Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,4

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