Highland Heiress. Margaret Moore
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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 style 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