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Highland Heiress
Margaret Moore
No sooner does wealthy heiress Lady Moira MacMurdaugh breathe a sigh of relief for avoiding a disastrous marriage to a gambling womaniser than she is served with a lawsuit! Torn between duty and this impulsive beauty who stirs him to distraction, solicitor Gordon McHeath has no choice but to go up against the woman whose kiss he’s never forgotten.Until sinister forces threaten to upend Lady Moira’s world and Gordon must cast the law book aside!
It felt wonderful, as if somehow this woman was meant to be in his arms.
Which had to be the greatest flight of fancy his logical, lawyerly mind had ever taken.
‘There you are, safe as houses,’ he said with a smile, trying to sound as if he did this sort of thing every day.
‘Thank you for rescuing me. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t, Mr …?’
‘McHeath. Gordon McHeath. Of Edinburgh.’
‘I am in your debt, Mr Gordon McHeath of Edinburgh.’
Never had he been happier to hear the word debt.
Then, without a word, without a hint of warning, before he could even realise what she was doing, this woman whose name he didn’t even know raised herself on her toes and kissed him.
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore:
‘The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.’
—RT Book Reviews on HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS
‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’
—The Romance Readers Connection on THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT
‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore”. Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’
—RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE
‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’
—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND
‘A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.’
—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis on HERS TO COMMAND
‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. It’s a keeper!’
—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR
‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’
—Affaire de Coeur
‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’
—Under the Covers
Highland Heiress
Margaret Moore
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOORE has written over forty historical romance novels and novellas. She graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, has served in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, and is a past president of the Toronto chapter of Romance Writers of America. For more information about Margaret, including a complete list of all her books, please visit her website at www.margaretmoore.com
Previous novels by the same author:
THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE
COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS KNAVE’S HONOUR A LOVER’S KISS THE VISCOUNT’S KISS
And as a Mills & Boon
Historical Undone! eBook:
THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS
Did you know that some of the novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
With many thanks to my parents, my husband
and my children for all the support, wisdom
and laughs along the way.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, 1817
He had been too long in the city, Gordon McHeath thought as he rode along the crest of a hill toward the village of Dunbrachie. He drew in a great, deep breath of the fresh air. After so many years in Edinburgh, he’d forgotten how clean and bracing the air of the Highlands could be. He’d become too used to the smoke and the smells, the noise and the crowds, of a bustling city. Here the silence was broken only by birdsong and the occasional bleating of sheep or lowing of cattle.
The north-facing slope on his left was covered with gorse and bracken, the one on his right with a wood of birch, alders and pine. The needles of the pine were deep green and their scent came to him on the breeze, making him think of Christmas and dark winter nights, although it was only September. The leaves of the other trees were already turning brown and gold, and he guessed the ground beneath would be muddy and damp and thick with mulch. Through the trees he spotted a fast-moving river rushing between rocky banks that probably teemed with salmon in the spring.
Unfortunately, he’d also forgotten how cold a Highland breeze could be, and those heavy, gray clouds in the distance were definitely moving closer. Unless he wanted to be caught in a downpour, he had to get his hired light brown nag moving faster than a walk.
As he went to nudge his horse into a trot, a dog’s furious barking broke the country quiet. It wasn’t the baying of a hunting hound—more like a watchdog sounding an alarm. A shepherd’s dog, perhaps, or a farm dog guarding a crofter’s hut.
Gordon rose in his stirrups and looked around. He could see no herd of sheep, no crofter’s hut or anything that might require a watchdog.
“Help! Help me!”
The woman’s plaintive cry from somewhere in the wood was barely audible over the barking and rushing water, yet there was no mistaking the words, or the desperation.
Punching his heels into the horse’s side, Gordon tried to make it leave the road and head toward the sound of the woman and the dog, to no avail, for the beast had the toughest mouth of any horse he’d ever ridden and refused to obey, as if it were more mule than horse.
With a muttered curse, Gordon dismounted, threw the reins over the branch of a nearby bush and began to make his way down the rocky, slippery slope between the trees as quickly as he could.
He tore the sleeve of his three-caped greatcoat on a holly bush. His riding boots were soon covered with mud that dirtied the hem of his coat. His hat got knocked off by a dangling branch he didn’t see until it was too late. Reaching down to pick up his hat, he slipped and landed hard and started to slide, until he managed to grab a tree limb.
The dog kept barking, and the woman called out for help again, closer this time, thank God, although he still couldn’t see her.
He scrambled to his feet and as he did, he caught sight of the largest, most vicious-looking black dog he’d ever seen at the base of a tall, slender, golden-leafed birch not far from the bank of the river. The dog of no breed Gordon could name was one of the ugliest he’d ever seen, with a huge head and jaw, wide-set eyes and small ears. It stood with legs planted aggressively, growling, a dribble of saliva dripping from its mouth.
Despite that, Gordon was fairly certain it wasn’t a mad dog. He’d seen a rabid dog once, frothing and wild-eyed, moving with an uneven sideways gait, and he would never forget it. Nevertheless, he would keep as far from the beast as he could.
“Are you hurt?” The woman’s voice came from the same direction as the dog, her accent telling Gordon she was no peasant or shepherdess.
“No,” he called back.
Who was she? Where was she? He couldn’t see anyone near the dog, or that tree, unless… As he came cautiously closer, he peered up into its branches.
There she was, her arms wrapped around the trunk, standing on a branch that, although she was slender, looked barely able to support her weight.
Despite the circumstance, he couldn’t help noticing that she was also exceptionally pretty, with fine features, large, dark eyes and dark curls that peeked out from beneath a daffodil-yellow riding bonnet. Her whole riding habit was that same color of velvet—hardly the outfit of a thief or vagabond.
“I’m all right. Are you injured?” he asked as he considered what to do about the situation, especially that threatening, growling dog.
He had a pistol in his indigo greatcoat, for no man traveled alone and unarmed in this part of the country if he could avoid it, but shooting the animal should be a last resort. It might, after all, only be doing what it was supposed to do, if the young woman had ventured onto private land, for instance.
So instead of taking out his pistol, he bent down and picked up a rock that fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. He’d been a fairly skilled cricket player in his school days, and he prayed his aim hadn’t deserted him as he threw the rock at the dog’s hindquarters.
It struck the animal hard enough to draw its attention; unfortunately, it didn’t run away.
He swiftly searched for another suitable missile that would be heavy enough to make the beast leave, but not to seriously hurt it. A solicitor, he could easily imagine an irate farmer bringing a lawsuit against him for killing his dog that had been dutifully protecting his property.
“This branch is creaking. It’s going to break!” the woman cried.
And that would be a long way for her to fall.
He grabbed a rock slightly larger than the last. It was covered with mud and slippery, but he managed to lob it at the dog before it slipped from his gloved hands. It sailed through the air, bits of dirt and debris flying off it before it landed squarely on the dog’s back.
Finally the dog fled, loping away through the trees toward the river, where they could hear it splashing.
“Oh, thank you!” the woman cried as Gordon hurried to the foot of the tree. “I was afraid I’d have to stay here all night!”
He could see her better now. She stood balanced on a branch that was only about three inches thick, her arms wrapped around the slim white trunk. In addition to her velvet riding habit, the young woman, who looked to be about twenty, wore tan kid leather gloves and boots. Her skin was fair and smooth, her lips rosy and bow-shaped, and her big coffee-brown eyes regarded him with admiration.
“I’m happy to be of assistance.”
“I was lucky you were riding by,” she said as she began to climb down with unexpected alacrity, “and equally fortunate I spent so much time climbing in my father’s warehouses when I was a girl, or I daresay my fate would be worse.”
Warehouses? Of course, her father must be rich. That would explain the velvet. He wondered if she had a mother, brothers, sisters or possibly a fortunate husband.
His curiosity on that point was momentarily suspended when the hem of her dress got caught on a smaller branch, revealing first her booted foot, then her shapely ankle, then her equally shapely, stocking-covered calf….
Good God, what was he doing? Or rather, not doing? “I beg your pardon. Your dress is caught.”
