Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,35

in the roar that went up from the crowd as Mr. McHeath, kilt swirling, dodged another blow aimed at his face.

None shouted so loudly or enthusiastically as Robbie McStuart. Judging by his flushed face and the way he kept taking swigs from the jug in his hand, he wasn’t just excited, he was drunk. Moira wouldn’t be surprised to discover he had wagered on the outcome, too.

How could she have missed the signs of his weaknesses for so long? How could she have been so blind she hadn’t realized the kind of man he was from the first time she met him at the ball they’d hosted shortly after they’d arrived in Dunbrachie?

Even though being a lady was new and wondrous, and he was charming and flattering, she should have paid more attention, and been much more careful.

At least she’d never been intimate with him. She’d never even kissed him, except for a few mild kisses on the cheek. She’d told herself that Robbie was treating her the way a lady ought to be treated and she should be glad. Only later had she realized he probably didn’t feel much desire for her.

And today, she’d been made to see how little she’d desired Robbie, compared to the passion Mr. McHeath aroused.

Yet if she hadn’t become engaged to Robbie and broken that engagement, she might never have met Gordon McHeath. Never been helped by him, or kissed by him, or met him in a secluded lane and discovered that although he should be her enemy, all she wanted to do was—

The Titan suddenly jabbed, catching Mr. McHeath in the gut. Moira gasped in dismay as the solicitor fell hard on his knees. But in the next moment, McHeath’s fist flew up, connecting with the Titan’s jaw. The big man stumbled back. McHeath leaped to his feet and struck again with a series of jabs to the face and chest that soon had the Titan sprawled flat on his back, his eyes closed. His legs moved and she feared he was going to get up, but it was like watching a man trying to swim on dry land before he gave up the effort and stayed still.

He had won! Mr. McHeath had won!

He staggered away from his fallen foe, while Robbie McStuart shouted with glee as if he’d won the fight himself and didn’t care how battered and bruised his friend might be.

As the Three Geese chattered and giggled and talked about Mr. McHeath’s victory, Moira began to climb gingerly down from the roof. She would have to come up with some excuse to explain the state of her clothes, even to the maid, but that didn’t worry her. It had been worth wrinkling her gown to see McHeath win.

Wearing nothing but a kilt.

“You came out of it better than I would have imagined,” the gray-haired local doctor said as he finished dabbing at the cut over Gordon’s eye with witch hazel.

Although the short and stocky Dr. Campbell looked more like a butcher or baker than a man of medicine, his movements were deft and his touch light and gentle. His hands were also clean, Gordon was pleased to note, his beard well trimmed and he exuded an air of calm competence that Gordon appreciated as he sat on a bed in an upper room of the tavern.

Sounds of merriment and Robbie’s laughter, as well as the smell of roast beef and bacon, wafted up through the floorboards from the taproom below. The mud-splattered kilt lay on the floor nearby, and Gordon was once again attired in his own clothes.

“I never would have guessed a solicitor would want to be a prizefighter, too. I should think you have enough conflict in your life, doing battle in court or wrangling over contracts,” the doctor noted with a wry smile.

“I do,” Gordon agreed, wincing at the sharp little pains that even Doctor Campbell’s light ministrations couldn’t prevent. “Participating in the match wasn’t my idea.”

“Ah,” the doctor said, his smile shrinking to a frown. “Sir Robert’s?”

“Aye.”

The doctor drew back and regarded Gordon gravely. “A word of advice there, my young man. I’ve seen Sir Robert’s sort, and they are very good at not only going astray themselves, but taking others with them. I would be very careful if I were you.”

“I shall be,” Gordon assured him. He grimaced as the doctor dabbed at the cut over his eye. “Especially after this.”

“Good, because you’re lucky you weren’t more badly hurt,” the doctor said as he stopped