Highland Heiress - By Margaret Moore Page 0,82
to burn it down!”
“A misguided effort indeed,” Gordon agreed, wincing slightly as he rose to face her.
“Perhaps it was the drinking that made him think that a good plan,” he said with quiet sympathy.
“He wasn’t drinking because he was worried about that. He was overimbibing because…” She drew in a deep shuddering breath before continuing, for it was so difficult to face this next truth, let alone speak of it. “Because he’s dying. There’s a growth in his abdomen. Dr. Campbell told me so when he came today. He wanted my father to take laudanum, but he refused. The doctor thinks he’s been drinking to dull the pain instead. And all this time, I was condemning him for weakness, for being selfish, for breaking his promise, when I should have seen…or asked…”
His own fatigue and pain forgotten in light of her anguished distress, Gordon put his arms about her and held her close.
“Oh, Gordon, I said such terrible things to him!” she whispered, her voice breaking.
He had heard that sort of dry-throated remorse, the guilt, the sorrow, many times in his practice.
“Don’t blame yourself,” he said softly, his lips against her hair. “I suspect that even if you had asked him if he was sick, he would have denied it. I’ve met other men like your father, who think silence is better than revealing the truth, who believe that by keeping their illness or troubles to themselves, they spare their loved ones fear and worry. They don’t realize that ignorance can cause more worry and pain, and their efforts to be stoic can lead to havoc and misunderstanding when they’re gone. Yet I’m sure that in his heart he wanted to spare you, because he loves you.”
His words touched her heart and lifted the worst of the burden of guilt and regret from her. She leaned against him, gaining strength from his strength, and consolation not just from his words, but from his presence, and his love.
“He thought he was protecting me,” she agreed, “just as he was protecting me from a bad marriage when he told me about Robbie.”
“Do you think it would help if he knows he doesn’t have to worry that you’ll be alone? That there is another man who loves you deeply and who’ll try to keep you safe and happy for the rest of your life? Who can hardly wait for the day he can call you his wife?”
As happy as that thought made her, she didn’t immediately agree. “Considering how he feels about you, it might be best not to speak of our plans, at least not right away. Perhaps in a few days.”
“Whenever you think best,” he said, stroking her cheek.
She took his face between her hands and kissed him slowly, tenderly.
As she wanted to—and would—kiss him every day of her life.
A few hours later, the constable stood in the earl’s drawing room, twisting his hat in his hands and shaking his head as he addressed Moira and Gordon.
“We’ve searched everywhere and questioned every innkeeper, livery stable owner, postilion and tollbooth keeper between here and Edinburgh, and as far north as Inverness and halfway to Glasgow and Stirling, too. Nobody’s seen him. Only sign of Sir Robert has been the coat on the beach up near Plockton, like I said.”
Moira and Gordon exchanged wary, dismayed glances.
“You’re certain there was no boat there?” Gordon asked.
“No, sir, none, according to the fishermen who use that stretch of sand.”
“Oh, Gordon,” Moira said, trying not to cry. In spite of everything Robbie had done and all the anguish he’d caused, she didn’t want to believe he was dead.
“Aye, my lady, it’s a bad business when a body does himself in, but that looks to be the way of it. Sir Robert walked into the ocean and never came out.”
Mr. McCrutcheon cleared his throat and his manner became more professional and less like an undertaker offering solace to the bereaved. “To the other matter, about the fire. Since all the men responsible are dead and we never did find out who paid them, there isn’t much we can do in the way of prosecution, I’m afraid.”
Moira and Gordon exchanged glances. Knowing the truth themselves and given her father’s condition, they had decided not to enlighten the constable, at least not as long as her father still lived.
“We’re satisfied knowing that they won’t be setting any more fires,” Moira said.
“Aye, well, that they won’t. Now, about the inquest, Mr. McHeath. The coroner thinks there’s no need for you to