Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,38

no effort to speak quietly. “Burn it. Burn it all.”

He wanted his companion to set fire to the wood? That would surely damage the building, too, if not set it alight. Or was that their intention?

Good God, was he witnessing attempted arson?

Fearing that he was, Gordon turned, ready to run back to Dunbrachie for help—until something struck him hard from behind. With a gasp of pain, he dropped the torch and staggered forward. Meanwhile, the dog charged at him, as fierce and frightening as a wolf. Another blow landed on his shoulder. The other two men came running, the bobbing torch making strange shadows leap and dance.

Gordon half turned and put up his arm in self-defence as another blow from a thick branch came toward his side. He was too slow, and before he could avoid another, his assailant—older, grizzled, dressed in rough homespun—swung his weapon again, this time catching Gordon’s thigh. His breath came out in a whoosh as he went down on one knee. The dog grabbed his sleeve, worrying it as if it were a rat or badger.

He tried to stand up, but the dog held him fast. He crouched and covered his head with his arm as the branch came down on his shoulder again. He opened his mouth to call for help; all that came out was a croak. With a mighty effort, Gordon twisted, turned and wrenched his sleeve free of the dog’s sharp teeth. He had to get away. He had to get back to the road. The tavern. Find help.

The branch came down again as he stumbled to his feet. This time, though, he was ready and grabbed the weapon, pulling it away from the grizzled man with a mighty yank. The bearded man got hold of him. He squirmed to free himself—and then he felt something hot and stinging in his side, like the bite of a big insect.

The bearded man let go and Gordon fell to his knees, his hand to his bleeding side. God help him, he’d been stabbed.

The heavy branch came down again, striking Gordon hard across the shoulders and he fell forward, landing facedown in the mud.

These men were going to kill him…unless they thought he was already dead. That might be his only chance.

Barely breathing, Gordon lay still, regardless of the dog taking hold of his sleeve again, or the blood seeping from his side, or his aching head and body.

He had to remain conscious. He didn’t dare open his eyes, yet he had to get all the information he could so they could be brought to justice. When he survived. If he survived.

“God damn it, Red!” one of the men growled in a Yorkshire accent as somebody pulled the dog off him. “You’ve bloody killed him. We’ll get the noose now for sure if we’re caught.”

“We aren’t bein’ paid to do murder,” another voice muttered, his accent more Midlands than Yorkshire. “Give some noblewoman a scare, burn the school, get paid and go, that’s all.”

This was Lady Moira’s school? And three men had been paid to burn it? And frighten Lady Moira, too? Who would do such a…?

God, surely not Robbie! It couldn’t be. Robbie wouldn’t be that vindictive. He couldn’t have changed that much…could he?

“Go if you’re scared, but you give up your share if you do,” the Scot, who must be Red, grumbled.

“Who was he?” the man from the Midlands asked.

A foot shoved Gordon until he rolled over, limp as a rag doll. “I’ll be damned, it’s McStuart’s friend, the fella who beat the Titan.”

“Maybe they’ll think that’s what done him in,” the Yorkshire man suggested.

“What? The Titan came after him and stabbed him? Not bloody likely,” the man from the Midlands muttered. “What was he doing anyway?”

“Maybe he was drunk. Maybe they’ll think he was robbed by some passing highwayman or summat,” the Yorkshire man said.

“If we hide his body somewhere, we can be paid and gone before he’s even found,” the Scot suggested. “Then we’ll be in the clear for sure and certain.”

Without any further discussion, someone took hold of Gordon’s wrists and dragged him over the rough ground, every inch a torture. The smell of damp earth filled his nostrils, and his shirt was soaking with wet mud and blood.

The man let go of his arms and gave him another shove with his boot, sending Gordon rolling down a short slope until he was lying in a ditch or little gully. He continued to lie still, although he was half