Highland Heiress (11 page)

At night, this room was about as comfortable and cozy as a cave, even with a fire in the tiled hearth. Despite the presence of oil lamps and candles, every corner was dark with shadows. The mournful cries of peacocks in the garden added to the gloomy atmosphere, and not even the furnishings from their home in Glasgow could give her much comfort.

The armoire had been her mother's, and her writing desk had been a present from her father when she was ten years old. One of the chairs by the tiled hearth had been her grandmother's, and her father had bought the landscape of a mountain meadow covered in heather that was hanging over the mantel on a business trip to the Isle of Skye.

During the day, and especially when the sun was shining, the room was much more pleasant. Then she could see the brighter colors of the wall covering decorated with oriental birds and flowers, and the large windows revealed a pleasant landscape, instead of looking like tall pools of ink.

But it was night, not day, as she put the poker back into its stand and drew her bedrobe more tightly about her. She sat in her grandmother's chair now upholstered in cream-colored silk, the same chair where she'd spent several other anxious nights waiting for her father to stagger in the door, drunk and jovial.

He was always jovial when he was drunk, and always in an ill temper the next day. He wasn't mean or cruel, only quick to anger or take offence, something that had cost him more than one business transaction or customer. If he hadn't been so good at striking bargains, his business would have suffered; mercifully, so far, it had not. But if he broke his promise to her again, how long might it be before it, too, was affected?

With a heavy sigh, she rose and went to the window to draw back the green velvet draperies with gold fringe. If only her father was home. If only he didn't have a weakness for drink. If only she had never met Sir Robert McStuart, or accepted his proposal. If only Gordon McHeath had never come to Dunbrachie. Then she might have peace and contentment…except that she would never have experienced the incredible thrill and excitement of being in Gordon McHeath's arms. She would never have felt that heated desire, those amazing sensations or shared those passionate encounters….

Her grip tightened on the fringe of the drape. She mustn't think about such things. She must remember that Gordon McHeath was Robbie McStuart's friend, and even if he seemed sympathetic to her, he was nevertheless helping Robbie McStuart to sue her.

Off to the east, the sky glowed over the site of her school. At least the building would soon be completed, and she could console herself with that. Of course, the patronizing Mr. Stamford might not make it as easy a process as it should be, but hopefully he'd learned—

That wasn't where the sun should rise.

Years ago there'd been a warehouse fire down by the docks in Glasgow. The sky had glowed just like that.

Her school!

She ran to the door and threw it open. “Fire!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “My school's on fire!”

T
hey were too late.

By the time Moira and her men—grooms, footmen, stable boys and gamekeepers—got to the site of her school on horseback and in one of the wagons, all that was left of the stone building and pile of wood waiting to be used were smoke-blackened walls, charred beams and smoldering remains.

As Moira regarded the ruins, she tried to take some comfort from the fact that many of the men from the village had come to try to help put out the fire. It was clear they had rushed from their beds, dressing in haste and grabbing buckets and shovels.

Since it was obvious there was nothing more to be done, the villagers began to leave. A few offered their condolences, but most began to drift away without speaking directly to her, leaving her to mourn in silence.

“'Tis a terrible thing, but it could have been worse, my lady,” the head groom said. “Thank God the trees and undergrowth were damp with the mist from the river, and the building wasn't closer to the trees, or more than your school might have gone up in flames tonight.”

“Aye, it could have been much worse,” she agreed. “I'm glad no one was hurt.”

“Must have been tramps or Gypsies, I reckon, taking shelter and their fire got out of hand,” Jem offered. He pointed to the end of the pile of ashes that had once been lumber intended for the interior. “It started here, looks like, out of the wind. Good spot for shelter, behind the wood.”

“I haven't seen or heard of any Gypsies hereabouts,” Moira replied, rubbing her arms for warmth in the damp air. “There were none at the market.”

“Tramps, then,” Jem said with a decisive nod.

Moira wished she could be so confident that some wandering vagrant had accidentally set the building alight. Unfortunately, she'd heard too many objections to the school to believe it couldn't have been someone who lived in Dunbrachie, like Big Jack MacKracken.

Would he have gone that far? Would he have been willing to run not just the risk of imprisonment and transportation, possibly even hanging, by burning down more than the school? If the trees had caught fire, homes and shops might have been destroyed, as well. Many in Dunbrachie agreed with him that her school was a mistake, and others were his neighbors. Would his anger have gone so far that he would put them at risk
of losing property and perhaps even their lives to stop the school?

Or could the bitter Robbie be vindictive enough to do something like this? Had she been even more mistaken about his character?

“My lady! Over here!” one of the grooms shouted from the edge of the clearing. “There's somebody here in the ditch!”

Gathering her skirt in her hand, Moira ran to the spot and scrambled down the small embankment to the muddy bottom. The groom was bent over a man lying on the ground beneath a thick bramble bush, his clothing soaked and muddy, and his hair—

She recognized that hair.

“It's Mr. McHeath!” she cried, kneeling beside him and gently rolling him onto his back. She could scarcely breathe herself, for fear that he was dead.

He moaned.

Alive, thank God! Alive!

Yet he was far from well. There was an ugly, bloody gash over his right eye and fresh bruises colored his chin and cheek. Worst of all, there was a huge bloodstain on his shirt, bright and fresh.

“Jem, see if you can find some boards or branches to make a stretcher,” she ordered as she slowly shifted until Gordon McHeath's head rested on her lap. “And send one of the boys for the doctor. Have him come to the manor. Quickly now!”

“Aye, my lady.”

“Send someone for the constable, too,” she added
as she brushed the wet, muddy hair from Gordon McHeath's pale brow.

“You're going to be all right,” she whispered fervently as she looked down at his cut and bruised face. “You're going to be all right!”

 

“God damn it, that was close!” Rafe gasped as he lay panting on the moldy mound of hay in the loft of an abandoned outbuilding on the Earl of Dunbrachie's estate. “I ain't run so fast since I nearly got nicked pickin' pockets in York.”

“We wouldnae cut it so close if that lawyer hadn't come,” Red Mac MacCormick said as he hunkered down in the corner, his back to the wall.

“Here's hopin' they don't find him for a while yet,” Charlie said as he tossed a hunk of bread down to his dog below. The animal snapped it up in one bite and sat on its haunches waiting for more.

“How long do ye reckon we'll have to stay here?” Rafe asked, scratching at a fleabite.

“Till the man comes with the money,” Red replied.

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” Red said, taking out his dirk and wiping off the blood with a handful of hay. “He'll have to wait until nobody's watchin' him.”

“Better be soon, unless you've got some food stored hereabouts,” Rafe replied before he started to cough.

“If he don't come today, we'll go to him,” Red declared. He nodded at the oldest among them. “Charlie here knows all about housebreakin'. He can get us in.”

Charlie frowned as he tossed another hunk of bread to his dog. “Not likely,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“You can't, or you won't?” Rafe demanded.

“Too risky,” Charlie replied. “Too many servants.”

“Then that's it,” Red said. “We wait here.”

“And get caught, like as not—and then he don't have to pay us at all, or ain't you two thought o' that?” Rafe asked harshly.

“He's good for it, I tell ya,” Red retorted. “But if you want to live like a beggar the rest o' your miserable life, go. And good riddance.”

Rafe got to his feet. “Not without the money I was promised. Not when I might swing for helpin' you.”

The dirk still in his hand, Red rose and faced him.

Sweat beaded Rafe's grimy forehead as he began to back toward the edge of the loft. “I only want what I'm owed. What I was promised. Easy money, you said. Well, where is it then?”

Charlie muttered something under his breath.

“What'd you say?” Rafe demanded, his frightened gaze flicking from the man with the knife to the man whose dog would rip out a man's throat on command.

“I said, if we let you go, maybe you'll turn us in for a reward,” Charlie said.

Rafe shook his head and took another step back. “I won't. I just want to get out of here with my life, and never see neither of you again.”

“I dinnae think we can let you do that, can we, Charlie?” Red said with a sidelong glance at his companion.

“Nay,” Charlie said. He got to his feet and pulled off his leather belt.

The dog waiting below began to growl low in its throat. Red took a step forward. Charlie began to wrap his belt around his right hand.

Rafe took another step back. To the very edge of the loft. Crying out, he flailed his arms and tried to get his balance. Failed.

And fell.

 

The next morning, sunlight streamed into the east-facing windows of the Earl of Dunbrachie's manor house. Outside, birds sang and sheep grazed on the expansive lawn as if nothing at all had happened last night. Inside, the servants attended to their tasks almost as if this day were like any other, although not quite. There was too much excitement and avid speculation whenever two or more met and spoke in hushed whispers about the fire and the man who'd been brought back in the wagon using Lady Moira's lap for a pillow and what looked like her petticoat wrapped around his torso.

When Moira and Mr. McHeath had arrived at the earl's residence after what had been the most harrowing journey of her life, Moira had ordered her servants to carry Mr. McHeath to the blue bedroom, the most spacious one aside from her father's. Using warm water and clean linen, she'd done the best she could to wash the mud and blood from his face. She'd used her petticoat to try to staunch the bleeding before they'd moved him from the ditch and had been afraid to remove it or do anything more until the doctor arrived.

That had been at least an hour ago, and she had been walking the floor of her morning room ever since.

Once this had been her favorite room in the manor of the Earl of Dunbrachie. She had chosen a delicate paper depicting green, fernlike plants, and the furniture was light oak with mahogany inlays. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a light green silk and pictures of the Scottish countryside hung on the walls.

Here she had believed a new and wonderful life was about to begin, of comfort and ease, parties and balls.

Here she'd dared to hope her father would never again indulge in too much drink and she would know peace and happiness.

Here Robbie had proposed.

Here she had broken their engagement.

And now here she waited with her heart in her throat for news about whether Gordon McHeath would live, or die.

Who had attacked him and why? Given how he'd rushed to her aid the first day they met, perhaps he'd come upon whoever was setting the fire and tried to stop it, or at least call out an alarm.

Whatever had happened, it had been near her school, and she felt responsible. She must and would see that everything possible was done for him.

She remembered the first time she'd seen him, when he came rushing down the ridge to her rescue. How handsome he was, how brave, how like a hero from a fairy tale.

She recalled the first time she'd touched him, when
she'd jumped from the tree. The strength of his arms. The security he seemed to offer.

She vividly remembered the first time they'd kissed—that heated rush of desire, and the shock of mutual passion. It was a kiss like no other, until the second.

She would never forget the wondrous excitement awakened by his caresses and the vitality of his body, a vitality that surely must survive whatever injuries had been inflicted upon him.

A man cleared his throat.

She whirled around to find the butler standing on the threshold. “Is Mr. McHeath…?”

She couldn't say the word. Didn't even want to think it. “Dr. Campbell says you can see him now, my lady,” Walters said.

She nearly fell to her knees with relief, but since Walters was there she only drew in a deep, shuddering breath and said, “Thank you,” before hurrying from the room as fast as dignity would allow.

Once at the top of the stairs, she took a moment to catch her breath before entering the blue bedroom, then put her hand on the latch and went inside.

Although the heavy velvet draperies had been opened to allow the sunlight to enter, she couldn't immediately see Mr. McHeath or the doctor. A screen painted with a scene of a medieval hunt had been put around the bed made of oak during the reign of Charles II and curtained with pale blue silk trimmed with gold.

The rest of the furniture shone in the bright morning light—the armoire inlaid with mahogany and hazel
and polished with beeswax, the pedestal table near the hearth, the washstand by the door to the dressing room. The glass in the lamps sparkled, and the thick Aubusson carpet muffled her steps as she ventured around the screen.

Dr. Campbell sat beside the bed. The instruments and accoutrements of his profession, bottles of ointment and salve and his black valise, were on a small side table nearby. A basin full of bloody water and another containing several soiled linen cloths sat on the floor nearby.

She looked at the man lying so still in the bed.

Mr. McHeath was very pale, except for the bruises on his cheek and chin. The cut above his eye had been bandaged. His hair, damp with perspiration, clung to his forehead. He'd been carefully dressed in a nightshirt, and his chest rose and fell with his breathing.

He was alive, at least, and she must and would cling to that.

“Doctor?” she said softly, afraid to disturb either one of them.

Dr. Campbell glanced over his shoulder, put the bottle he was holding into his bag, rose and faced her.

“How is he, Doctor?”

“As well as can be expected, all things considered,” Dr. Campbell answered, his voice sympathetic, his eyes grave. “Fortunately, I can detect no broken bones. However, he's been stabbed and—”

“Stabbed?” she gasped.

“Yes, and he's lost a considerable amount of blood.
Luckily, the knife grazed the rib and missed any major organs or arteries.”

Or he would be dead.

The doctor took her arm and led her to a chair near a slightly open window. “Please, sit, my lady.”

“I'm…I'm all right,” she muttered, although she really felt sick and dizzy. “I'm just so…”

Relieved and terrified. Upset and hopeful. Worried and appalled and frightened and glad.

As the doctor looked down at her, he took her hand gently in his. “There is more, my lady. I fear he may have suffered a concussion. It may be serious, it may not. The longer he remains unconscious, though, the greater the possibility that serious damage has been done. It's also difficult to ascertain the extent of any internal injuries to the rest of his body. Infection and pneumonia remain a danger, especially since we don't know how long he was exposed to the elements. He has a low fever that may indicate that infection has already set in and if it has, the outcome could be fatal.”

Fatal.

She wouldn't despair. She couldn't. He had to get better. He simply had to.

“I must also tell you that I don't think he should be moved for a week at the very least. And he should have a nurse. There's a woman in the village, Mrs. McAlvey, who's very skilled.”

Finally something she could do—or at least pay for. “You must do whatever is necessary, Doctor, without any concern for the cost.”

“Excellent. I'll send Mrs. McAlvey here as soon as I
return to Dunbrachie.” He gave Moira a consoling smile. “You must try not to worry, my lady. He's a strong young man, so I think we can have good cause to hope that he will make a full recovery.”

Moira nodded.