Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,79
do with that, Gordon, I swear! I’ve never seen these men before. Please, Gordo, you have to believe me! As angry and hurt as I was, I’d never hire men to burn down Moira’s school or try to hurt her, or you.”
Gordon did believe him. As Robbie grovelled, humbled and pleading, Gordon was completely certain he was speaking the truth. Whatever Robbie had become, he hadn’t sunk low enough to do murder, or hire men to do it for him. He hadn’t been the one to bring these men here to torment Moira and burn down her school.
His relief was enormous, and now all he wanted to do was get Robbie away from here. “Let’s get out of here, Robbie. Come back with me to the earl’s and I’ll go home with you and we can talk about what to do. You’ll have to face charges, but I think—”
His eyes wide with desperate fear, Robbie nearly tripped over the short man’s corpse as he backed away. “No! I can’t!” he cried as he righted himself. “I won’t! I won’t go to prison!”
The short man he’d almost fallen over twitched. His eyes opened and his cracked lips moved, and he whispered, “For the love o’ God, help…me.”
He wasn’t dead?
With a cry of sheer terror, Robbie rushed forward and shoved Gordon out of the way, making for the door.
Gordon landed heavily on one knee and before he could get up, the short man reached out to grab his trouser leg.
“For…God’s…sake…” he whispered, “have mercy.”
Gordon wanted to go after Robbie, but he couldn’t leave this man here, not like this, no matter what he’d done. And he—Gordon—was exhausted and in pain. How far and how fast could he follow, anyway? Besides, Robbie was panic-stricken and in no state to think clearly; he should be easy to find by men more fit than he.
“I won’t leave you,” he said to the injured man, his decision made to leave the chase to others. He got to his feet and looked around, spying a bucket half-full of water in the corner. He dragged it over to the man and, making a cup with his hands, put them to his lips to drink.
The man slurped weakly, then lay back and closed his eyes with a sigh. His chest rose and fell again. And once more.
“Mr. McHeath!”
A breathless footman stood panting on the threshold. “Are you hurt, sir?” he asked, still in the doorway as if afraid to venture farther inside.
“No more than before,” Gordon said as he rose. He gestured at the man on the ground, who was still breathing, if barely. “This man is gravely injured. Help me get him back to the manor house.”
As the footman came forward, Gordon said, “The earl…?”
“They’ve laid him on one of the sofas and they’re waiting for the doctor.”
With trembling fingers and paying no heed to the blood seeping into the fine damask sofa, Moira worked to remove her father’s cravat as he lay in the drawing room. His breathing was short and shallow, his face as pale as clean wool, his lips a sickly blue and he moaned a little as she worked.
At least he’s alive, she kept telling herself, biting her lip as she finally got the knot undone and pulled the linen away, exposing an ugly gash.
It was only a gash. Thank God, only a gash.
And the doctor would be here soon. Walters said Gordon had sent one of her men to bring him. And more to look for Robbie.
Using the handkerchief she took from her father’s jacket pocket, she dabbed at the raw, red, long wound oozing blood. Mercifully the bullet hadn’t gone into his neck.
Relieved about her father, her thoughts turned to Gordon. Surely he would be back soon, with or without Robbie, but he probably shouldn’t even walk far, let alone give chase.
“Moira,” her father whispered.
She dabbed at the wound again and leaned close. “Yes, Papa?”
His eyes were still closed as his fingers wrapped around her hand. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”
For what? For their quarrel? For withdrawing his support for her school? For drinking? Whatever the reason for his apology, she gently replied, “It’s all right, Papa. Just lie still until the doctor gets here.”
He opened his bleary eyes. “I’m dying, Moira, and before I do, I have to tell you…”
“You’re not dying,” she assured him. “The bullet only grazed your neck.”
His grip tightened. “I’m dying and I can’t die with this on my conscience. I did it, Moira.” He closed his eyes