Highland Heiress (10 page)

Yet if she hadn't become engaged to Robbie and broken that engagement, she might never have met Gordon McHeath. Never been helped by him, or kissed by him, or met him in a secluded lane and discovered that although he should be her enemy, all she wanted to do was—

The Titan suddenly jabbed, catching Mr. McHeath in the gut. Moira gasped in dismay as the solicitor fell hard on his knees. But in the next moment, McHeath's fist flew up, connecting with the Titan's jaw. The big man stumbled back. McHeath leaped to his feet and struck again with a series of jabs to the face and chest that soon had the Titan sprawled flat on his back, his eyes closed. His legs moved and she feared he was going to get up, but it was like watching a man trying to swim on dry land before he gave up the effort and stayed still.

He had won! Mr. McHeath had won!

He staggered away from his fallen foe, while Robbie McStuart shouted with glee as if he'd won the fight himself and didn't care how battered and bruised his friend might be.

As the Three Geese chattered and giggled and talked about Mr. McHeath's victory, Moira began to climb gingerly down from the roof. She would have to come up with some excuse to explain the state of her clothes,
even to the maid, but that didn't worry her. It had been worth wrinkling her gown to see McHeath win.

Wearing nothing but a kilt.

 

“You came out of it better than I would have imagined,” the gray-haired local doctor said as he finished dabbing at the cut over Gordon's eye with witch hazel.

Although the short and stocky Dr. Campbell looked more like a butcher or baker than a man of medicine, his movements were deft and his touch light and gentle. His hands were also clean, Gordon was pleased to note, his beard well trimmed and he exuded an air of calm competence that Gordon appreciated as he sat on a bed in an upper room of the tavern.

Sounds of merriment and Robbie's laughter, as well as the smell of roast beef and bacon, wafted up through the floorboards from the taproom below. The mud-splattered kilt lay on the floor nearby, and Gordon was once again attired in his own clothes.

“I never would have guessed a solicitor would want to be a prizefighter, too. I should think you have enough conflict in your life, doing battle in court or wrangling over contracts,” the doctor noted with a wry smile.

“I do,” Gordon agreed, wincing at the sharp little pains that even Doctor Campbell's light ministrations couldn't prevent. “Participating in the match wasn't my idea.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, his smile shrinking to a frown. “Sir Robert's?”

“Aye.”

The doctor drew back and regarded Gordon gravely.
“A word of advice there, my young man. I've seen Sir Robert's sort, and they are very good at not only going astray themselves, but taking others with them. I would be very careful if I were you.”

“I shall be,” Gordon assured him. He grimaced as the doctor dabbed at the cut over his eye. “Especially after this.”

“Good, because you're lucky you weren't more badly hurt,” the doctor said as he stopped dabbing. “None of your bones were broken and you have only a few cuts and bruises. I've tended to others the Titan's fought who came out of it much worse.”

“How is the Titan? Not badly hurt, I hope,” Gordon said, having asked the doctor to check his opponent first.

“Not bad at all,” the doctor replied as he finished putting the witch hazel and leftover bandages back into his black valise. “He's below in the taproom, holding court with Sir Robert. I daresay he's not saying much of anything about today's fight, though. More likely he's reliving past glories.”

Gordon rose with slow deliberation, reached into his jacket and pulled out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

The doctor named a very reasonable sum, which Gordon gladly paid.

“You'll be a little sore for the next few days,” the doctor advised, “but otherwise, you should be right as rain soon. Now I give you good day, Mr. McHeath, and I wish you a safe journey back to Edinburgh.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Gordon replied as the man departed.

The solicitor pulled on his jacket and made his way to the stairs. Judging from the raised voices, the Titan wasn't the only person holding court below. Robbie had obviously had more to drink—something that became even more obvious when Gordon entered the taproom and saw his friend lounging in a chair by the hearth, with a barmaid on his lap.

“G
ordo!” Robbie cried, pushing the barmaid off his lap and sitting up straighter.

Instead of looking annoyed by his cavalier treatment, the freckled, brown-haired barmaid giggled and sashayed toward a keg to fetch more ale for another table of men clamouring for her attention.

“All tended to, I see,” Robbie said, running a satisfied gaze over Gordon. “Come and have a victory drink—on me, of course.”

“Robbie, it's time to go,” Gordon said, wondering how much of his winnings Robbie still had, if any.

“It's the shank of the evening!” Robbie protested, setting his wineglass down with a bang. “I was just going to tell them about the time you stole that money and—”

“I'd prefer you didn't,” Gordon snapped. His shame and the mistake that could have altered the course of his
life for the worse weren't just a funny anecdote to him. “I'm tired and sore, and you've had more than enough to drink already.”

As Robbie's brows lowered ominously, Gordon realized he shouldn't have let his frustration get the better of him and spoken in haste.

“You can go if you wish, but I'm staying,” his friend said with an all-too-familiar glint of stubbornness in his eyes.

Once Robbie got that look, no power on heaven or earth would change his mind. Robbie would stay and drink until he passed out, even if it took all night.

“Very well, then,” Gordon said, declining to argue or try to persuade him. “I'll see you in the morning.”

Or not, because I'm leaving for Edinburgh at dawn and you had better honor your promise or….

Or what? He had no power over Robbie, or what he might do. All he could control was his own involvement with Sir Robert McStuart, and he would decline to have any more.

So Gordon decided as he walked out of the tavern, ignoring the protests of some of the other patrons and Robbie's claims that his friend had always been a grim sort of fellow. He headed straight for the livery stable, where Robbie's driver waited near the barouche, along with other drivers and grooms and linkboys.

“Sir Robert intends to stay awhile yet,” he told the driver. “You might as well wait in the tavern.”

“What about you, sir?” the driver asked. “Are you staying, too?”

“No. I'll walk.” He was tired, but used to walking,
and McStuart House wasn't more than a mile away. Besides, Robbie was going to need the carriage more than he did.

“It's looking to be a cold, damp evening and the night air's not good for a body,” the driver warned, and others around him nodded their agreement, showing more concern for Gordon's health than Robbie had. “Are you sure you don't want me to drive you? I can come right back for Sir Robert afterward.”

“No, thank you. I do appreciate your concern,” he sincerely replied. “I know the way, and it's not far. I'll risk the night air.”

In no small part because it would be fresh and clear, not redolent of ale, smoke and beef. “I'll take a torch, though,” he added.

One of the linkboys offered his. Accepting it with thanks, Gordon started walking down the road toward McStuart House.

It was indeed a damp, chill night for a walk, but the sky was clear and the moon so bright he really didn't need the torch. Indeed, it was proving rather heavy, his arms being fatigued from the match, so he put it out in a puddle in the ditch along the side of the road and carried it by the middle of the shaft in his left hand, swinging it as he walked.

With his bandaged right hand he put up the collar of his jacket and winced at the effort. His clients in Edinburgh would surely wonder what had happened to his face and hands; he doubted any of them would come right out and ask, though.

He would certainly never tell them.

He flexed his right hand before he shoved it in his pocket. Thank God he'd still be able to write, and that he'd gotten the better of the Titan. One solid blow from that man to his head and he might have been seriously hurt.

How would Lady Moira feel if she heard he'd been injured? Would she be sorry? Or would she think it was no more than he deserved for agreeing to fight?

And for representing Robbie. For being Robbie's friend. And for his impetuous, brash embrace and passionate actions in the lane.

He came to a halt and drew in a deep, cold breath. Ever since Robbie had proposed the fight…no, ever since Robbie had told him he wanted to sue Lady Moira for breach of promise, he'd believed he was better than Robbie. Now he had to face the truth. He wasn't, as his recent lascivious behavior with Lady Moira proved. He was just as lustful, just as weak, just as selfish. Just as shameful.

A dark shape bounded onto the road in front of him, then stood, legs braced, blocking his way.

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought it was a wolf.

It wasn't. The head was too big. It was a dog baring its teeth and growling. That same big black dog that had chased Lady Moira up a tree.

Gordon moved the unlit torch to his right hand, ready to use it as a club, if necessary.

A sharp whistle cut the air. The dog lifted its head, growled once more, then loped away into the underbrush.

Once it was gone, Gordon let his breath out slowly. Where had it come from? Who owned the beast, for clearly it had responded to a summons from someone? Whoever it was, that animal shouldn't be allowed to roam freely.

He should ask Robbie's butler who the constable of Dunbrachie was, and he should write to him to tell him about that menace of a dog, he thought as he started on his way again. This time, though, he looked around as he walked, and kept the torch in his right hand, just in case.

He had gone about fifty yards when he caught the flicker of a light out of the corner of his eye and turned to scrutinize the trees on his left. Yes, there was a light, deep in the wood beyond the road, and in the same direction that the dog had gone.

Maybe he could find out who owned the dog and what they were doing in the wood. Not that he would risk approaching anyone in such circumstances directly, but he could get a little closer, enough to hear voices and names, perhaps. There might be more than one person with the dog, and until he knew their purpose here, he had best be careful and not be seen.

As he left the road and started toward the light, he discovered a narrow road leading in that direction, the ruts muddy from recent use. Perhaps it was a Gypsy encampment, although they likely would have been at the market, trading or offering to tell fortunes, and he hadn't seen any there.

Moving slowly and quietly, he reached the edge of a clearing and saw two men, one holding a torch,
standing near a stone building with a pile of wooden planks beside it. The man with the torch was remarkably short. His dark brown coat was dirty and patched, his trousers so old they hung on him like a bag. His companion was taller, dressed in a jacket and better-fitting trousers, boots and a scruffy cravat. More noticeable than his clothes was his hair, which was thick and red, and so was his beard. The dog stood near the shorter man.

“What are you waiting for?” the taller man said, making no effort to speak quietly. “Burn it. Burn it all.”

He wanted his companion to set fire to the wood? That would surely damage the building, too, if not set it alight. Or was that their intention?

Good God, was he witnessing attempted arson?

Fearing that he was, Gordon turned, ready to run back to Dunbrachie for help—until something struck him hard from behind. With a gasp of pain, he dropped the torch and staggered forward. Meanwhile, the dog charged at him, as fierce and frightening as a wolf. Another blow landed on his shoulder. The other two men came running, the bobbing torch making strange shadows leap and dance.

Gordon half turned and put up his arm in self-defence as another blow from a thick branch came toward his side. He was too slow, and before he could avoid another, his assailant—older, grizzled, dressed in rough homespun—swung his weapon again, this time catching Gordon's thigh. His breath came out in a whoosh as he
went down on one knee. The dog grabbed his sleeve, worrying it as if it were a rat or badger.

He tried to stand up, but the dog held him fast. He crouched and covered his head with his arm as the branch came down on his shoulder again. He opened his mouth to call for help; all that came out was a croak. With a mighty effort, Gordon twisted, turned and wrenched his sleeve free of the dog's sharp teeth. He had to get away. He had to get back to the road. The tavern. Find help.

The branch came down again as he stumbled to his feet. This time, though, he was ready and grabbed the weapon, pulling it away from the grizzled man with a mighty yank. The bearded man got hold of him. He squirmed to free himself—and then he felt something hot and stinging in his side, like the bite of a big insect.

The bearded man let go and Gordon fell to his knees, his hand to his bleeding side. God help him, he'd been stabbed.

The heavy branch came down again, striking Gordon hard across the shoulders and he fell forward, landing facedown in the mud.

These men were going to kill him…unless they thought he was already dead. That might be his only chance.

Barely breathing, Gordon lay still, regardless of the dog taking hold of his sleeve again, or the blood seeping from his side, or his aching head and body.

He had to remain conscious. He didn't dare open his eyes, yet he had to get all the information he could so
they could be brought to justice. When he survived. If he survived.

“God damn it, Red!” one of the men growled in a Yorkshire accent as somebody pulled the dog off him. “You've bloody killed him. We'll get the noose now for sure if we're caught.”

“We aren't bein' paid to do murder,” another voice muttered, his accent more Midlands than Yorkshire. “Give some noblewoman a scare, burn the school, get paid and go, that's all.”

This was Lady Moira's school? And three men had been
paid
to burn it? And frighten Lady Moira, too? Who would do such a…?

God, surely not Robbie! It couldn't be. Robbie wouldn't be that vindictive. He couldn't have changed that much…could he?

“Go if you're scared, but you give up your share if you do,” the Scot, who must be Red, grumbled.

“Who was he?” the man from the Midlands asked.

A foot shoved Gordon until he rolled over, limp as a rag doll. “I'll be damned, it's McStuart's friend, the fella who beat the Titan.”

“Maybe they'll think that's what done him in,” the Yorkshire man suggested.

“What? The Titan came after him and stabbed him? Not bloody likely,” the man from the Midlands muttered. “What was he doing anyway?”

“Maybe he was drunk. Maybe they'll think he was robbed by some passing highwayman or summat,” the Yorkshire man said.

“If we hide his body somewhere, we can be paid and
gone before he's even found,” the Scot suggested. “Then we'll be in the clear for sure and certain.”

Without any further discussion, someone took hold of Gordon's wrists and dragged him over the rough ground, every inch a torture. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, and his shirt was soaking with wet mud and blood.

The man let go of his arms and gave him another shove with his boot, sending Gordon rolling down a short slope until he was lying in a ditch or little gully. He continued to lie still, although he was half in a puddle and so cold and damp, he started to shiver.

Mercifully, the men who attacked him didn't notice, perhaps because it was too dark, and they moved away. The wind rose, rustling the remaining leaves of the trees around him, sending droplets of water onto his already-wet clothes and hair.

Cold, wet, in pain, bleeding, drifting in and out of consciousness, he tried to stay awake, to listen for sounds of the men leaving.

Then the wind brought the smell of smoke and the snap and crackle of burning wood.

They'd set fire to the school.

He tried to get up on his hands and knees. If he could crawl, maybe he could get to the road, and if he could get to the road, he could fetch help. He could save the school. He had to save her school….

 

Although it was past midnight and Moira was dressed in her fine linen nightgown and sky-blue silk bedrobe, her thick hair in a long braid down her back, she hadn't
been able to sleep. Her mind was abuzz in a way that made sleeping, or even lying down, impossible.

It was more than worry about her father and what he might be doing. He'd gone on another business trip to Peebles and wouldn't be back until tomorrow afternoon, or so he'd told the butler, and so Walters had informed her when she returned from the market in Dunbrachie. Her father had said nothing to her about business in Peebles but just because he hadn't told her about his plans earlier, that didn't mean he was meeting some of his old cronies to play cards and drink. Or so she hoped.

It wasn't frustration that Big Jack MacKracken and his cronies didn't want her to build her school, or dismay over anything Sarah Taggart had said. It wasn't the lawsuit Robbie had brought against her.

What kept her awake tonight was confusion about Mr. McHeath's feelings and behavior when they were together, and her own.

What was it about him that stripped her of all restraint? she wondered as she paced restlessly in the large room that faced south and overlooked the gardens and wood.

It couldn't be just his looks and form, although they were impressive. After all, she'd met other good-looking men before, business associates of her father, or their sons, or other social acquaintances, for she had many friends in Glasgow. And Robbie McStuart was considered extremely good-looking. Yet she'd never felt for any other man even a tenth of the desire that Mr. McHeath aroused.

No doubt their first meeting, when Mr. McHeath had behaved so chivalrously, accounted for some of the difference, she supposed as she stirred the coals in the fireplace, making the flames rise a little higher and the room a little brighter.