Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,37
toward McStuart House.
It was indeed a damp, chill night for a walk, but the sky was clear and the moon so bright he really didn’t need the torch. Indeed, it was proving rather heavy, his arms being fatigued from the match, so he put it out in a puddle in the ditch along the side of the road and carried it by the middle of the shaft in his left hand, swinging it as he walked.
With his bandaged right hand he put up the collar of his jacket and winced at the effort. His clients in Edinburgh would surely wonder what had happened to his face and hands; he doubted any of them would come right out and ask, though.
He would certainly never tell them.
He flexed his right hand before he shoved it in his pocket. Thank God he’d still be able to write, and that he’d gotten the better of the Titan. One solid blow from that man to his head and he might have been seriously hurt.
How would Lady Moira feel if she heard he’d been injured? Would she be sorry? Or would she think it was no more than he deserved for agreeing to fight?
And for representing Robbie. For being Robbie’s friend. And for his impetuous, brash embrace and passionate actions in the lane.
He came to a halt and drew in a deep, cold breath. Ever since Robbie had proposed the fight…no, ever since Robbie had told him he wanted to sue Lady Moira for breach of promise, he’d believed he was better than Robbie. Now he had to face the truth. He wasn’t, as his recent lascivious behavior with Lady Moira proved. He was just as lustful, just as weak, just as selfish. Just as shameful.
A dark shape bounded onto the road in front of him, then stood, legs braced, blocking his way.
For one heart-stopping moment, he thought it was a wolf.
It wasn’t. The head was too big. It was a dog baring its teeth and growling. That same big black dog that had chased Lady Moira up a tree.
Gordon moved the unlit torch to his right hand, ready to use it as a club, if necessary.
A sharp whistle cut the air. The dog lifted its head, growled once more, then loped away into the underbrush.
Once it was gone, Gordon let his breath out slowly. Where had it come from? Who owned the beast, for clearly it had responded to a summons from someone? Whoever it was, that animal shouldn’t be allowed to roam freely.
He should ask Robbie’s butler who the constable of Dunbrachie was, and he should write to him to tell him about that menace of a dog, he thought as he started on his way again. This time, though, he looked around as he walked, and kept the torch in his right hand, just in case.
He had gone about fifty yards when he caught the flicker of a light out of the corner of his eye and turned to scrutinize the trees on his left. Yes, there was a light, deep in the wood beyond the road, and in the same direction that the dog had gone.
Maybe he could find out who owned the dog and what they were doing in the wood. Not that he would risk approaching anyone in such circumstances directly, but he could get a little closer, enough to hear voices and names, perhaps. There might be more than one person with the dog, and until he knew their purpose here, he had best be careful and not be seen.
As he left the road and started toward the light, he discovered a narrow road leading in that direction, the ruts muddy from recent use. Perhaps it was a Gypsy encampment, although they likely would have been at the market, trading or offering to tell fortunes, and he hadn’t seen any there.
Moving slowly and quietly, he reached the edge of a clearing and saw two men, one holding a torch, standing near a stone building with a pile of wooden planks beside it. The man with the torch was remarkably short. His dark brown coat was dirty and patched, his trousers so old they hung on him like a bag. His companion was taller, dressed in a jacket and better-fitting trousers, boots and a scruffy cravat. More noticeable than his clothes was his hair, which was thick and red, and so was his beard. The dog stood near the shorter man.
“What are you waiting for?” the taller man said, making