difficulties.”

  Gordon was both relieved and anxious to learn the source of that information. “What did you hear? From whom?”

  “Sarah Taggart told me he wants to sell McStuart House. That’s why he went to Edinburgh. Why would a man as proud of his heritage as he do that, unless he had to?”

  He wanted to be honest with her, and yet…

  “Even though I won’t be representing Robbie in the future, I can’t tell you what he said to me in confidence, either as a friend or a lawyer,” he said. “It wouldn’t be right, and it wouldn’t be ethical.”

  She frowned and turned away. “Then don’t—but I think Robbie is seriously in debt. I believe that’s why he wanted to marry me in the first place, and that’s
why he’s suing me now.”

  Whatever happened, whether she made him leave at once or let him stay, whether he was right or wrong about her feelings for him, this might be the last chance he had to speak with her alone, and he had to broach one other subject, come what may. “Does your father lose his temper when he’s in his cups? Does he strike you?”

  She whirled around and stared at him, aghast. “My father has never hit me in his life! He loves me and would never, ever hurt me.”

  That was good to hear, especially since he was sure she was being truthful. “But he does drink too much, doesn’t he?”

  Lady Moira drew herself up. “That, sir, is none of your business.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “I have no right to pry, except that I owe you my life, and anything that hurts or upsets you must therefore concern me. But that isn’t the only reason I’m worried about you, my lady, although that would be enough.

  “I’ve seen what drunkenness can do to a family. I’ve witnessed how men—and women, too—can make their families dance to their tune, as if they’re puppets on a string, with promises and guilt, making their lives miserable and uncertain, worrisome and troubled.

  “That’s another reason you wouldn’t marry Robbie, isn’t it? It wasn’t just the women. You already know what it is to live with a man who drinks too much, and didn’t want to have to endure the same trials and worries for the rest of your life.”

  She met his gaze with admirable steadiness. “Yes, that was partly why, but it was the women, too. That’s something my father has never done. He loved my mother very much and was utterly loyal and devoted to her. He never drank to excess while she was alive.”

  “And since then…?”

  “Only when he’s upset or distressed. He hasn’t had a drink in several weeks.”

  “But you’re worried he’s drinking now, aren’t you, wherever he is?”

  “No. He’s away on business. He’s written, so…”

  Moira couldn’t keep up the pretence, not with Gordon McHeath looking at her that way. Yet to admit her fears to a man who was still almost a stranger, no matter how he made her feel… “What makes you think my father drinks too much?”

  “If it’s true, that’s all that matters, not how I found out. Has he promised to stop? More than once? And broken that promise again and again, until you’ve nearly given up hope—but not quite?”

  He knew. However it had happened, he knew what she endured and regarded her with sympathy. “Yes,” she whispered, deciding to tell him. To trust him.

  “No one ever gets used to having their hopes dashed, my lady.”

  He spoke so quietly, so sincerely, she was reminded of the words he’d murmured when they’d first brought him here. “Do you still have hope, Mr. McHeath, although your heart was broken?”

  He stepped back as if the ground had started to shake. “I beg your pardon?”

  “When you were hurt, you spoke of a woman named Catriona, who apparently led you on while caring for another.”

  When his brows lowered, she said, “You talked about my troubles. Isn’t it fair we speak of yours?”

  He frowned, but answered nonetheless. “Catriona didn’t lead me on. She never said she cared for me in that way. It was only my hope that led me to interpret her responses as more than the affection one might have for a friend.”

  He could demure all he liked; the pain was there, in his eyes. “Yet your heart was broken just the same.”

  He shook his head. “Not broken. Wounded, but not broken. I’ve since discovered that I never really loved her.”

  Her heart suddenly felt much…lighter.

  “What else did I say?” he asked.

  “That you came to Dunbrachie to get away. Instead, you’ve found more trouble, been set upon and almost killed.”

  “Whatever happened, whatever the future holds for us, my lady, I’ll never regret coming to Dunbrachie,” he said softly, the sincerity shining in his eyes. “If I hadn’t come here, I would never have met a beautiful, spirited young woman hiding in a tree.”

  He couldn’t help it. He had to reach out to take her hand, to feel her skin warm and soft against his own. Now he knew that love wasn’t just an attraction born of admiration. He had learned that affection and desire, respect and admiration, could be combined into a devotion that would last a lifetime.

  That was how he felt about Moira. It was more than desire, more than affection.

  It had to be love.

  As that realization crashed into his mind, it was as if everything stopped. The moon and stars in their course, time, the earth on its axis. He couldn’t even be sure he was breathing as he drew her to him, his wounds forgotten, aware only of her shining, passionate eyes, her soft lips and the growing need within him that he could no longer ignore.

  Or fight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Moira had been waiting for his kiss. Dreaming of it, even though she hadn’t wanted to admit it. Yet the moment their mouths met, it felt right and good and wonderful.

  She leaned forward and responded with an eager, aching need, willingly parting her lips to allow his tongue to venture within and deepening the kiss as desire flowed between them, infusing the very air. His arms around her, his hands roved over her body while she explored his, feeling the warmth of his skin. His shirt the merest of barriers, she could feel the heat of his body, the matching heat of the same impulse that compelled her to stay when she should go, to lean toward him instead of hurrying away, to kiss him and surrender, rather than flee.

  With slow deliberation, his right hand slipped around to cup her breast. He kneaded gently, the action increasing her fervent yearning for more. More of his kisses. More of his embrace. More intimacy.

  She moved closer, trying to get as near to him as possible, grasping him tighter until she felt his body stiffen and the sharp intake of his breath.

  The wound in his side. She had forgotten and put her arm around him, and the bandage there.

  At once she pulled away. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

  He smiled and caressed her cheek. “If I’m in any pain, it’s not because of anything you’re doing, and certainly not enough to ask you to stop.”

  She didn’t want to hurt him in any way, not like that other woman. Nor did she want her own heart to suffer more than it would when he left Dunbrachie, so she took another step backward. “I should let you rest.”

  Before he could answer, a voice shouted from the foyer, “Moira! Where the devil are you?”

  “Papa!” she gasped. “He’s back! I should go to him.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Gordon said, holding her hand.

  “No!” she exclaimed. “Let me tell him about what happened first. It will be better that way.”

  He wanted to protest, to protect her, except that he had no right to. And she had shown him that she was capable of protecting herself and making her own decisions.

  “Saints preserve me!” Mrs. McAlvey cried as she bustled into the room carrying a tray with covered dishes on it. “I assume that’s your father, my lady, and if he is, be careful. He looks angry enough to spit tacks!”

  He must have learned Mr. McHeath was there.

  The longer she took, the angrier her father might get, so with a final encouraging smile from Gordon, Moira hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward her father.

  He stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on his hips, scowling. Walters and two footmen waited nearby, both of them looking equally ill at ease.

  Worse than that, her father’s clothes were soiled and dishevelled and his eyes were bloodshot. Worst of all, the closer she got to him, the more she could smell the wine.

  She took a deep breath. Be calm, she ordered herself. For his sake and yours, be calm.

  “There you are!” the earl exclaimed when he saw her, his accent betraying more of his impoverished youth in Glasgow than usual, providing further proof that he had weakened and once aga
in had too much to drink.

  “Moira, you’re safe!” he cried, and she was taken aback to realize he was nearly in tears as he enveloped her in a hug. “They told me about the fire when I stopped at the inn. I saw the school. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. The fire happened at night, so I was nowhere near it,” she said, drawing back, wanting to get him away from the servants and safely in bed. “Would you like to rest? I can explain everything later.”

  “In a moment. Who was that woman I saw running up the stairs?”

  He had to mean Mrs. McAlvey. “I’ll explain that later, too,” she said, taking his arm to lead him to his room.

  Unfortunately, her father could be very stubborn, and the downturn of his mouth told her he was about to be. “I want to know who’s in my house, and why, and I want to know now!”

  She had learned long ago that it was fruitless to try to dissuade him when he was in such a state. She didn’t relish telling him more, but it would be better if he heard everything from her.

  “All right, Papa,” she said, gently pulling him toward the drawing room. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Mercifully, he didn’t protest, but followed meekly enough, even sitting when she asked him to.

  “I saw the fire from my window,” she began without waiting for him to ask a question. “I realized what it was and woke the servants. We went at once, but by the time we got there, the school was already too far gone to save.”

  “It’s totally destroyed?”

  “Yes, but that’s not all. A man was also attacked by the vandals who set the fire. They stabbed him and left him for dead.”

  His father blanched. “Good God, Moira!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “It could have been you, Moira, beaten or…or worse. I was afraid of something like this. Have I not warned you that your charitable impulses, however well-meaning, could have unforeseen and dangerous consequences?”

  “I wouldn’t have been there alone at night, like Mr….” She hesitated. “The man upstairs who tried to go for help to stop the ones who set it—who were paid to do it.”