Highland Heiress

chapter Six



Dressed in a gown of green-and-blue-stripped muslin, with a blue velvet Spencer jacket and straw bonnet with matching ribbon on her head, her reticule slung over her arm and wearing her second-best kid gloves, Moira strolled down the main street of Dunbrachie toward the green. At one end of the street was the church, with its square belfry. At the other was the tavern and livery stable.

Between the church and tavern were several stone buildings whitewashed or not, with slate roofs and smoke curling from their chimneys. She passed the baker’s and the bookseller’s, separated by a narrow lane leading to yards in the back, the milliner’s, the tea shop and the candle maker’s.

Since it was market day, temporary stalls surrounded the green. Some were no more than the open back of a wagon and some, belonging to traveling peddlers, were more elaborate.

It was pleasantly warm and sunny, and the delicious scent of bread and pastries from the baker’s drifted on the breeze. Small children and dogs chased each other around the stalls, or stood and watched the puppet show that had been set up near the middle of the green.

None of the dogs she could see were as big or as black or as ugly and vicious as the one that had chased her up the tree.

Perhaps that had been a stray or a wild dog, abandoned or lost by its owner.

Indeed, today Dunbrachie was like a rustic idyll, far removed from the teeming, bustling, aggressive market in Glasgow where she’d shopped before her father had become prosperous enough to have food and other goods delivered to their home. In some ways, she missed that market, for there she would be relatively anonymous except to those merchants whose stalls she frequented.

In Dunbrachie, everybody knew who she was, as well as the story of her father’s unforeseen inheritance and her broken engagement to Sir Robert McStuart. Here she was subject to more than the glares of angry men who saw her school as a threat; there were the furtive looks, the scandalized whispers, the knowing glances and scornfully curled lips of the women, epitomized by the three young women she thought of as the Three Geese.

It might have been easier to stay at home, except that she had no intention of allowing gossip and rude behavior make her a prisoner in her own home.

Nor was she going to be intimidated by the glares of the men who didn’t want her to build her school, most notably Big Jack MacKracken, who stood six feet tall in his bare feet. At the moment he was among the several men gathered at the tavern, where benches and tables had been set outside on such a fine day. If looks could wound, his glower would have had her writhing on the ground.

However, his angry gaze couldn’t hurt her, so lifting her head high, she marched past, heading for the wagon belonging to Sam Corlett, which was bedecked with ribbons, feathers, laces and trims as if it were a huge hat.

A shadow crossed her path. A broad-shouldered shadow.

“What do ye think yer about, anyway?” Big Jack demanded.

Obviously, he was no longer at the tavern. Just as obviously, judging by the odor of ale emanating from him, he’d been drinking for some time.

She wasn’t afraid of him. They were in too public a place for him to do her any real harm, and now there was her title to offer additional protection. A man like MacKracken would appreciate that his punishment would be severe if he physically attacked a lady.

She gave him the same cold look she gave to merchants who tried to cheat her. “My purpose here is none of your business, Mr. MacKracken.”

“Mister, is it? Think you can sweet-talk me, do you, with yer ‘misters’? Not likely—any more than any of my bairns’ll ever set foot in that school you’re building.”

He had seven children, the oldest a girl of eleven, and all of them could benefit if they went to school. “Education is something to be cherished, Mr.—”

“If ye wants yer children growin’ up wantin’ things they can ne’er have,” he retorted. “What good is readin’ and writin’ to a man does a man’s work on a farm? Aye, or his wife?”

“None, perhaps,” she replied, keeping her voice level, “unless they have to sign a bill of sale, or a will, or some other legal document. And who’s to say your boys will want to be laborers? My father was born poor and yet he’s achieved great success, which he wouldn’t have been able to do if he hadn’t learned to read and write.”

“He got a title because some cousin he ne’er even met died.”

“He was successful in business long before that.”

And before he’d started drinking too much. Mercifully his drinking had been confined to overimbibing at night, at first rarely, but in the last few months, more frequently. However, he had never stayed drunk for days in a row, for which she was grateful, and that meant his business hadn’t suffered. Yet.

MacKracken scowled. “So you say, m’lady.”

“Aye, so I do,” she replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some purchases to make.”

She started forward without waiting for the big man to move. Fortunately, he did, or she didn’t know what she would have done. She couldn’t count on Mr. McHeath coming to her rescue again, even if he were here.

She had already ascertained, by a swift perusal of the green, that he was not.

She joined a group of older girls and women already gathered at Sam Corlett’s wagon. If they had witnessed her encounter with MacKracken, they gave no sign, although none ventured more than a greeting and a curtsey, and all kept a careful distance from her.

“Good day, my lady!” Sam cried in his Cockney accent when he spotted her, tugging his forelock and grinning, for she’d bought from him before. “I was hopin’ you’d be here today. Got some lovely bits o’ ribbon today. Perfect for a lady like yourself.”

“I need some green ribbon, Sam. Light green.”

His eyes lit up like a candle in the dark. “As a matter o’ fact, my lady, I’ve got just the thing!”

He reached into the back of his wagon, moving some cotton thread and what looked like dyed goose feathers out of the way before producing a bolt of apple-green grosgrain that was exactly what she required.

But betray too eager a countenance she would not. “How much?”

“Tuppence a yard.”

Ah, Sam, she thought with pleasant respect. Always trying to get the better of her in a bargain—as well he should. Nevertheless, he had named a price at least twice what the ribbon was worth, and probably four times what he’d paid for it.

Happily playing the game, she kept her expression grave as she raised an inquiring brow. “Is it from France?”

His visage assumed an equally grave, somewhat dismayed, appearance. “No, miss, no. Good British ribbon, that is.”

Both her brows rose. “Really? I thought it must be foreign for you to charge such an outrageous price.”

“Well, now, my lady, there’s transport involved, that’s for certain, feed costin’ what it does these days. And the effort to find the best, o’ course. I don’t just buys any ribbon, as you know. That’s the best to be had in Scotland at any price.”

“I don’t need the best, Sam,” she countered.

“I have this, then,” he said, reaching into his wagon and pulling out a roll of a green ribbon of a shade that surely didn’t exist in nature, or anywhere else except a dyer’s, if the dyer had terrible eyesight.

“That’s quite an interesting color, but this one will match better,” she said. “Still, at tuppence a yard, it’s too dear for what I intend.”

She turned away as if planning to leave.

“I suppose, since you’re such a pretty lady, I could let you have two yards for a tuppence,” Sam suggested.

Keeping any triumph from her expression, she turned back. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful,” she said, giving him a smile. “It is lovely ribbon.”

Sam’s answering grin told her she was paying exactly the amount he wanted and had expected, satisfying them both.

“Listen to her haggling like a fishwife, and her father rich as Croesus!” a peevish feminine voice muttered nearby.

Miss Sarah Taggart. And no doubt her two acolytes were with her.

Miss Sarah Taggart, an ironmonger’s daughter, Miss Mabel Hornby, sister of the local miller, and Miss Emmeline Swanson, niece of a prominent distiller, had been keen to be Moira’s friends when she’d first arrived in Dunbrachie. Once Robbie started to pay more attention to her than to them, however, and especially once she was engaged to him, their attitude had turned frosty.

After the engagement had been broken, she’d wondered if they’d try to befriend her again. They had not, choosing instead to cut her.

Or rather, Miss Sarah Taggart had chosen to cut her, and therefore so did her comrades.

However, she had no intention of giving Sarah the satisfaction of letting her know she’d heard her.

Instead, she paid Sam and, with her ribbon, started back toward the livery stable. Her steps slowed as she drew near the baker’s. Baked goods were plentiful at home, so she had no need to purchase anything; it was just the wonderful rich smell of fresh bread and pastries that made her linger until she heard two familiar male voices, one jovial and jesting, the other more sedate.

Sir Robert McStuart and Mr. Gordon McHeath—two people she wanted to meet even less than Big Jack MacKracken and Sarah Taggart.

Trying to look as if she were doing nothing out of the ordinary, she darted into the narrow lane between the baker’s and the bookshop before Robbie and McHeath walked past.

Although her instinct told her to avoid them both, she couldn’t resist looking at McHeath as he passed.

This morning he didn’t look at all like a solicitor. He wore a comfortable-looking wool jacket and trousers, with a plain vest and loosely knotted cravat, his tall hat shoved back on his head, revealing his thick waving hair. Dressed thus, it was far easier to see him as the man who had come to her aid instead of the solicitor representing the man for whom she’d lost all respect and whom she could never love.

However, he was that solicitor, and it occurred to her that if they were going to offer to settle, it might be best to start negotiations as soon as possible, without her father.

Even if that meant risking being alone with Mr. McHeath.



Seeing the way the villagers of Dunbrachie reacted to Robbie’s presence, Gordon could understand the origin of his friend’s arrogance. People smiled and nodded and tugged their forelock as he passed. Men moved out of his way as if he were a conquering hero, and women of all ages blushed if he so much as glanced their way. Small children stared in openmouthed awe and older boys with envy. Older girls giggled and looked modestly at their feet. Even the dogs seemed to regard him with deference—and Gordon duly noted that none of the dogs were huge and black.

Robbie seemed to accept the attention of the crowd as his due, reacting with the same sort of noblesse oblige he’d displayed toward Gordon when they were boys at school. Then Gordon had felt as if he’d been the chosen of the gods, and he hadn’t experienced anything quite so thrilling since.

Except once, when Lady Moira had kissed him.

He had to stop thinking about that, just as he ought to stop looking for her here. After all, why would she come to a village market? Merchants and tradesmen would be only too delighted to bring anything she might need or want to purchase to her father’s manor house.

“Oh, God, go left. To your left!” Robbie muttered under his breath, shoving Gordon in that direction with his elbow as they neared a wagon decorated like it was part of a May Day celebration imagined by a madman.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Gordon asked in a whisper, although he could think of only one possibility, and it was one that made his heart race, although he shouldn’t be excited by the possibility of another confrontation with Lady Moira.

Especially when he was with Robbie.

A swift glance over his shoulder brought a disappointment equal to his previous enthusiasm, for instead of Lady Moira, three young women dressed in what was probably the height of fashion in Dunbrachie were bustling toward them. The young woman in the lead was tall, bright-eyed and auburn haired, and possessed a wide smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. Her pelisse was light blue, and her bonnet was decorated with flowers and ribbon to match. Trailing her like faithful handmaidens were a shorter, blonde, slightly plump young woman in a pelisse with frog closings and a smaller bonnet, as well as another dark-haired companion, who was dressed in a green gown, dark green Spencer jacket and a very wide-brimmed, overembellished hat.

Wondering how he and Robbie could escape, for that seemed the best thing to do, he turned toward his friend.

Who was no longer beside him.

Halting in confusion, Gordon spotted Robbie disappearing through the door of the tavern. He hadn’t gone left; he’d made a sharp right turn, obviously deciding to abandon his friend to his fate, or at least the three young women.

“I beg your pardon for being so bold,” the tall, auburn-haired young woman said as she stopped and curtsied, “but you are Mr. McHeath, aren’t you? Sir Robert’s friend from Edinburgh? I would ask him for an introduction, but he’s not here and my friends and I—this is Miss Mabel Hornby and Miss Emmeline Swanson—have been most anxious to make your acquaintance. I hope you don’t mind.”

Trapped, Gordon nevertheless bowed and answered politely. “Yes, I’m Gordon McHeath, from Edinburgh. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”

The Misses Hornby and Swanson giggled, while the spokeswoman went happily on. “I’m Sarah Taggart— Miss Sarah Taggart. We don’t often have visitors from Edinburgh in Dunbrachie. That is, Sir Robert has visitors, but they don’t often come to the village.”

“It’s their loss, I’m sure.”

“It’s so good of you to come to cheer Sir Robert up during this time of trial,” Miss Taggart continued in a mournful tone, although her eyes remained bright and alert, as if she were some sort of predatory bird. “We think he’s been very badly used.”

“Very badly,” Miss Swanson breathlessly seconded, while Miss Hornby nodded so rapidly, her extravagantly decorated hat looked in immediate danger of falling off her head. The very wide, brilliantly green ribbons were doing their job of keeping it in place, although it also looked as if the huge bow was keeping her head on her neck, as well.

“That wouldn’t have happened if he’d chosen a local girl,” Miss Taggart declared.

Her friends nodded enthusiastically. No doubt they were local girls, and he wondered vaguely how long their friendships would last if Robbie were to choose one of them.

“There are several suitable young women in and around Dunbrachie who would be honored to be his bride.”

“Honored!” she of the precarious bonnet echoed.

“Delighted!” cried the other young lady.

Miss Taggart glanced at her companions before continuing. “Please let him know that he has friends in the village who think what’s happened to him is a terrible shame—but what else can you expect from strangers? And from Glasgow, too!”

She said “Glasgow” as if that city was a modern Gomorrah and anybody from that location should be automatically discounted as worthy of matrimony.

“I’m sure he already knows he has friends in Dunbrachie,” Gordon replied, wondering if these women would be so enthusiastically sympathetic if they knew Robbie had just purposefully avoided them.

Or how much he drank. And his debts. And the number of women he’d seduced.

Or maybe they already did and didn’t care, because Robbie was titled and handsome. As for the lawsuit, they might think that justified, too, not realizing, as Gordon unfortunately had, that it indicated a level of bitter vindictiveness no man of honor and true nobility should possess. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

Such as keeping Robbie from drinking himself into a stupor in the tavern.

“Oh, yes, of course. Good day, Mr. McHeath,” Miss Taggart said with another grimacelike smile before she took the arm of each of her friends and sauntered off as if she had just made a romantic conquest.

Nothing could be further from the truth, Gordon thought as he started toward the tavern, passing the lane between the baker’s and a bookshop. The next time he and Robbie were in a similar situation, should there be a similar situation—

A hand reached out, grabbed his shoulder and pulled him backward into the lane.