Highland Heiress (9 page)

How could she have been so foolish? So weak? So stupid? To let him kiss her again… To surrender to the
desire he aroused. To be so bold and wanton, brazen and reckless. To let him stroke and caress her, until…

“Good morning, my lady.”

She came to a halt and turned toward eleven-year-old Lillibet MacKracken, who was dressed in a much-mended calico dress, bareheaded, her face tanned, and ankles skinny above boots too large for her feet. The little girl grinned shyly at her from the edge of the milliner's shop on the far side of the booksellers.

“How are you today, Lillibet?” Moira asked with a smile, her own troubles momentarily forgotten.

“All right, miss—my lady,” Lillibet replied, blushing furiously as she twisted the corner of her relatively clean apron. She started to sidle back into the shadow of the shop, as if she was afraid to be seen talking to Moira.

Considering who her father was, that might indeed be so.

“Are you still going to have the school, my lady?”

“Yes, Lillibet, I am. They've started to work on it already.” She nodded to a stand of trees on the northern side of the village. “Just over there, in that grove. You can go look at it if you like. I'm counting on you to be one of the first students.”

“Oh, no, my lady, Pa says school's a waste o' time for the likes of us,” Lillibet demurred. “We should be out earnin'. Maybe Jackie will be able to go someday. He's a clever wee bairn, my lady.”

Jackie was only three years old. Knowing how fiercely Lillibet's father opposed the school, it might take that long to persuade him to change his mind. “I hope
that once it's built and other children begin to go, he'll decide to send
all
his children.”

Lillibet nodded, yet Moira could see disbelief that such a thing would ever come to pass in the little girl's hazel eyes. “I'd better get along home now,” Lillibet said softly as she dipped a curtsy, then rushed away.

If only there was some way she could make Lillibet's father see that education was not a waste! Moira thought as she watched her go. Learning provided a window onto the wider world, and surely there was nothing wrong with that.

More determined than ever to build her school and somehow convince Big Jack MacKracken and all those other parents that the school would be good for their children, Moira started toward the livery stable again.

And realized there was nobody outside it, or the tavern, where there was usually at least three or four men gathered, unless it was raining.

She stopped and looked around and discovered that men were gathering in the nearby meadow. They looked excited, not anxious. Then she saw the empty square of space about eight feet on all sides, marked off with ropes and stakes.

That could mean only one thing: there was going to be a prizefight.

She was relieved her father had declined to come to Dunbrachie with her that day. Attending a boxing match inevitably led to celebratory drinking if the man her father had wagered on won, or consolation drinking if he lost.

She hoped Jem and the two footmen weren't in the
crowd, although she supposed she could fetch them if she had to. First, though, she would see if they were inside the livery stable.

As she continued on her way, the tavern door opened and two men came out—Sir Robert McStuart and another man dressed only in a kilt. He must be one of the boxers. He certainly looked strong enough, with broad shoulders and muscular arms, and the kilt offered a view of legs that were just as powerful. He was barefoot and she recalled her father saying once that fighting barefoot made it easier to maintain one's balance. He also wore no hat, and his tawny hair waved—

Her jaw fell open. Sweet merciful goodness! It was Gordon McHeath!

She ducked into the nearest doorway and stared. Even the embraces they had shared had only hinted at the magnificent, virile body beneath his clothes. Now there was no need for guesswork.

Desire and need surged through her anew. He looked like one of those Greek or Roman statues, only made of flesh and blood and vibrantly alive.

After the two men had passed on the other side of the street, and as if her feet had a will of their own, she turned and followed them toward the field.

M
oira hadn't gone twenty feet before she stopped. It would be completely inappropriate for a lady to watch a prizefighting match. Given that there was already so much gossip about her, she ought to avoid doing anything else that would cause more scandalized whispers, thinly disguised innuendos and curious stares, no matter how much she wanted to see if Gordon McHeath was indeed going to engage in a prizefight. After seeing him rush down that hill, recovering from his spill with athletic grace and especially after seeing him half-naked, she was rather sure he'd be able to hold his own in the ring, or anywhere.

Still, it would be exciting to witness the contest….

No, she must not.

With a reluctance equal to her disappointment, she started back toward the livery stable—until she saw the Three Geese slipping into the milliner's shop.

Her first thought was that they must have seen Gordon McHeath. Her second was that Sarah Taggart was a good friend of the milliner, whose family lived on the second floor. Sarah and her friends must be planning to watch the match from the upper windows.

Her third was that it was too bad she couldn't join them.

Sighing, she continued on her way, past the milliner's and the lane between it and the bookseller. It was like the lane where she'd been with Mr. McHeath, except that this one had several empty crates taking up much of the space toward the rear, where there was also a lean-to attached to the milliner's shop.

Moira paused and looked more closely. If she piled some of those crates on top of each other, she could climb onto the top of the lean-to and from there to the roof, where she could see the meadow, and the match.

It wouldn't be a ladylike thing to do, but if she were careful, no one would be able to see her on the roof.

A swift survey of the market revealed that no one was looking her way. Their attention was either on the meadow, or trying to get a bargain, and some of the merchants and peddlers had already started packing up their goods. Sam Corlett had put away most of the trimmings that had decorated his wagon and was moving with haste to finish the rest, glancing frequently at the crowd gathering in the meadow.

Moira ducked into the alley. Once more glad she'd spent all those hours clambering around her father's warehouses like a monkey, she began piling the empty crates that had likely held books or pamphlets. Whatever
they'd held, she was relieved she was wearing her gloves so she wouldn't get splinters. When she had a sufficient pile, she hiked up her skirt and petticoat and put one booted foot on the bottom crate. Holding her breath, she grabbed hold of a crate two levels above and pulled herself up.

The pile shifted a little, but not enough to fall. Now she could reach the edge of the roof of the lean-to, and holding tight to it, she climbed another level of crates. Again they shifted, but again they held. Finally she managed to get onto the top of the lean-to.

Panting, she had to wait a bit to catch her breath, then got on her hands and knees.

Her skirts were not going to make the rest of her plan easy to put into effect, but she hadn't spent all that time climbing without learning a thing or two about dealing with feminine clothing. After first making sure nobody was in the lane, she started to roll her skirts until they were about midthigh, and fastened one side into a knot to hold them. Her dress would be wrinkled, but hopefully only the servants would see that when she returned.

Once her skirts were secured, she carefully made her way up onto the roof of the milliners. She had to go slowly, for it would be disastrous if she fell or dislodged a piece of slate.

She obviously wasn't as strong as she used to be; nevertheless, she wasn't going to let her own weakness defeat her. At last she reached the ridgepole and peered over the peak of the roof. She could indeed see into the meadow, as if she were a bird flying overhead.

“Isn't he marvellous?”

Sarah Taggart's voice was as clear as if she were beside Moira on the roof.

They must have opened the window below to see better.

“He'll win. I'm sure of it, even against the Titan,” Emmeline Swanson declared.

Moira nearly let go. Everybody in Dunbrachie and the surrounding villages had heard of that particular boxer, who weighed three hundred pounds at least and had left a trail of broken bones and bruises in his undefeated wake.

This was the man Gordon McHeath was going to box?

Had he taken complete leave of his senses?

 

Regardless of the wager he'd made, despite the possibility that winning this fight would make Robbie drop his suit, he never should have agreed to this, Gordon thought as he followed the excited and more-than-half-inebriated Robbie toward the makeshift ring. He should have come up with a better way to end the lawsuit, or simply refused to represent Robbie anymore and gone home to Edinburgh.

Coming to Dunbrachie was proving to be as great a mistake as believing Catriona McNare cared for him, and being alone with Lady Moira at any time was obviously an even worse one.

He also should have kept on his shirt and trousers rather than accepting the tavern keeper's offer of this old kilt. That would have been warmer and more modest,
and would it have really mattered if a pair of trousers and shirt got ruined in the mud that was sure to be churned up?

“I'm to be your bottle man,” Robbie reminded him as they drew near the excited crowd composed entirely of men. “The tavern keeper's son's going to be your knee man. He's fetching the bucket with a sponge.”

Gordon nodded absently. The knee man would go down on one knee so the fighter could use his thigh as a stool between rounds, rounds that would only end when one of the two fighters got knocked to the ground.

He hoped it would be a short fight, and thank God Lady Moira wasn't here to see this barbaric spectacle. At least, he hoped she wasn't here, but he wasn't about to scan the crowd, either, because if she was…

If she was, the die was cast and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Well, where's your champion?” Robbie asked the man with the bright yellow vest, who was waiting in the ring.

In daylight, the fellow looked even more seedy, with a day's growth of dark whiskers on his face, squinting eyes and a greasy hat pulled down over his forehead.

Beside him was a slender fellow in his late teens wearing a brown wool greatcoat and hat and holding a bucket with a ladle. There was another bucket at his feet, with a large sponge in it for wiping a fighter's face. On his other side was a short, beefy fellow whose wide thigh could probably hold both Lady Moira and Lady Catriona McNare at once.

“Let's just get started, shall we?” Gordon said, anxious to get this over with.

“Keen to have your nose broken, are you?” the seedy fellow said with a cold laugh. “That's the Titan's specialty, so I'm sure he'll be happy to oblige.”

Robbie hadn't told Gordon anything about his opponent—nor had he asked, which might, Gordon realized with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, turn out to be another colossal blunder. Nevertheless, Gordon kept his voice impartial as he replied. “Titan? As in, father of the gods? Am I to assume my foe is a supernatural being?”

“Never mind what they call him,” Robbie said quickly—too quickly. “You can beat him with your eyes shut.”

“You can try,” the man with the yellow vest said with a smirk, “but they don't call him the Titan of Inverness because he's a wee lad.” He nodded across the ring. “Here he comes.” Gordon
really
wished he hadn't agreed to fight when he saw the man they called the Titan of Inverness. His opponent might not have passed for an Olympian god, but if somebody had told Gordon this was a son of Hercules, he might have believed it. The man was easily six foot six and had to weigh over three hundred pounds. Not only that, not an ounce of his weight appeared to be fat. He could probably pull an oxcart full of rocks all by himself. His eyes were little slits in his broad face; his head was bald as an egg and shaped like one, too. Like Gordon, he wore only a kilt; no shirt, boots or stockings.

He was, without doubt, the largest, most unsettling opponent Gordon had ever seen, let alone faced in the ring.

The Titan strode to the center of the square and regarded Gordon with a raised brow, as if to say, “This is the best you can bring against me?”

Gordon was equally silent as he marched out to meet his enormous adversary. Instead of facing the man, though, he walked around him, studying the Titan, seeking any weakness or vulnerability and making the Titan crane his neck to see what he was doing.

A hush fell over the crowd. The Titan held out his hand. Gordon shook it and then let go, signaling the start of the match.

The Titan immediately lashed out with his longer arms. Fists up defensively, Gordon leaped back. Fortunately he was light on his feet—certainly lighter than a man the size of the Titan would be. Yet he mustn't assume that would be a winning advantage, not when the man had that long a reach, plus strength and experience, as well as no qualms at all about breaking his opponent's nose and probably any other bones, as well.

The Titan's right arm shot out again. Gordon ducked and moved in for a quick jab at the area of the man's kidneys. He hit the Titan hard, but the fellow barely seemed to feel it.

Gordon danced backward. The Titan followed, moving with more speed than Gordon expected. He nearly got hit in the face, only avoiding the blow by instinct. He dodged another rapid strike, then lashed at the Titan's jaw.

He didn't connect, yet the way the man reared back gave Gordon sudden hope. Some men could endure blows anywhere but the jaw, and a strong punch there would knock them flat.

The only trouble was landing a good, strong punch to the more easily defended face.

If he could tire the Titan, Gordon reasoned, he would be less able to defend himself. That meant he had to keep the man moving.

And Gordon had to stay on his feet.

That wasn't easy, not when the Titan kept him bobbing and weaving to avoid his massive fists.

The Titan moved him back to the edge of the ring. He lunged and struck Gordon's right shoulder. Gordon fell backward, landing hard on his rear.

“End of round!” Robbie shouted.

He and a lad of about sixteen rushed toward him, helping him to his feet and toward their corner. He was especially glad to have the chance to sit and catch his breath, and take a long drink of cold water from the ladle Robbie held for him.

“You've got him, Gordo,” Robbie whispered in his ear. “Man's as slow as a turtle.”

Had Robbie actually been watching?

“He can't keep up with you for much longer!”

Gordon wasn't sure he could keep up with the Titan much longer, either.

“Watch his fists,” Robbie added.

Gordon didn't bother to respond to that unnecessary advice. He scanned the crowd, seeing no familiar faces and certainly no female ones.

He glanced up at the sky, trying to judge the time. About two in the afternoon, he made it, so it would get warmer yet.

As he lowered his gaze, he saw something that made him think he was hallucinating, despite not having been hit in the head. Either that, or someone wearing Lady Moira's bonnet was lying on the roof of a shop on the other side of the green.

He blinked and wiped his face, but before he could look again, Robbie shoved him to his feet.

And a new round began.

 

“Oh, surely it can't last much longer, can it?” Mabel Hornby cried.

Still lying on the roof, Moira wondered the same thing as she watched the two men circle each other yet again. The bout had already lasted at least an hour, to judge by the changing shadows. Both Gordon McHeath and his opponent were bleeding and bruised and had been knocked down more than once, although Mr. McHeath had been on the ground less than the man she knew only as the Titan of Inverness.

The Titan was huge, seemingly all brawn. Fortunately, Mr. McHeath was faster on his feet and often deftly eluded the blows. He also managed to make his fewer strikes more effective.

By now, though, both men were showing signs of wearying and she feared McHeath would soon be too tired to avoid a crushing punch from the Titan's beefy fist.

Nor should she stay here much longer, lest her father
start to wonder where she was. But she didn't want to leave until she knew who had won the fight.

She hoped it would be Mr. McHeath—because he seemed so outmatched yet was holding his own, or so she tried to convince herself.

“Papa told me of a boxing match that went for fifty rounds,” Sarah Taggart said, her voice quivering with excitement, as if she wanted to see this fight go at least as long.

“Oh, dear!” Mabel Hornby replied. “I do hope—”

Whatever she hoped was lost in the roar that went up from the crowd as Mr. McHeath, kilt swirling, dodged another blow aimed at his face.

None shouted so loudly or enthusiastically as Robbie McStuart. Judging by his flushed face and the way he kept taking swigs from the jug in his hand, he wasn't just excited, he was drunk. Moira wouldn't be surprised to discover he had wagered on the outcome, too.

How could she have missed the signs of his weaknesses for so long? How could she have been so blind she hadn't realized the kind of man he was from the first time she met him at the ball they'd hosted shortly after they'd arrived in Dunbrachie?

Even though being a lady was new and wondrous, and he was charming and flattering, she should have paid more attention, and been much more careful.

At least she'd never been intimate with him. She'd never even kissed him, except for a few mild kisses on the cheek. She'd told herself that Robbie was treating her the way a lady ought to be treated and she should
be glad. Only later had she realized he probably didn't feel much desire for her.

And today, she'd been made to see how little she'd desired Robbie, compared to the passion Mr. McHeath aroused.