Highland Heiress (21 page)

“I do! I don't want you to die.”

Robbie's expression hardened as he turned the pistol
to point at Gordon. “I don't think you do, but you do care about him.”

“What the devil is the meaning of this?” the earl demanded from the doorway.

Taken aback, Robbie half turned—and the pistol exploded in a burst of heat and flame and the smell of gunpowder. Moira screamed and McBean shrieked. Gordon threw himself at Robbie. He got one arm around his former friend and grabbed Robbie's forearm, trying to wrestle the gun from his grip.

A low groan came from the doorway as Moira rushed to her father. His face pale as paper, the earl held on to the door frame, while a splotch of red grew on the side of his neck, spreading across his white linen cravat.

“Papa!” Moira cried as she grabbed him around the waist, trying to hold him up. “Papa!”

Gordon wanted to help, but he didn't dare let go of Robbie, not until he had the gun. Holding on to Robbie's arm with all his might, he pushed him toward the wall, determined to smash his hand against it to make him let go.

Robbie dug his heels in, but his feet were on a waxed floor and the leather soles of his boots gave him no purchase. As if engaged in some sort of bizarre dance, Gordon moved him gradually backward until they reached the wall.

Gordon shoved Robbie's hand against the painted plaster. Finally Robbie dropped the gun and for one brief instant, Gordon thought he meant to surrender.

He was wrong, for when Gordon relaxed his grip for that mere moment, Robbie charged forward, knocking
Gordon off balance. As he tried to right himself, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side from his wound. Robbie, half stumbling, ran for the open door past the earl lying on the ground and Moira kneeling beside him. The footmen tried to block him, but with a desperate strength, he shoved them out of the way.

“Let him go! Fetch the doctor!” Moira shouted at the footmen as they started to give chase.

His hand on his side, Gordon ran to the door. A swift glance confirmed there was nothing he could do here. The earl's eyes were closed, and his shirt was bloody, but mercifully he was breathing.

“Gordon!” Moira cried as he continued past them.

“I've got to find Robbie,” he shouted over his shoulder. Whatever Robbie had done, whatever was going to happen, he didn't want Robbie to end his own life, and he was afraid that would be Robbie's next and final, desperate act.

T
wo drivers and more liveried footmen waited by the earl's and Robbie's carriages, clearly wondering what on earth was happening.

Two drivers and two vehicles, so Robbie must have fled on foot, either too distraught to take his carriage, or fearful that the driver would refuse to move the vehicle, even if ordered. “Where's Sir Robert?”

“He stumbled off like a madman that way,” one of the drivers eagerly replied, pointing toward the yew hedge. “Hardly upright and I think he was cryin'. We heard a shot inside. What's going on, sir?”

Gordon ignored the question. “Fetch Dr. Campbell at once,” he said to the earl's driver. “You go to the village with him,” he ordered the footman standing beside the driver. “Find the constable and tell him the earl's been shot. Have him bring a search party here and send men to Sir Robert's. Tell him they should see that Sir
Robert doesn't leave if he comes home and he should be arrested if he's found anywhere else.”

He turned to the footman who'd followed him out of the house. “Get the other footmen and grooms and stable boys and start searching the grounds for Sir Robert. Take guns, but don't shoot at him unless he draws a weapon. I doubt he has one, though.”

“Aye, sir,” the footman said, bobbing his head before he ran into the house.

The driver likewise nodded and climbed aboard the earl's carriage. With a cry and a snap of his whip, the carriage leaped into motion.

Keeping a hand on his aching side, Gordon started to jog after his friend, who clearly wasn't in any condition to run fast or far.

And who was going to be charged with attempted murder. Or perhaps manslaughter. He'd been drunk, after all—was still drunk as well as distraught, judging by the footprints and occasional handprints visible in the dewy grass leading to the hedge.

Gordon reached the hedge and plunged through it into the wood. It wasn't difficult to follow Robbie here, either, for there were broken branches and crushed plants, and sometimes a muddy footprint. He went up short rises and down into ditches, over rocks and rough ground, his pursuit getting more and more difficult the farther he got from the manor house. Robbie didn't seem to be headed toward his house, or the village. Perhaps he realized he would be more easily caught if he went there.

Finally, Gordon heard what sounded like a wounded
deer thrashing its way through the underbrush. Or, judging by the curses, a drunken, frightened, desperate man trying to flee.

“Robbie, stop!” he called out with what breath he could muster as he leaned against a tree, the bark rough beneath his palms. His side hurt like hell with every rasping gulp of air and his equally pain-racked legs might give out at any moment. In spite of that, he wasn't going to give up. Despite what he'd said today, he had to find Robbie and save him from himself.

As he might have been able to save him years ago, if only he'd kept in touch. If only he hadn't been so busy with his practice. If only he'd realized sooner how troubled Robbie was, and where his drinking and gambling and wenching might eventually lead him.

He pushed off from the tree to take up the chase again, now following what appeared to be a narrow path. More than once he nearly tripped over an exposed root. The third time that happened, he stopped and leaned forward, hands on his knees, the pain nearly overwhelming.

The only thing he could hear was his own labored breathing. He couldn't hear birds, or rustling leaves, either from wind or somebody running away. It was as if Robbie had vanished, or flown away.

Then he caught sight of a small, rough stone building with a peaked wooden roof nearly hidden by the foliage. It looked like a gamekeeper's outbuilding, used for storing traps and other items useful for his job, or an abandoned barn.

He began a slow trot toward it, trying to be as quiet as
he could. There were no windows, no chimney, and the roof had fallen away at the back, but there was a door.

An open door.

Wary and cautious, Gordon walked slowly toward it, keeping to the right of the entrance as he peered through the opening.

Robbie stood inside the ruined building, his back to the door, his arms limp at his sides, swaying as he stared at a large pile of what looked like clothes on the ground beneath the edge of a loft built under the roof. There were pieces of wood, too, like a broken chair. Or ladder.

Except that it wasn't clothes, Gordon realized as he, too, stared.

It was two men. The bodies of two men that Gordon immediately recognized—the men who attacked him. The men who set fire to Moira's school.

Blood pooled near the head of the man with bright red hair and beard wearing rough, patched clothes, his left arm twisted at an odd angle, legs splayed, the other arm beneath him. The other man, older, smaller, lay on his side, curled up in a ball, eyes closed, as if he'd fallen asleep.

Had Robbie somehow…?

No. The blood on their clothes had dried, so these bodies had been here for some time.

Thank God for that—and thank God they could never hurt or frighten Moira, or anybody else, again.

With a choking sob, Robbie took a step back, turned and saw Gordon.

At once his expression changed, from fear and dismay
to angry desperation. “I won't let you take me!” he cried, inching backward so that he stepped into the pool of blood. “I didn't do this!”

His demeanor changed again, to that of a pathetic, frightened child. “I didn't mean to kill Moira's father! The pistol just went off! It was an accident, Gordo! I won't go to prison! I won't! You can't make me!”

“The earl was breathing when I left him,” Gordon replied, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, so that Robbie would calm down. “You must come with me. If it was an accident—”

“It was! It was, Gordon, I swear on my life. I would never hurt Moira's father, not like that. I mean, a lawsuit is one thing…I'd never…not murder. You have to believe me.”

“I do. Now come away, Robbie, out of here.”

“I found them like this, Gordo. They were already dead.”

“I can see that by the dried blood.” He decided he might never get a better chance to find out if Robbie was involved with them. “Do you know these men? Have you ever seen them before?”

“God, no! Never! Who are they? Do you—?”

A low groan escaped his throat and he stared at Gordon, wide-eyed. “They're the men who tried to kill you, aren't they?”

Robbie fell to his knees and held up his clasped hands as if begging for his life. “I had nothing to 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 and as he opened them again, swallowed hard. “I hired those men to burn down your school.”

She dropped his hand as if it were aflame. “You?” she gasped, unable to believe what he was saying. “That can't be. You supported my efforts, at least until recently.”

“I thought you'd give up…when the villagers… Big Jack MacKracken and the others… Should have known better. You're so stubborn…I had no other choice. I had to stop you somehow,” he whispered, his eyes closing.

“Setting fire to my school was bad enough, but those men nearly killed Gordon!”

“I didn't know…he wasn't supposed to be there. But you were in danger, too. So much opposition…I was so afraid. I wanted to stop you, to save you, as I saved you from Sir Robert.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Those things you told me about Robbie…it was the truth, wasn't it?”

“Aye, it was true. All of it. I could have kept it secret, let you marry him. But I want you to be safe. Safe and happy. Happy like your mother and me.”

She didn't know what to think, or say. Her father loved her and wanted to keep her safe, but to burn down her school… To hire those men. To cause such fear and injury. “Oh, Papa, why didn't you just talk to me?”

“No time to convince you. You're too stubborn, like me.” He grimaced and shifted, and stifled a low moan. “I'm dying, Moira.”

“No, you're not,” she assured him, taking hold of his hand. “It's only a graze.”

She heard a commotion at the entrance to the house. It had to be either the doctor or, please God, Gordon returning safe and sound. “When the doctor comes, he'll
tell you so. Rest, Papa, and keep still. I'll be back in a moment,” she said as she hurried from the room.

It wasn't Gordon. It was Dr. Campbell, his forehead furrowed with concern as he handed his hat and greatcoat to Walters, who was temporarily holding his black bag.

“Ah, my lady!” Dr. Campbell said when he saw her coming quickly toward him. “Where is your father?”

“In the drawing room. It appears the bullet only grazed his neck.”

To her surprise, that didn't seem to make the doctor any less worried. “Thank you, my lady. I'll examine him in the drawing room, then he should be taken upstairs. In his condition, any trauma to the body can be dangerous.”

Taken aback by his words, she laid her hand on his arm to detain him. “What do you mean, his condition?”

“He still hasn't told you?”

Moira tried to be calm, but her heart was racing as if it wanted to escape her chest. “Told me what?”

That wasn't all that baffled her. “He's been to see you?”

The doctor regarded her with sympathy and pity, too. “Yes, although with obvious reluctance. Unfortunately, his condition is already too far advanced for me to be of any help, I regret to say. He has a progressive, painful growth in his abdomen for which there is no treatment. All I can do is try to make him comfortable. Despite my advice, he's refused to accept laudanum, claiming he could manage on his own. I think we both know how he's tried to do that, and I doubt with much success.”