Highland Heiress

chapter Fifteen



Moira had been waiting for his kiss. Dreaming of it, even though she hadn’t wanted to admit it. Yet the moment their mouths met, it felt right and good and wonderful.

She leaned forward and responded with an eager, aching need, willingly parting her lips to allow his tongue to venture within and deepening the kiss as desire flowed between them, infusing the very air. His arms around her, his hands roved over her body while she explored his, feeling the warmth of his skin. His shirt the merest of barriers, she could feel the heat of his body, the matching heat of the same impulse that compelled her to stay when she should go, to lean toward him instead of hurrying away, to kiss him and surrender, rather than flee.

With slow deliberation, his right hand slipped around to cup her breast. He kneaded gently, the action increasing her fervent yearning for more. More of his kisses. More of his embrace. More intimacy.

She moved closer, trying to get as near to him as possible, grasping him tighter until she felt his body stiffen and the sharp intake of his breath.

The wound in his side. She had forgotten and put her arm around him, and the bandage there.

At once she pulled away. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered.

He smiled and caressed her cheek. “If I’m in any pain, it’s not because of anything you’re doing, and certainly not enough to ask you to stop.”

She didn’t want to hurt him in any way, not like that other woman. Nor did she want her own heart to suffer more than it would when he left Dunbrachie, so she took another step backward. “I should let you rest.”

Before he could answer, a voice shouted from the foyer, “Moira! Where the devil are you?”

“Papa!” she gasped. “He’s back! I should go to him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gordon said, holding her hand.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Let me tell him about what happened first. It will be better that way.”

He wanted to protest, to protect her, except that he had no right to. And she had shown him that she was capable of protecting herself and making her own decisions.

“Saints preserve me!” Mrs. McAlvey cried as she bustled into the room carrying a tray with covered dishes on it. “I assume that’s your father, my lady, and if he is, be careful. He looks angry enough to spit tacks!”

He must have learned Mr. McHeath was there.

The longer she took, the angrier her father might get, so with a final encouraging smile from Gordon, Moira hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward her father.

He stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on his hips, scowling. Walters and two footmen waited nearby, both of them looking equally ill at ease.

Worse than that, her father’s clothes were soiled and dishevelled and his eyes were bloodshot. Worst of all, the closer she got to him, the more she could smell the wine.

She took a deep breath. Be calm, she ordered herself. For his sake and yours, be calm.

“There you are!” the earl exclaimed when he saw her, his accent betraying more of his impoverished youth in Glasgow than usual, providing further proof that he had weakened and once again had too much to drink.

“Moira, you’re safe!” he cried, and she was taken aback to realize he was nearly in tears as he enveloped her in a hug. “They told me about the fire when I stopped at the inn. I saw the school. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. The fire happened at night, so I was nowhere near it,” she said, drawing back, wanting to get him away from the servants and safely in bed. “Would you like to rest? I can explain everything later.”

“In a moment. Who was that woman I saw running up the stairs?”

He had to mean Mrs. McAlvey. “I’ll explain that later, too,” she said, taking his arm to lead him to his room.

Unfortunately, her father could be very stubborn, and the downturn of his mouth told her he was about to be. “I want to know who’s in my house, and why, and I want to know now!”

She had learned long ago that it was fruitless to try to dissuade him when he was in such a state. She didn’t relish telling him more, but it would be better if he heard everything from her.

“All right, Papa,” she said, gently pulling him toward the drawing room. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

Mercifully, he didn’t protest, but followed meekly enough, even sitting when she asked him to.

“I saw the fire from my window,” she began without waiting for him to ask a question. “I realized what it was and woke the servants. We went at once, but by the time we got there, the school was already too far gone to save.”

“It’s totally destroyed?”

“Yes, but that’s not all. A man was also attacked by the vandals who set the fire. They stabbed him and left him for dead.”

His father blanched. “Good God, Moira!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “It could have been you, Moira, beaten or…or worse. I was afraid of something like this. Have I not warned you that your charitable impulses, however well-meaning, could have unforeseen and dangerous consequences?”

“I wouldn’t have been there alone at night, like Mr….” She hesitated. “The man upstairs who tried to go for help to stop the ones who set it—who were paid to do it.”

“Paid? How do you know that?” her father demanded incredulously.

“He overheard them talking.”

“Who overheard them?”

“The man upstairs.”

Her father regarded her warily. “Who is he, Moira?”

She winced inwardly, but there was no help for it. She had to tell him. “Mr. McHeath.”

“McHeath?” her father repeated, aghast with both shock and dismay. “McHeath? Sir Robert’s solicitor? The one who’s suing you?”

“Sir Robert’s suing me. Mr. McHeath is only the solicitor and—”

“Only?” her father charged. “Only? You might as well say a demon is only in league with the devil!”

“Papa, it’s not as bad as that. And he tried to stop whoever set the fire. But even if he hadn’t, even if he was Sir Robert’s solicitor, surely it is good and right to offer help to anyone who needs it.”

“I am all for a kind heart in a woman, Moira,” her father retorted, “but this is too much. If he’s hurt, let him go to Sir Robert—who, you may recall, is suing you for a considerable sum of money.”

“Should that really matter if the man is injured? And isn’t it possible Robbie misled him, too, the same way he misled me? I gather it’s been a few years since Mr. McHeath has seen Robbie. A man can change a good deal in that time.”

“Or not,” her father countered.

“Whether he has or not, Mr. McHeath is still a man who’s been seriously hurt,” she replied, her frustration and desperation mounting, for the servants would obey her father’s orders over hers, “so much so that the doctor says it’s too risky to move him just yet. By letting Mr. McHeath stay here, we’re ensuring his recovery, as well we should. Dr. Campbell says—”

“Don’t quote a doctor to me! They don’t know anything! I want him gone tomorrow. I’ll have the footmen carry him out if I have to.”

“Unless you’re drunk.”

The words came out seemingly of their own volition, released like caged tigers that had been waiting, pacing, ready to pounce, for years.

As her father’s face reddened, her hand flew to her lips as if to trap them again. “Papa, I’m—”

“Is this how you repay me for all I’ve given you?” he interrupted, his face going as red as poppies. “All I’ve done for you? For indulging in these charitable whims of yours about educating the children of people who don’t want them to be educated? Did you ever stop to think how your plans affected me, Moira? Has it never occurred to you that your schemes for schools and education might be an embarrassment to me, and even cost me business?”

No, it hadn’t.

“Or that your broken engagement has forced me to listen to snide remarks about my unmarriageable daughter with her jilted fiancé and misguided charity.

“All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness, Moira. To see you married, with a good husband and children around you. Why else do you think I told you what I learned about that devil you were going to marry, while you were blinded by his looks and name and nobility? God, Moira, I could have let you marry the man and boasted of the connection—aye, and made use of it, too. But I didn’t.

“Now I fear you’re going to wind up so immersed in your good deeds you’ll never get a husband. Is that what you want, Moira? To be an old maid? To be the sort of woman everyone admires and no man will wed?”

She clasped her hands as she fought to find the words to make him understand. “Papa, can’t you see that I’m trying to make something of myself, as you did when you were a young man? I want to leave something built of hard work and effort, the same way you made your fortune.

“Yes, you gave me a fine home and good clothes, but you also gave me fear and worry and heartache. How many times have you come home stinking of drink and I had to put you to bed, Papa? How many times have you stayed out until all hours, and I never knew where you were? Or if you were well, or lying in some gutter? How many nights have I lost sleep waiting for you to come home after a night of drinking, when I didn’t know where you were or even if you would come home?

“I want to be proud of you, Papa, not ashamed, and I’ll be ashamed—and more—if you make Mr. McHeath leave before the doctor thinks it’s safe. Please don’t rob me of the pride I should feel for my father, who did work and slave and make something of himself before he fell into a title.”

Her father’s expression didn’t soften so much as alter to one that she recognized—the same one he wore when he was bargaining with a tradesman. “I’m not completely heartless, Moira. I’ll agree to let him stay until the doctor says he is well enough to be taken to Sir Robert’s—on the condition that you never again try to open a school in Dunbrachie.”

She gasped. “How can you give me such an ultimatum? I’ve only ever asked three things of you—that you stop drinking to excess, that you provide the funds to let me open a school and that Mr. McHeath stay here until he’s well. You’ve broken your promise about the first more than once, and now you ask me to give up my school or you’ll send an injured man from our home? How can you, Papa? Is that fair? Is it just? Is it kind?”

“I won’t discuss this anymore, Moira,” he said, walking to the door. “If you want Mr. McHeath to stay, he may—but you won’t get another penny for a school in Dunbrachie, or anywhere else, if he does.”

She could hardly believe her ears, but she knew him too well to doubt that he meant what he said. Yet she was also her father’s daughter, and that meant that she could be just as resolute. She must be now, for Lillibet and the other children of Dunbrachie.

“Mr. McHeath is going to stay until the doctor says he’s well enough to leave,” she said, marching to the door, “and I will build a school in Dunbrachie. If you won’t help me, I’ll find the money for it somewhere else.”



Too upset to see or speak to anyone, Moira sought sanctuary in her morning room.

What was she going to do? She had to build her school. It had been her dream for a long time, and Lillibet and all the other children deserved the opportunity of education.

Surely she could raise the money herself…in Glasgow, where she had so many friends. Not Edinburgh, where she didn’t know a soul except Robbie and Gordon McHeath. She really would have no reason to go there….

A shadow fell across the carpet and she swiped at her tear-filled eyes before she turned to find Walters on the threshold.

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the butler said, “but the earl has asked me to inform you that he’s left for Glasgow.”

She shouldn’t be surprised he hadn’t stayed, not after that quarrel and their mutual accusations. “Did he say when he would return?”

“No, my lady. He merely left orders that Mr. McHeath was to leave as soon as the doctor said he could.”

Her father had left no word for her? Given how they’d parted, perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised by that, either. “I see. Thank you.”

The butler nodded and she walked toward the window that overlooked the garden.

Another shadow fell upon the wall beside her. Perhaps her father had left some word for her with the footman or another servant, she thought, turning.

It wasn’t a servant. It was Gordon McHeath.