Highland Heiress

by Margaret Moore

  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, than
k 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.

  “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.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Dead?” 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.”