When he pulled her closer, she should have broken away at once…even if Gordon McHeath’s kiss was like something from a French novel, full of heat and desire and need and yearning.
Worse, she could only imagine what Robbie Mc Stuart would make of this encounter, for surely Gordon Mc Heath would tell him. Soon more gossip about her would spread through Dunbrachie—and this time, it would be all her fault.
As if that weren’t bad enough, it was even more distressing to imagine her father’s possible reaction when he found out what she’d done.
He’d kept his pledge to her for nearly six months now—the longest span yet—and it sickened her to think her thoughtless act might cause him to start drinking to excess again.
Perhaps Mr. McHeath wouldn’t tell Robbie. After all, he was just as guilty of an improper embrace as she.
“My lady, ye’re back! Did ye fall? Are ye hurt?” the gray-haired, stocky head groom cried.
Jem hurried toward her from the entrance to the stables as she entered the yard bordered by a tall stone wall that had once surrounded a castle during the time of Edward Longshanks and William Wallace.
“Yes, I fell, but I’m not hurt. Did Dougal come home?” she asked, speaking of her horse.
“Aye, he’s here, the rascal,” Jem replied. “We were about to start a search for ye. Your father’s going to be that relieved when he sees you.”
Cursing herself again for lingering with the handsome Mr. McHeath, even if he was a tall, tawny-haired, strong-jawed, brown-eyed young man who looked like one of those Greek statues she’d seen in London, she hoped she wasn’t already too late…until she remembered all the wine and spirits were locked away and she had the only key. It wasn’t like Glasgow, where her father had only to go down the street to a tavern.
Nevertheless, she walked quickly through the new part of the manor that had been built by the previous earl, past the kitchen and buttery, the laundry and the servants’ dining room.
The delightful, homey smells of fresh bread and roasted beef filled her nostrils, and she felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days, before her father had started to drink heavily and before he’d come into his title and inheritance.
She reached the main floor of the house and the corridor leading to the library, her father’s study and the drawing room. The drawing room was part of the new building; the entrance hall with its dark oak panelling, the study and the library were not. Other rooms had been added in the times between the construction of the castle and the renovation and additions to the manor, so that now the country seat of the Earl of Dunbrachie was an amalgam of every architectural style from the Middle Ages to the Georgian period. She’d spent many hours when they first arrived here exploring all the nooks and crannies, cellars and attics, discovering forgotten pictures and furniture, dust, cobwebs and the occasional dead mouse.
Pausing for a moment to check her reflection in one of the pier glasses that were intended to brighten the otherwise very dark hall, and taking some deep breaths to calm her nerves, Moira removed her bonnet and laid it on the marble-topped side table beneath the mirror, then patted down the smooth crown of her hair.
“Moira!”
She turned to find her father in the door of his study. He was obviously agitated and his dishevelled thick gray hair indicated that he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked as she approached. He took hold of her hands as he studied her face and clothes.
She decided the least said about what had happened that day, the better. “I’m quite all right. I took a tumble and Dougal ran off, so I had to walk back.”
“I was about to go after you myself.”
That explained his riding clothes—which he rarely wore, because he was no horseman, having spent most of his life in offices, mills and warehouses. Thank heavens she’d arrived before he’d gotten on a horse.
“I’m fine, Papa, really,” she replied, taking his arm and steering him into his study, which was the one room in the vast hall that seemed most like their old home in Glasgow.
As always, her father’s massive mahogany desk was littered with various papers, contracts, ledgers, quills, ink bottles and account books, for although he’d inherited a title and estate, he continued to oversee his business interests back in Glasgow. It looked a mess, but no one was allowed to tidy it, or else, her father claimed, he could never find anything. Older ledgers and account books were on the shelves behind his desk and a threadbare chair stood behind it. She’d been trying to persuade him to recover the chair for years, but he refused that, too, saying it was comfortable just the way it was. The only ornamentation in the room was a bust of Shakespeare sitting on the dark marble mantel that had belonged to one of the other earls.
“I don’t think you should be riding alone all over the countryside. What if you’d broken a limb?” her father asked as she sat on the slightly less worn sofa and he leaned back against his desk, wrinkling a paper that was half off the edge.
“I’ll be more careful next time. I promise.”
“Perhaps you should have a calmer mount—a nice, gentle mare wouldn’t be likely to throw you.”
Or gallop very fast, either. “Perhaps,” she prevaricated, not wanting to upset him more by protesting directly.
“And in future, you must take a groom with you.”
Her heart sank as she laced her fingers in her lap. She enjoyed having some time alone, away from the constant presence of all the servants. She supposed wealthy people who’d grown up in such circumstances were used to it; she, as yet, was not.
“You really must start acting more like a lady, Moira.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “There’s just so much to remember.”
And so many restrictions.
“With rank comes both privileges and duty,” her father reminded her.
Moira was well aware of that. Fortunately, not everything some would consider a duty was onerous to her.
“The school building is coming along nicely, Papa. You should come and see. And I’ve sent out the advertisement for a teacher,” she said, turning the subject away from her fall and its aftermath, and especially Gordon McHeath, silently vowing to stay far away from handsome strangers even if they looked like a maiden’s dream, kissed like Casanova and came charging to the rescue like William Wallace attacking the English.
His expression pensive, her father walked round his desk and shuffled some papers before he spoke again. “You do realize, Moira,” he began without looking at her, “that not everyone in Dunbrachie is in favor of your charitable endeavor? Even parents whose children will benefit are afraid you’ll be filling their heads with visions of futures that can’t possibly come to pass.”
“That’s because they don’t yet appreciate the value of an education,” she staunchly replied. “I expected some opposition. There always is when something is new and different. But once they see the value of being able to read and write and the opportunities it will afford their children, surely their opposition will melt away.”
“I hope so,” her father replied, glancing up at her. “I truly hope so. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
She knew how much her father loved her and wanted her to be safe and happy. A more selfish, ambitious man would never worry about her as he did, or try to keep his promise not to overimbibe, or come to her with such a stricken, sorrowful expression when he discovered the truth about the man she had agreed to marry, and the things he’d done. She didn’t doubt that it had been almost as upsetting for her father to learn the true nature of her fiancé and have to tell her about it as it had been for her to hear it.
She hurried to embrace him. “We’ll look after each other, Papa,” she said with fervent determination, “as we’ve always done, in good times and bad.”
So she said, although she just as fervently hoped the bad times were at an end.
Chapter Two
Built in the Palladian s
tyle of granite and with a slate roof, McStuart House nestled on the side of the hill overlooking the village of Dunbrachie. The first time Gordon had been there as a lad of twelve he’d been awed into silence by the magnificent and spacious house and its army of servants. The last time he’d visited here, about five years ago, he’d counted the windows and discovered there were thirty-eight, front and back, and not including the French doors that led to the terrace from the drawing room and library.
But the architectural details of Robbie’s home, which he’d inherited on the death of his father three years ago, were not uppermost in Gordon’s mind as he approached this day. Nor were the thickening rain clouds.
He was thinking about that young woman, and Robbie—not that he wanted to think of them together, in any way.
He didn’t want to believe that his first assumption about the cause of her rage—a love affair gone wrong—was the correct one, so he tried to come up with other explanations for her anger.
Maybe there had been a family business venture involving Robbie that went awry. Robbie was not the most responsible of men, and he had no head for figures—except those of women—so it could well be that some sort of transaction or bargain had turned out badly.
Perhaps there was a sister or a cousin or a friend Robbie had flirted with and she was angry because she was jealous.
Whatever the explanation, as he neared the large portico at the front of McStuart House and the first drops of rain began to fall, he decided not to mention the encounter to Robbie. He didn’t want to hear Robbie’s account or explanations, especially if he and that bold, beautiful young woman had been lovers. He wanted to rest, and to try to forget Catriona.
He tied the horse to the ring on one of the columns and hurried up the three wide steps to the equally wide front door with a stained glass fanlight above. The door swung open to reveal a tall, austere butler Gordon didn’t recognize.
“Mr. McHeath, I presume?” the older man said in a refined English accent.
“Aye,” Gordon answered, giving his coat and hat to the liveried footman who appeared beside the butler.
“Sir Robert is expecting you in the drawing room.”
Gordon nodded and hurried inside, making his way to the drawing room through the imposing foyer with walls covered with the horns of stags and rams, spears, pikes, swords and armor. Beyond the drawing room and wide double staircase were several other rooms, such as the library where he and Robbie had played at soldiers when they were younger, and a billiard room they’d used when they were older. There were at least three bedrooms on the main level and twelve above, and servants’ quarters above that, on the uppermost level. He still had no idea how many smaller rooms existed below stairs, where the kitchen, laundry, pantry, buttery, wine cellar, servants’ parlor, servants’ dining room and various other rooms necessary for the running of the house were located.
When he entered the drawing room, he immediately spotted Robbie standing by the French doors leading to the flagstone terrace where the rain was now falling in earnest. Looking out over the garden that had been designed by Inigo Jones, his friend stood with his head lowered, one hand braced against the door frame, the other loosely holding an empty wineglass.
That was such an unusual pose for Robbie, Gordon wasn’t sure if he should disturb him or not, so he took a moment to survey the room. Nothing seemed to have changed since the last time he was here. The walls were still papered in that unusual shade of ochre, the gilded furniture was still covered with the same dark green velvet. The same portraits of long-dead ancestors hung in the same places, the same landscapes in theirs. Even the books on the side tables looked as if they were the ones that had been there five years ago. Everything was clean, with not a speck of dust to be seen, but otherwise, it was as if time had stood still.
Until Robbie turned around.
What the devil had happened to him? He looked as if he’d aged a decade, and a hard-lived decade at that. His face was pale and gaunt and there were dark semicircles beneath his bloodshot blue eyes. While his body had always been slim, now it looked almost skeletal. Only his thick, waving fair hair appeared unchanged.
As Gordon tried not to stare, Robbie set his wineglass on the nearest table and walked toward him smiling.
At least his smile was the same, merry and charming, and a spark of vitality was in his voice as he cried, “Gordo, you old bookworm! I thought you’d never get here! But I never should have doubted you’d arrive after sending me word you’d come, should I? Always dependable, that’s Gordo!”
Gordon had always detested that particular version of his name, yet he was far too concerned about his friend’s state of health to be annoyed. “I ran into a bit of trouble on the far side of the village,” he said dismissively before asking with more concern, “How are you, Robbie?”
“I’ve been a little under the weather,” his friend admitted as he reached out to shake Gordon’s hand.
“Nothing serious, so stop staring at me like an undertaker taking mental measurements,” he finished with a laugh, his grip strong and firm. “Just a little too much of the juice of the grape last night.”
That would certainly explain his appearance. And Robbie had never been much of an eater. But it was his hearty handshake that convinced Gordon there was nothing seriously amiss with his health.
“Let’s have a drink. I’m sure you need one,” his friend continued as he went to a cabinet and poured some amber-colored liquid into two glasses. “The roads around here can make for a damned uncomfortable ride.”
Although Gordon suspected Robbie had already been drinking more than was good for him, he was tired and thirsty and accepted the whiskey. “Thank you.”
Robbie downed his neat. Still holding the glass, he ambled toward the ornately carved hearth. “I suppose you were surprised to get my invitation.”
“I was delighted,” Gordon truthfully replied. And very happy to have a good reason to be away from Edinburgh for a while.
Robbie fingered his glass and looked down at the empty interior. “Yes, well, I confess my motives weren’t completely selfless. I’ve had a bit of trouble, Gordo.”
Involving a beautiful young woman whose passion could send a man reeling? God, he hoped not!
Nevertheless, he managed to calmly reply. “I see. What sort of trouble?”
Robbie gestured toward the sofa closest to him. “Sit down and I’ll tell you all about it—or do you want a bite to eat first? I’ve got a new cook, a Frenchman. Can’t understand half of what he says, but the food’s wonderful.”
No doubt costly, too, but the McStuarts had been rich since the Jacobite Rebellion, when they’d switched churches and allegiances to their advantage as easily as most men changed trousers. Not the most honorable of heritages, Robbie used to say, but it had kept the family solvent ever since.
“No, thank you. I’d rather hear about you,” Gordon replied as he sat down.
Robbie poured himself another whiskey, while Gordon twisted his half-full glass in his hand and waited.
“Well, Gordo, I suppose it had to happen eventually,” Robbie began, sighing as he leaned against the cabinet, holding his glass loose in his fingers with the same casual ease he always displayed, even when called before the tyrannical headmaster at the school where they’d met when they were ten years old. “I’ve had my heart broken at last, old chum. Smashed. Shattered. Wrecked and ruined by a cold and stubborn woman.”
A romantic affair gone wrong then.
Even though there was still the chance that Robbie’s heart had been broken by a woman who didn’t wear a yellow velvet riding habit, Gordon wished he’d taken another route, so he’d never have had that passionate, disastrous encounter.
“Yes, Gordo, it’s true. I fell in love—deeply, completely in love. And I thought she loved me, too, so I asked her to marry me.”
That was even more shocking. Robbie had certainly professed to being in love before—many times, in fact—but as far as Gordon knew,
he’d never gone so far as to propose.
What, then, had gone wrong?
“Yes, I was actually ready to put my neck into the matrimonial noose—and she accepted. Seemed only too happy, in fact. We announced it at a ball at her father’s house.”
“Her father being…?”
“The Earl of Dunbrachie.”
Gordon tried to keep his expression suitably sober, although his heart fairly leaped with relief. Her father was a merchant or manufacturer who owned warehouses, not a titled nobleman.
“A fine match for us both, and then barely a fortnight later, she tells me she won’t marry me after all.”
No wonder Robbie looked exhausted. He, too, had spent many a night these past few months tossing and turning, thinking about his feelings for Catriona McNare. What he’d done and not done, said or should have said. Although he would never have sought solace in a bottle as he feared Robbie had been doing, he could certainly appreciate the inclination to want to drown his sorrows and seek the comforting company of an old friend. “I’m very sorry, Robbie.”
“I knew I could count on you to be sympathetic,” Robbie said with a grin. “And in one way, I suppose I should count myself lucky. Do you know what her father was before he inherited the title? A wool merchant. A very rich wool merchant, but a wool merchant nonetheless.”
The ceiling collapsing on Gordon’s head couldn’t have shocked him more. A rich wool merchant would have warehouses, or access to them.
“He was so distantly related to the late earl,” Robbie continued without looking at his silent friend, “it came as a shock to everybody—including him, I gather. And Moira herself can be eccentric. She has a positive mania about educating the poor. Wants to build a school for the children of Dunbrachie, although what they’d do with an education I have no idea. It’s not like most of the men in Dunbrachie want a school, either.”
If it was the same woman—and Gordon clung to the fast-diminishing hope that he was still jumping to the wrong conclusion—why had she broken the engagement? To be sure, Robbie could be impulsive and wasn’t prone to planning, but he was handsome, rich and titled, loyal and good-natured. Many a nobleman’s daughter could, and did, do worse.
Highland Heiress Page 2
