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“Aye, so it is,” the fair unknown replied, tugging it free while a blush added more color to her smooth cheeks. “I had no trouble getting up in the tree when I was afraid that dog would hurt me, but getting down is a different matter.”
“Allow me to assist you,” he offered when she reached the lowest branch about three feet from the ground.
Although he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was going to do, Gordon stripped off his muddy gloves and shoved them into his pocket before stepping forward.
Not that he should touch her. That wouldn’t be proper.
On the other hand, surely these were exceptional circumstances.
She spared him having to come up with a plan by putting her hands on his shoulders. He lifted his arms and grabbed her around the waist. Then she jumped.
Her action was so quick, so confident, he wasn’t quite prepared and nearly lost his balance. They both would have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t immediately put his arms around her.
He didn’t even know her name, yet holding her in his arms felt undeniably…right. No, better than just right.
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.
Worse, he was blushing like a schoolboy, although he was nearly twenty-nine. Nor was this the first time he’d ever held a woman in his arms.
“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 realize what she was doing, this woman whose name he didn’t even know raised herself on her toes and kissed him.
Her lips were soft, her body lithe and shapely, and her touch sent a rush of fire flashing through his body.
Without thought, acting only on instinct and need, he put his arms around her and pulled her closer. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he slid his mouth over hers, gliding and grazing, until he coaxed her to let his tongue slip into the moist warmth of her willing mouth. His hands slowly explored the contours of her arching back, caressing her supple spine, her breasts pressed against his rapidly rising and falling chest.
Her hands moved upward, cupping his shoulders from behind, her body relaxing against his.
God help him, he had never been kissed like this. He had never kissed like this. He didn’t want to stop kissing like this….
Until he remembered that he was no Lothario, but an Edinburgh solicitor, and she must be from a well-to-do family, perhaps with a father or brothers, or even a husband.
At nearly the same time, she drew back as suddenly as if a wedge had been driven between them. She flushed as red as a soldier’s coat and swallowed hard, while he wondered what on earth he should say.
She spoke first. “I’m…I’m sorry, Mr. McHeath,” she said, her voice as flustered as her expression. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually so… That is, I hope you don’t think I often kiss strange men.”
He wasn’t a strange man, but he knew what she meant. “I don’t usually kiss women I haven’t been introduced to,” he replied.
She moved back even more and ran her gloved hand over her forehead. “It must have been the strain. Or the relief. And gratitude, of course.”
Those could be explanations for her actions; what was his excuse for returning her kiss with such fervor?
Loneliness. A heart recently broken, or wounded at least. Her beauty. The feel of a woman’s arms around him, although they weren’t Catriona McNare’s.
Indeed, this bold young woman wasn’t at all like the meek and mild Catriona McNare.
“May I ask where you’re staying, Mr. McHeath? I’m sure my father will want to meet you, and an invitation to dinner is surely the very least we can do to express our appreciation for your timely assistance.”
She spoke of a father, not a husband.
Thank God. “I’m staying at McStuart House.”
Her whole manner and attitude altered as if he’d announced he was an inmate of the Edinburgh gaol. Her body stiffened and her luscious lips curled with disdain.
“Are you a friend of Sir Robert McStuart’s?” she demanded, her voice as cold as her kiss had been passionate.
“Aye. We went to school together.”
Her face reddened not with embarrassment but with obvious rage. What the devil could Robbie have done to make her so angry?
Since it was Robbie, he could think of several things, not the least of which was seduction—and as he knew from legal experience, hell really had no fury like a woman scorned.
“Did he tell you about me?” she demanded, her arms at her sides, her hands curled into fists. “Is that why you thought you could kiss me like that?”
“Sir Robert didn’t mention any young women when he invited me here,” he answered honestly, trying to remain calm in spite of her verbal attack. “I must also point out that I still don’t even know your name, and,” he added, “you kissed me.”
Undaunted by his response, she raised her chin and spoke as if she were the queen. “Thank you for your help today, Mr. McHeath, but any friend of Robbie McStuart is no friend of mine!”
“Obviously,” he muttered as she turned on her heel and marched away.
The moment Moira MacMurdaugh was out of Gordon McHeath’s sight, she gathered up her skirts and ran all the way home.
How could she have been so foolish? And impetuous? And bold? She never should have kissed him. Never should have touched him. She should simply have thanked him and let him go on his way.
When he pulled her closer, she should have broken away at once…even if Gordon McHeath’s kiss was like something from a French novel, full of heat and desire and need and yearning.
Worse, she could only imagine what Robbie Mc Stuart would make of this encounter, for surely Gordon Mc Heath would tell him. Soon more gossip about her would spread through Dunbrachie—and this time, it would be all her fault.
As if that weren’t bad enough, it was even more distressing to imagine her father’s possible reaction when he found out what she’d done.
He’d kept his pledge to her for nearly six months now—the longest span yet—and it sickened her to think her thoughtless act might cause him to start drinking to excess again.
Perhaps Mr. McHeath wouldn’t tell Robbie. After all, he was just as guilty of an improper embrace as she.
“My lady, ye’re back! Did ye fall? Are ye hurt?” the gray-haired, stocky head groom cried.
Jem hurried toward her from the entrance to the stables as she entered the yard bordered by a tall stone wall that had once surrounded a castle during the time of Edward Longshanks and William Wallace.
“Yes, I fell, but I’m not hurt. Did Dougal come home?” she asked, speaking of her horse.
“Aye, he’s here, the rascal,” Jem replied. “We were about to start a search for ye. Your father’s going to be that relieved when he sees you.”
Cursing herself again for lingering with the handsome Mr. McHeath, even if he was a tall, tawny-haired, strong-jawed, brown-eyed young man who looked like one of those Greek statues she’d seen in London, she hoped she wasn’t already too late…until she remembered all the wine and spirits were locked away and she had the only key. It wasn’t like Glasgow, where her father had only to go down the street to a tavern.
Nevertheless, she walked quickly through the new part of the manor that had been built by the previous earl, past the kitchen and buttery, the laundry and the servants’ dining room.
The delightful, homey smells of fresh bread and roasted beef filled her nostrils, and she felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days, before her father had started to drink heavily and before he’d come into his title and inheritance.
She reached the main floor of the house and the corridor leading to the library, her father’s study and the drawing room. The drawing room was part of the new building; the entrance hall with its dark oak panelling, the study and the library were not. Other rooms had been added in the times between the construction of the castle and the renovation and additions to the manor, so that now the country seat of the Earl of Dunbrachie was an amalgam of every architectural style from the Middle Ages to the Georgian period. She’d spent many hours when they first arrived here exploring all the nooks and crannies, cellars and attics, discovering forgotten pictures and furniture, dust, cobwebs and the occasional dead mouse.
Pausing for a moment to check her reflection in one of the pier glasses that were intended to brighten the otherwise very dark hall, and taking some deep breaths to calm her nerves, Moira removed her bonnet and laid it on the marble-topped side table beneath the mirror, then patted down the smooth crown of her hair.
“Moira!”
She turned to find her father in the door of his study. He was obviously agitated and his dishevelled thick gray hair indicated that he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked as she approached. He took hold of her hands as he studied her face and clothes.
She decided the least said about what had happened that day, the better. “I’m quite all right. I took a tumble and Dougal ran off, so I had to walk back.”
“I was about to go after you myself.”
That explained his riding clothes—which he rarely wore, because he was no horseman, having spent most of his life in offices, mills and warehouses. Thank heavens she’d arrived before he’d gotten on a horse.
“I’m fine, Papa, really,” she replied, taking his arm and steering him into his study, which was the one room in the vast hall that seemed most like their old home in Glasgow.
As always, her father’s massive mahogany desk was littered with various papers, contracts, 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 beneath his bloodshot blue eyes. While his body had always been slim, now it looked almost skeletal. Only his thick, waving fair hair appeared unchanged.
