Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,40

broke his promise to her again, how long might it be before it, too, was affected?

With a heavy sigh, she rose and went to the window to draw back the green velvet draperies with gold fringe. If only her father was home. If only he didn’t have a weakness for drink. If only she had never met Sir Robert McStuart, or accepted his proposal. If only Gordon McHeath had never come to Dunbrachie. Then she might have peace and contentment…except that she would never have experienced the incredible thrill and excitement of being in Gordon McHeath’s arms. She would never have felt that heated desire, those amazing sensations or shared those passionate encounters….

Her grip tightened on the fringe of the drape. She mustn’t think about such things. She must remember that Gordon McHeath was Robbie McStuart’s friend, and even if he seemed sympathetic to her, he was nevertheless helping Robbie McStuart to sue her.

Off to the east, the sky glowed over the site of her school. At least the building would soon be completed, and she could console herself with that. Of course, the patronizing Mr. Stamford might not make it as easy a process as it should be, but hopefully he’d learned—

That wasn’t where the sun should rise.

Years ago there’d been a warehouse fire down by the docks in Glasgow. The sky had glowed just like that.

Her school!

She ran to the door and threw it open. “Fire!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “My school’s on fire!”

Chapter Eleven

They were too late.

By the time Moira and her men—grooms, footmen, stable boys and gamekeepers—got to the site of her school on horseback and in one of the wagons, all that was left of the stone building and pile of wood waiting to be used were smoke-blackened walls, charred beams and smoldering remains.

As Moira regarded the ruins, she tried to take some comfort from the fact that many of the men from the village had come to try to help put out the fire. It was clear they had rushed from their beds, dressing in haste and grabbing buckets and shovels.

Since it was obvious there was nothing more to be done, the villagers began to leave. A few offered their condolences, but most began to drift away without speaking directly to her, leaving her to mourn in silence.

“’Tis a terrible thing, but it could have been worse, my lady,” the head groom said. “Thank God the trees and undergrowth were damp with the mist from the river, and the building wasn’t closer to the trees, or more than your school might have gone up in flames tonight.”

“Aye, it could have been much worse,” she agreed. “I’m glad no one was hurt.”

“Must have been tramps or Gypsies, I reckon, taking shelter and their fire got out of hand,” Jem offered. He pointed to the end of the pile of ashes that had once been lumber intended for the interior. “It started here, looks like, out of the wind. Good spot for shelter, behind the wood.”

“I haven’t seen or heard of any Gypsies hereabouts,” Moira replied, rubbing her arms for warmth in the damp air. “There were none at the market.”

“Tramps, then,” Jem said with a decisive nod.

Moira wished she could be so confident that some wandering vagrant had accidentally set the building alight. Unfortunately, she’d heard too many objections to the school to believe it couldn’t have been someone who lived in Dunbrachie, like Big Jack MacKracken.

Would he have gone that far? Would he have been willing to run not just the risk of imprisonment and transportation, possibly even hanging, by burning down more than the school? If the trees had caught fire, homes and shops might have been destroyed, as well. Many in Dunbrachie agreed with him that her school was a mistake, and others were his neighbors. Would his anger have gone so far that he would put them at risk of losing property and perhaps even their lives to stop the school?

Or could the bitter Robbie be vindictive enough to do something like this? Had she been even more mistaken about his character?

“My lady! Over here!” one of the grooms shouted from the edge of the clearing. “There’s somebody here in the ditch!”

Gathering her skirt in her hand, Moira ran to the spot and scrambled down the small embankment to the muddy bottom. The groom was bent over a man lying on the ground beneath a thick bramble bush, his clothing soaked and muddy, and his hair—

She recognized