Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,56
because of anything you’re doing, and certainly not enough to ask you to stop.”
She didn’t want to hurt him in any way, not like that other woman. Nor did she want her own heart to suffer more than it would when he left Dunbrachie, so she took another step backward. “I should let you rest.”
Before he could answer, a voice shouted from the foyer, “Moira! Where the devil are you?”
“Papa!” she gasped. “He’s back! I should go to him.”
“I’ll go with you,” Gordon said, holding her hand.
“No!” she exclaimed. “Let me tell him about what happened first. It will be better that way.”
He wanted to protest, to protect her, except that he had no right to. And she had shown him that she was capable of protecting herself and making her own decisions.
“Saints preserve me!” Mrs. McAlvey cried as she bustled into the room carrying a tray with covered dishes on it. “I assume that’s your father, my lady, and if he is, be careful. He looks angry enough to spit tacks!”
He must have learned Mr. McHeath was there.
The longer she took, the angrier her father might get, so with a final encouraging smile from Gordon, Moira hurried out of the room and down the stairs toward her father.
He stood in the middle of the foyer, hands on his hips, scowling. Walters and two footmen waited nearby, both of them looking equally ill at ease.
Worse than that, her father’s clothes were soiled and dishevelled and his eyes were bloodshot. Worst of all, the closer she got to him, the more she could smell the wine.
She took a deep breath. Be calm, she ordered herself. For his sake and yours, be calm.
“There you are!” the earl exclaimed when he saw her, his accent betraying more of his impoverished youth in Glasgow than usual, providing further proof that he had weakened and once again had too much to drink.
“Moira, you’re safe!” he cried, and she was taken aback to realize he was nearly in tears as he enveloped her in a hug. “They told me about the fire when I stopped at the inn. I saw the school. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. The fire happened at night, so I was nowhere near it,” she said, drawing back, wanting to get him away from the servants and safely in bed. “Would you like to rest? I can explain everything later.”
“In a moment. Who was that woman I saw running up the stairs?”
He had to mean Mrs. McAlvey. “I’ll explain that later, too,” she said, taking his arm to lead him to his room.
Unfortunately, her father could be very stubborn, and the downturn of his mouth told her he was about to be. “I want to know who’s in my house, and why, and I want to know now!”
She had learned long ago that it was fruitless to try to dissuade him when he was in such a state. She didn’t relish telling him more, but it would be better if he heard everything from her.
“All right, Papa,” she said, gently pulling him toward the drawing room. “I’ll tell you all about it.”
Mercifully, he didn’t protest, but followed meekly enough, even sitting when she asked him to.
“I saw the fire from my window,” she began without waiting for him to ask a question. “I realized what it was and woke the servants. We went at once, but by the time we got there, the school was already too far gone to save.”
“It’s totally destroyed?”
“Yes, but that’s not all. A man was also attacked by the vandals who set the fire. They stabbed him and left him for dead.”
His father blanched. “Good God, Moira!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “It could have been you, Moira, beaten or…or worse. I was afraid of something like this. Have I not warned you that your charitable impulses, however well-meaning, could have unforeseen and dangerous consequences?”
“I wouldn’t have been there alone at night, like Mr….” She hesitated. “The man upstairs who tried to go for help to stop the ones who set it—who were paid to do it.”
“Paid? How do you know that?” her father demanded incredulously.
“He overheard them talking.”
“Who overheard them?”
“The man upstairs.”
Her father regarded her warily. “Who is he, Moira?”
She winced inwardly, but there was no help for it. She had to tell him. “Mr. McHeath.”
“McHeath?” her father repeated, aghast with both shock and dismay. “McHeath? Sir Robert’s solicitor? The one who’s suing you?”
“Sir Robert’s suing me. Mr. McHeath is only the solicitor and—”
“Only?” her