Highland Heiress (13 page)

“We didn't mean to disturb you, Mr. McHeath,” Lady Moira said, “but if you're able, Mr. McCrutcheon, the constable, has some questions for you.”

Of course. He should have been expecting a representative of the law to arrive.

“I'll try,” Gordon said. He started to sit up, until the pain in his side put an end to that. “I suppose you want descriptions of the men who attacked me.”

“For a start,” the constable confirmed.

“There were three.” Gordon described them as best as he could remember, including their accents. “And there was a dog. A big black dog.”

Lady Moira started, and he nodded. “Yes, the same dog. Lady Moira and I had an earlier encounter with the beast,” he explained to the constable. “I saw the dog last night, then some light through the trees. I wanted to find out who owned the dog, so I went after it toward the light, as carefully and quietly as I could in case it was a band of vagabonds or other unsavoury sorts. I heard one of the men order the other to start the fire. Before I could summon help, I was struck from behind. The other men joined the attack, the red-haired one stabbed me and I thought they'd kill me unless I played dead, so that's what I did. They dragged me to the ditch and left me. I tried to get up but I couldn't.”

“You were too badly hurt,” Lady Moira said softly.

“And a good thing you didn't, too, or you'd be dead for sure,” Mrs. McAlvey declared. “If they hadn't done for you, the bleeding would have.”

“I overheard them talking,” Gordon went on, wanting to tell the constable everything he could remember
while the memories were relatively fresh. “They'd been paid to set fire to the school.”

“Paid?” Lady Moira repeated incredulously. “By whom?”

How he wished he had an answer to that, so that they could find whoever was responsible and stop him, and keep her safe! “I'm sorry. I don't know.”

“Paid, eh? Well, that's a different sort of bagpipe,” the constable mused aloud. “That makes it likely they weren't from around here at all. No wonder nobody recognized him.”

“You've captured one of them?” Lady Moira asked eagerly.

Gordon had asked enough questions himself in his legal practice to recognize when somebody had revealed more than they meant to, and the constable had just done so.

Nevertheless, he answered Lady Moira. “Aye, we've got one o' 'em. The Yorkshireman, by the sounds of it.”

Gordon also had enough experience to recognize when a person was only revealing a part of the truth. “Who is he?”

“We still don't know.”

“I think that's just about enough questions for now,” Mrs. McAlvey said. “The man needs his rest.”

“Just a few more,” the constable replied, his tone as decisive as hers. “Mr. McHeath, during this struggle, did you have a weapon of any kind?”

“No.”

“Did you take one of theirs, or pick up a stick?”

“No.”

“What would it matter if he had?” Lady Moira demanded. “Surely he had a right to defend himself.”

“Aye, so he did—and so he did.”

Gordon's head was throbbing now, and it was difficult to make sense of what the man was saying. “What do you mean?”

“The man we found—he's dead.”

“D
ead?” Moira gasped, while Mr. McHeath blinked like a man who'd been submersed in water. “How?”

“Hit on the head from behind, looks like,” the constable replied.

“That'd do it,” Mrs. McAlvey grimly agreed.

“And you think…you think
I
killed him?” Mr. McHeath asked.

Then his eyes rolled back.

“That's enough, Mr. McCrutcheon!” Moira cried as Mrs. McAlvey rushed to the bedside and immediately felt Mr. McHeath's forehead.

Mr. McHeath's eyes opened again and he started to speak—but whatever he had to say could wait.

“You've answered enough questions today, Mr. McHeath,” Moira said firmly before she turned to the constable. “Come along, sir.”

“I appreciate you're upset, my lady,” Mr. McCrutcheon
said as he followed her from the room, “but these questions have to be asked.”

“Not now, not if they cause a serious setback for Mr. McHeath,” she replied.

“How do you know it was Mr. McHeath who hurt the man?” she asked as they went down the stairs. “Perhaps the vandal injured himself running away.”

The constable shook his head when they reached the foyer. “I doubt it. The doctor will have to take a look to say for certain, but it looks like he was hit from behind with something heavy—a shovel handle or piece of wood, perhaps.”

“Even if Mr. McHeath killed that man, surely no court would consider him guilty of murder or even manslaughter,” Moira said, facing the man who was also the village undertaker. His arrival had given her another shock, until she'd remembered that. “Whatever happened, he was attacked by men committing a crime and he had no weapon with him, so it was clearly self-defence.”

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!”