Highland Heiress (12 page)

Leaving her by the window, Dr. Campbell returned to packing his bag with swift, efficient motions. “I was sorry to hear about your school, my lady. What a terrible thing!”

“My school can be rebuilt,” she said, looking at poor Mr. McHeath lying so still.

“You intend to do so?”

She hadn't really thought about it, but after he asked the question, she made her decision. She wasn't going to let rogues and vandals destroy her dream. “I do.”

The doctor picked up his valise. “I regret I cannot stay any longer, but Mr. Monroe is very ill and I must see how he fares today. I'll send Mrs. McAlvey as soon as possible. In the meantime, if Mr. McHeath doesn't wake up soon, try to rouse him. If you cannot, or if he wakes but falls asleep again and you cannot wake him after a few more hours have passed, send for me. Or if his fever worsens.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He started for the door, then turned back. “Is your father here? Perhaps I should apprise him of Mr. McHeath's condition, as well.”

“He's away on business,” she replied, for once glad that he wasn't at home. Even if he were, he wouldn't want to speak to Dr. Campbell, about anything. Ever since her mother had died less than a day after a doctor
had pronounced her illness nothing more than a slight congestion in the chest, he'd lost all respect for the medical profession, or anyone who practiced it.

“Good day, then, my lady.”

 

Once the doctor had gone, Moira sat by the bed and picked up a square of fresh linen that smelled of lavender, one of the many little luxuries their new life afforded. She dipped it in the ewer of cool fresh water and wrung it out.

She was about to wipe Mr. McHeath's forehead when he suddenly shifted and mumbled, “Why didn't you tell me?”

Although he was talking, his eyes were still closed and when she called his name, he didn't respond.

He moved again. “You should have told me.”

“You must rest, Mr. McHeath,” she said softly as she wiped his forehead. “You've been very badly hurt.”

His eyes abruptly opened and he reached out to grasp her arm with surprising strength. But his gaze was unfocused and his next words told her he wasn't really aware of where he was or to whom he was speaking. “I loved you…I thought I loved you…but now I don't know…and Robbie…what's happened to Robbie?”

“He's not here,” she said, desperately wondering if she should leave him to call for help, or stay where she was.

Before she could move, Mr. McHeath started to sit up. “I don't love you. I never loved you. I thought I did, but I didn't.”

She put her hands on his shoulders to push him back
down. “Lie still, Mr. McHeath!” she ordered. “Lie still!”

His eyes closed and panting heavily, he obeyed. Then his eyes flew open again, and although they were still glassy and unfocused, he stared at her as if he was seeing a ghost. “Catriona?”

He moved as if he meant to try to sit up again. She could only think of one way to get him to lie still.

“Yes, Gordon, I'm here,” she said, moving to sit beside him on the bed and taking his overly warm hand in hers. “You must lie still and try to sleep, so you'll get well again.”

“Catriona,” he sighed, his eyes drifting closed. “Why didn't you tell me there was someone else?”

“Hush, now, Gordon,” Moira said. “You must rest.”

“You should have told me!”

“Shh, now, Gordon, please!” Moira insisted as she held his hand and caressed his perspiring cheek.

“You should have told me,” he repeated as he turned his head away from her. “I thought you cared for me, but all the time… All the time there was…” His voice began to trail off in a rough rasp. “Somebody else. Not me. Not me…”

With her free hand, Moira reached for a fresh cloth to wipe his brow. Catriona, whoever she was, must be a fool—ten times ten a fool if she would reject Gordon McHeath's love and devotion for some other man. Why,
she
would give anything…

“I need to go away,” he murmured. “Robbie. I'll visit Robbie. He's a good friend.”

If Robbie McStuart was a good friend, she'd hate to meet a bad one.

“She's beautiful. And brave. Climbing up in a tree.”

Her breath caught. Had the unknown Catriona ever climbed a tree?

“I wanted to kiss her…such kisses… Moira….”

He was talking about her!

“I want…”

W
hat? What did he want?

Holding her breath, Moira waited for him to answer, but it seemed Mr. McHeath wasn't going to speak again, or wake up, either, at least not immediately.

Who was this Catriona he'd talked about? What did he mean when he spoke of only thinking he was in love?

Would she ever know? Perhaps not, but finding out the answers was less important than his recovery. If only she could somehow heal him with the power of her mind and…and…deep affection.

Remembering how her mother used to check for fever, she half rose, leaned over and gently kissed his brow.

He was cooler! Wasn't he? She was about to try again when he stirred and his eyelids fluttered open. He turned
his head very slightly toward her and looked at her, and this time, she thought he really saw her.

Then he whispered, “Moira?”

Never in all her life had she been so glad to hear her own name!

“Yes!” she cried with relief and excitement. Surely this was a good sign! Surely he would get well! “Yes, it's Moira! Oh, Gor—oh, Mr. McHeath! How do you feel? Are you in pain anywhere?”

He licked his dry lips. “Thirsty.”

She immediately poured him a glass of cool water and sat beside him, raising his head and holding the glass to his lips as she cradled his head in her arm.

He managed to drink some of the water before he began to splutter. She quickly set the glass down, then eased his head back onto the pillow.

She tried to be gentle, but he winced nonetheless. “What…what happened?”

He didn't remember? Was that a bad sign? “You were attacked. You were found near the school and we brought you here, to my father's house.”

He closed his eyes, and for a moment she feared he'd lost consciousness again, until his brow furrowed and he quietly said, “I remember now. There were two men, one with a torch. And that dog that chased you. They were going to burn the school. I…I was going to get help.” He opened his eyes and his anguished expression nearly undid her. “I didn't succeed, did I?”

Whether he'd managed to summon help or not, her heart filled with gratitude for the attempt as she
answered in a whisper. “No. By the time anyone realized the building was on fire, it was too late to put it out. I'm sorry my school was burned down, but I'm more sorry you were hurt.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment as she tried to think of a way to express her thanks for his effort, but in the end could only say, “Thank you for trying.”

He looked at the foot of the bed and began to move his legs as if attempting to get up. “I should go.”

She immediately put her hands on his shoulders and held him down. “No, you mustn't. Not yet. Doctor's orders.”

“Doctor?” he repeated with a frown.

“Of course we sent for the doctor,” she said, still holding his shoulders, unwilling to let go, or let him go. “You've been badly hurt. You mustn't think of leaving here for a few days, until you're feeling better. Given what you tried to do, our hospitality is the least we can offer.”

At last he stopped struggling. “You're…too kind.”

He spoke as if she were being completely selfless. She wished that were so, but if she were being completely honest, she would have to admit she was happy to have him here, where she could watch over him and make sure he recovered. Where she could see him and spend time with him.

Before he went back to his life in Edinburgh, far away from Dunbrachie. And her.

“Well, now, where's my young man?” a middle-aged, plump, pleasant-faced woman carrying a worn valise
demanded as she marched into the room like a captain assuming command of a ship.

An obviously distressed Walters followed in her wake. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I tried to make her wait until I could announce her, but she insisted upon coming up the stairs immediately.”

“Bless you, no need for announcements,” the woman replied as she went to the side of the bed. “I'm the nurse, of course, Mrs. McAlvey.” She set down her valise and cocked her head to one side as she studied Mr. McHeath, who was just as intently studying her.

“That will be all, Walters,” Moira said as she watched the two of them, one young and handsome and sick and wary, the other older, broader, matter-of-fact and…smiling?

“Well, he looks better than I expected, all things considered,” Mrs. McAlvey declared as she took off her cloak and handed it to Moira without any regard for class or rank. She also spoke as if Mr. McHeath was still unconscious, even though he was looking right at her. “I've seen plenty hurt worse than him be right as rain after a week or two.”

“I'm delighted to hear it,” Mr. McHeath said, a tad louder than he had to and obviously a little disgruntled at being spoken of as if he wasn't aware of her presence. “I'm feeling better already.”

However dismayed Mr. McHeath might be, Moira wanted to hug her. Mrs. McAlvey had surely been around enough sick and injured people that her opinion could be trusted.

Not a whit disturbed by Mr. McHeath's disgruntled
remarks, Mrs. McAlvey gave a hearty laugh. “A pity you look like a dog's breakfast, then,” she said to him. She put her hands on her hips. “So, you're the fella beat the Titan of Inverness. Well, you've got the shoulders for it, although I can't say I ever heard of a lawyer making a bit on the side prizefighting.”

“I wasn't paid a penny.”

“No? Good heavens, man, you should have been, by all accounts. Most entertaining boxing match in years, they're saying in Dunbrachie. Still and all, I trust this'll be the last time. We aren't none of us getting any younger.” She glanced at Moira. “Now, as delightful as I'm sure this young man is finding your company, my lady, it's time for you to go. The man needs his rest—and you should have a nap yourself. Dr. Campbell said that seeing you got some sleep was part of my job, too.”

Moira didn't want to leave, but she doubted there was anything more she could do to help Mr. McHeath now that the capable and voluble Mrs. McAlvey was here.

She was nearly at the door when an even more distressed Walters arrived.

She immediately thought of one reason for his demeanor and hurried out of the blue bedroom, closing the door behind her. “Has my father come home?”

And is he drunk?

“No, my lady,” the butler replied, giving her some temporary relief from her dread before he gave her another cause for concern. “Sir Robert McStuart is below and wishes to speak with you.”

Never had she been more tempted to have the butler tell someone she wasn't at home. However, Mr. McHeath
was Robbie's guest, and Robbie deserved to know that his friend was here, as well as his condition. He also had to be told that Mr. McHeath must stay where he was until the doctor said otherwise.

As she went down the stairs, it occurred to her that Robbie might have been worried about Mr. McHeath's whereabouts last night. He might have spent several anxious hours wondering where his friend was or what had happened to him—although if that had been the case, he should have had men searching for him, and clearly he had not.

Her suspicion that Robbie hadn't been overly concerned about his friend's absence proved unfortunately correct, for instead of finding Robbie anxious and upset, the young aristocrat stood by the drawing room windows with legs planted, arms akimbo and his expression angry.

One look at his face and she could guess where he'd spent the night. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pasty and he was swaying enough to suggest that if he hadn't been drinking already this morning, he'd had enough last night to keep him semidrunk today. His clothes looked as if he'd slept in them, as perhaps he had, and he smelled like a brewery.

“What's happened to Gordon?” Robbie demanded as soon as he saw her. “One of the lads from the village said he saw him in a wagon heading this way with his head in your lap.”

As if she and Mr. McHeath had been involved in some sort of illicit activity, and as if that was worse than Robbie's apparent neglect of his friend's safety, letting
him go back to McStuart House alone. “He was attacked and left for dead near what is left of my school.”

Robbie stared at her as if he couldn't quite comprehend.

“You do know about the fire? Mr. McHeath came upon men setting fire to my school and tried to stop them. He was beaten and stabbed.”

His mouth gaping, Robbie felt for the end of the sofa and sat heavily. “Of course I heard about the fire. Everybody was talking about it,” he whispered hoarsely, as if it hurt his throat to speak. “And then the boy told me about Gordon. I thought he'd gone to help put it out and gotten too much smoke. But you say he's been beaten? And stabbed. He's not…he's not…dying?”

Seeing his genuine distress, her heart softened a little toward him. “No, thank God.”

Robbie covered his face with his hands. “I never should have let him leave alone!”

No, he shouldn't, but that couldn't be changed now. “Fortunately, he's awake and coherent and getting the best of care, so I think he'll be all right in a few days.”

Robbie raised his distraught face to look at her with pleading eyes. “You mean that?”

As if she would lie to him about such a thing. “Aye. The doctor said there's good reason to hope he'll recover.”

“Thank God, thank God!” Robbie muttered as he leaned forward and clasped his hands in a prayerful attitude.

“I assume he has family in Edinburgh who should
be informed of what's happened and that his return will be delayed.”

“What? Oh, no, Gordon's parents are dead and as far as I know, he doesn't have any other close relatives. There's Mitford, who's handling his business in his absence—Gordon told me that when we were playing chess. I'll write to him.”

“Thank you, Robbie.”

Robbie sighed and shook his head. “I shouldn't have stayed in the tavern last night. I should have gone home with him or insisted he take my carriage.”

Yes, he should have, but that was not what was most important, and she had to ask, even if she doubted she'd get an honest answer. “You didn't know about the fire before it was set, did you?”

Robbie straightened as abruptly as if she'd punched him. His eyes narrowed and his face flushed. “You think I had something to do with that? You honestly think me capable of such a thing?” He leaped to his feet before she could answer. “Good God, if you believe that, no wonder you broke our engagement!”

His arms crossed, he continued to glare at her. “I assure you, my lady, that whatever you think of me, I had
nothing
to do with that fire, or the attack on my best and dearest friend. And it's not as if there aren't plenty of other people to suspect. There are several I could name who might have decided that setting fire to the school was the best way to stop the arrogant Lady Bountiful from taking over the education of their children.”

He came a few steps closer. “What, you don't think
you're arrogant? What else is it when you presume to tell other people what's good for them?”

That wasn't what she was doing at all! Besides… “Education is always beneficial!”

“Not when it's forced down people's throats,” Robbie retorted.

“I haven't forced anybody to do anything!”

“No,” he scornfully replied, “you've just made them feel like ignorant peasants.”

Good heavens, was that possible? Could she have done that? That had never been her intention.

“Yet you presumed to call me arrogant and selfish when you broke our engagement,” he went on. “What are you but the same, although you cloak it in the mantle of good works?” He came closer, forcing her to step back. “You think you're so much better than me—aye and everybody else. You think you have all the answers, know how everybody ought to live. Well, you
don't!
You don't know anything, you presumptuous, naive witch! Now take me to Gordon. He's coming home with me.”

His harsh, unfair, cruel words only served to invigorate her, not intimidate her. “No. The doctor says he can't be moved.”

“Is that so—or do you think keeping him here will stop the lawsuit? I assure you, it won't. I'll sue you with or without Gordon McHeath.”

She had never truly hated Robert McStuart until this moment. It wasn't what he called her, or the anger and hatred in his voice and face. It was his accusation that she would use such base tactics to win the lawsuit, an accusation made seemingly without a particle of genuine
concern for his friend's welfare. “Get out of this house, Robbie,” she said, her voice low, but firm in its purpose. “Get out and
never
come back.”

“You can't—”

“I have several footmen I can summon,” she said, heading for the mantel, and the bellpull.

Robbie muttered a curse, turned on his heel and left.

 

He heard voices.

Hushed, whispering voices. That nurse's was the loudest. And there was a man. Gordon didn't recognize his voice at all.

Wasn't that Lady Moira speaking?

It was
her
voice—that soft, dulcet, beautiful voice—that had summoned him back from a deep well of pain before. He'd opened his eyes and discovered her looking down on him with…great affection.

He opened his eyes. Yes, she was there, at the foot of the bed, standing beside a middle-aged man dressed in black with a very grim expression. He was also balding and had very bushy gray eyebrows. Behind them, looking like a warden standing guard over two prisoners and with her arms folded over her ample bosom, was Mrs. McAlvey.

“He's awake,” she announced.

Yes, he was—his aching side and head proved that, for he'd felt no pain in his dreams.

He'd been dreaming about Catriona at first, and his folly. Then Moira had been with him, bold and brave and kissing him.