Highland Heiress

by Margaret Moore

He should not have given in to the impulses that coursed through him whenever he was with her, especially when he was helping Robbie to sue her.

  “Moira,” he began, although he had no idea what he was going to say, whether to try to explain, or apologize.

  Her expression changed to one of stark horror, as if he’d tried to murder her. She shook her head and held up her hand to ward him off. “No,” she whispered, “no, no, no! I’ve never…not with anyone…!”

  She’d never and not with anyone…what? She’d never been so intimate with a man, a thought that both thrilled and relieved him, or been so weak, a dismay he shared?

  Before he could ask, before he could try to explain or attempt to excuse his actions—although there could be no real explanation beyond pure, unadulterated desire, of a sort he hadn’t felt since…of a sort he had never felt—she pushed her way past him and ran out of the lane.

  He started to follow her, then stopped. What could he possibly say that would make him sound any better than Robbie, a man she had jilted for lack of self-control?

  As he slumped back against the wall, one thing above all else was clear in his mind. Whatever was happening between him and Lady Moira, he couldn’t stay in Dunbrachie, not even for Robbie. He would give Robbie the work he’d already done, wish him good luck with a new solicitor and return to Edinburgh. Robbie would be angry, perhaps angry enough to never see or speak to him again, but would that be any worse than finding himself at the mercy of a passion he couldn’t control?

  He had to get back to Edinburgh, to familiar surroundings and what would feel like solid ground instead of this rocky, unstable terrain. To be sure, his heart had been wounded in Edinburgh, but at least that was familiar, too.

  He also couldn’t stay in this lane forever.

  Determined to find Robbie and go back to McStuart House, but equally determined that no one know he’d been near Lady Moira, let alone talked to her, let alone kissed her, he left the lane at the opposite end. He strode across the green and shoved open the door to the tavern, a rather run-down establishment of gray granite and slate, with a huge hearth that smoked, and several patrons who did, too, so that the air of the taproom was redolent of smoke, tobacco, sweat, sawdust and ale. It was noisy, too, from the voices of several men, including Robbie’s.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden dimness, he searched for his friend and saw him at the far end of the room. Robbie was sprawled in a chair, a wine bottle on the table in front of him and several men who looked like merchants or tradesmen around him, listening to him as if intent on his every word.

  On the opposite side near the door of the low-ceilinged room was another group of what looked like farmers or laborers. They, too, had someone occupying the center of attention—a tall, beefy fellow dressed in rough homespun, who looked as if he washed no more than once a year.

  “I took her down a peg or two,” the unwashed man crowed in triumph as Gordon entered.

  He was probably talking about his no doubt downtrodden wife.

  “Thinks she’s so high-and-mighty, with her money and her title, tellin’ us all what’s best for our children. I told her what she could do with her bloody school.”

  Gordon’s steps slowed and his resolve to leave immediately lessened a little. How many titled women could there be in Dunbrachie?

  “She had the gall to cast her pa up to me. He made money before he inherited the title, says she, because he can read and write. So what if he can? He was born lucky if ever a man was. Well, most of us ain’t!”

  The men around him nodded. “That’s right, Jack,” one of them, a short man with a squint, agreed.

  “Gordo, old chap, here you are!” Robbie called out, and Gordon had no choice but to approach him.

  As he got closer to Robbie’s table, he got a better look at the men he was with. They looked like the sort of hail-fellow-well-met rascals that Robbie would find entertaining and be happy to entertain, the same sort who could easily goad him into paying for every round of drinks and gamble with him until he had nothing left in his wallet.

  Gordon joined them, but he did not sit down, and he only made the most perfunctory nod as he was introduced to men he’d likely never meet again. “Gentlemen,” he said to them all. “Sir Robert, if you don’t mind, I think it’s time we returned to McStuart House.”

  “It’s not even noon!” Robbie protested with frowning dismay.

  “Rather past it,” Gordon replied. Robbie had already finished a bottle of wine, by the looks of it, and by himself, for the other men all had mugs of ale either in their hands or on the table in front of them.

  Robbie ignored him and addressed the men at the table.

  “Well, what did I tell you, boys?” He pushed back his chair, jumped to his feet and threw his arm companionably around Gordon’s shoulder. “Built like a first-class prizefighter, isn’t he? He was the champion of the school when we were boys.”

  That was true and once he would have been thrilled to hear Robbie boasting of his prowess, but not now. It wasn’t an accomplishment he was particularly proud of, and he wanted to go. “Sir Robert—”

  “I don’t know what you do in Edinburgh to stay so healthy, Gordo,” Robbie interrupted with a laugh, “but clearly, it’s working.”

  It was on the tip of Gordon’s tongue to say that one thing he didn’t do was drink to excess; however, such a comment would likely only drive Robbie to insist upon staying, and drinking more. “If you don’t mind, Sir Robert,” he said with more firmness, “I’d like to go back to McStuart House.”

  Again Robbie ignored him. “I’ll wager fifty pounds Gordon here can beat anybody you bring against him.”

  Oh, God! Gordon opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, one of the men, wearing a particularly bright yellow vest, cried, “I’ll take that bet.”

  He rose and slapped a purse of coins on the table.

  He was pale and his hands were too soft to indicate he worked for a living. He might be a nobleman or well-to-do merchant or tradesman, yet there was something about his clothes—the quality of the cloth, the vulgar bright yellow of his waistcoat—that suggested he was more likely a professional gamester.

  Which made it all the more imperative that he get Robbie out of there. Otherwise, who could say how much more Robbie would spend that he didn’t have, or what other mischief he might get into.

  “I haven’t boxed since we left school and I have no intention of boxing today,” Gordon said, determined to leave the tavern with his friend as quickly as possible.

  “Oh, don’t be an old woman!” Robbie chided, his grin a little forced, the look in his eyes a little hard. “You can surely beat anybody from around here with one hand tied behind your back.”

  “I’ve already taken the bet,” the gamester reminded them, his eyes gleaming with triumphant greed.

  “I didn’t agree,” Gordon returned.

  “A bet’s a bet,” the gamester insisted. “Ain’t that right, boys? Unless you ain’t blokes what keeps their word.”

  “I’ve never gone back on a bet in my life,” Robbie declared, taking hold of Gordon’s arm with a fierce grip. “Just give me a few moments to help my friend get over his reluctance.”

  Gordon didn’t appreciate being treated like a recalcitrant child; nevertheless, it would probably only makes things worse if he refused to go with Robbie, so he allowed Robbie to lead him through the bustling kitchen. A buxom, plump woman whose hair was covered with a kerchief and whose apron bore traces of many a spill stirred a pot of what smelled like beef stew. She stared openmouthed as they passed, revealing a few remaining teeth. A scullery maid who looked as if she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks stood at the stone sink, a dirty pot and equally dirty rag in her hands. Although she was clearly just as surprised as the other woman and her eyes were on Robbie and Gordon, she mechanically kept swishing the rag in the pot. A lad of about ten with a load of kindling in his hands dropped it, shocking the woman at the pot back into motion
, and the scullery maid picked up another pot.

  Paying absolutely no attention to them, kicking a basket of turnips out of the way, Robbie proceeded to the yard, Gordon in tow.

  Once out into the fresh air and bright sunlight, Gordon blinked like a mole and surveyed the yard bordered by a rugged stone fence on two sides and what appeared to be a stable on the third. A covered well was near the door, and so were several empty casks and barrels. A wooden trough rested against one of the walls and a few chickens scratched in the dirt.

  Otherwise, they were alone.

  Good.

  “I’m not going to fight anybody,” Gordon told Robbie firmly as he faced him. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old solicitor, not a schoolboy.”

  Anxious to win your respect and admiration.

  Robbie folded his arms over his chest. “What harm will it do?” he demanded, his words slightly slurred. “Your reputation won’t be sullied. This isn’t Edinburgh, after all. And who do you think they’ll bring against you? Some young yokel who’s likely never boxed before, I’ll wager. It’ll be easy money.”

  For Robbie, but it would be Gordon doing the fighting.

  It was bad enough that Robbie was trying to claw his way out of debt by suing Lady Moira, but now he wanted to use him to win a wager, as well? “I don’t want to fight, Robbie.”

  His face reddening, Robbie crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Gordon. “I never thought you’d turn coward on me.”

  Gordon’s ire rose and whatever respect he’d retained for Robbie vanished. “I’m not afraid to fight. I don’t want to fight today, whether you’ve made a wager—”

  An idea came to him, a way to make Robbie give up the suit, and since Robbie so obviously liked to gamble, surely it would appeal to him. “I’ll fight on one condition, Robbie. If I win, you agree to…”

  He hesitated. He wanted to say that if he won, Robbie had to drop the suit completely, except that Robbie would probably never agree to that. So instead, he went for an option Robbie would likely at least be willing to consider. “If I win, you agree to settle the suit with Lady Moira for one thousand pounds and we find another way to get you out of the rest of your debts, or at least make them manageable.”

  Robbie frowned as he leaned his weight on one leg. “Why should I agree to that?”

  Gordon didn’t want to risk losing this chance, so he came up with a reason a man like Robbie could appreciate. “Because this way, the suit will be settled easier and quicker, and you’ll have some money sooner. That amount should enable you to keep your most pressing creditors at bay for a little while, at least.”

  “And less work for you, too, eh, Gordo?” Robbie noted with a smirk.

  A few days ago, Gordon would have said he could never hate Robbie McStuart, but standing in the yard of the tavern in Dunbrachie, seeing that smirk after learning what his friend had done and what he was capable of, the last vestige of respect, affection and admiration he had for Sir Robert McStuart dwindled away.

  “What if you fight and lose?” Robbie asked.

  “I’ll pay the wager.”

  “And the suit? You won’t try to make me settle for less than five thousand?”

  “I won’t try to make you do anything, because I won’t be representing you in that anymore, regardless of the outcome of the fight.”

  Robbie stared at him incredulously. “What?”

  “You heard me, Robbie. If you want to continue your suit against Lady Moira, you’ll have to find another solicitor. I’ll leave you the documents I’ve drafted.”

  He’d also leave a sealed letter for the new solicitor suggesting that Lady Moira might be willing to offer a settlement for a lesser amount, leaving it to the new solicitor to negotiate the exact terms. “I’m going back to Edinburgh as soon as possible.”

  “By God, you really mean it!” Robbie cried incredulously.

  “Yes, Robbie, I really do. I think that lawsuit is a mistake.”

  Instead of being angry, Robbie threw back his head and laughed, as if everything was all right between them, although it never would be again. “Good God, Gordo! I knew you had a bit of the Calvinist in you, but I had no idea it ran so deep. Sweet Jesus, you almost make me ashamed of myself.”

  Almost, but not truly ashamed, as he ought to be. As any truly honorable gentleman would be.

  “There’s no need to go rushing back to Edinburgh, old friend, because you’re going to win the fight, and when you do, I’ll settle for a thousand pounds and as long as you’ll help me deal with those creditors, all will be well with the world.”

  Gordon marvelled at the ease with which Robbie dismissed opposition. He had always been carefree in their youth, but Gordon had assumed it was because he was rich and titled. Now that ability took on a more selfish quality. It was as if Robbie simply assumed and accepted as his right that his troubles would always be solved somehow, by someone else.

  Thank God, Lady Moira had broken their engagement. Marriage to a man like Robbie would be a misery.

  “Come on, Gordo, no more time to waste. They’ll have the ring set up by now. We’ll have to find you some thing else to wear, though. I wouldn’t want you to ruin your clothes.”

  As if his clothes were all he should be worried about.

  After Moira left the lane, she wanted nothing more than to get to her carriage and back home as quickly as possible. She hurried along the street past the shops and houses, head down, eyes on the uneven pavement, not wanting to stop, or be stopped by anyone, making every effort not to glance over her shoulder to see if McHeath had followed her out of the lane. Or where he was at all.

  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.

  Chapter Nine

  Moira 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.