Highland Heiress. Margaret MooreЧитать онлайн книгу.
hands slowly explored the contours of her arching back, caressing her supple spine, her breasts pressed against his rapidly rising and falling chest.
Her hands moved upward, cupping his shoulders from behind, her body relaxing against his.
God help him, he had never been kissed like this. He had never kissed like this. He didn’t want to stop kissing like this….
Until he remembered that he was no Lothario, but an Edinburgh solicitor, and she must be from a well-to-do family, perhaps with a father or brothers, or even a husband.
At nearly the same time, she drew back as suddenly as if a wedge had been driven between them. She flushed as red as a soldier’s coat and swallowed hard, while he wondered what on earth he should say.
She spoke first. “I’m…I’m sorry, Mr. McHeath,” she said, her voice as flustered as her expression. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m not usually so… That is, I hope you don’t think I often kiss strange men.”
He wasn’t a strange man, but he knew what she meant. “I don’t usually kiss women I haven’t been introduced to,” he replied.
She moved back even more and ran her gloved hand over her forehead. “It must have been the strain. Or the relief. And gratitude, of course.”
Those could be explanations for her actions; what was his excuse for returning her kiss with such fervor?
Loneliness. A heart recently broken, or wounded at least. Her beauty. The feel of a woman’s arms around him, although they weren’t Catriona McNare’s.
Indeed, this bold young woman wasn’t at all like the meek and mild Catriona McNare.
“May I ask where you’re staying, Mr. McHeath? I’m sure my father will want to meet you, and an invitation to dinner is surely the very least we can do to express our appreciation for your timely assistance.”
She spoke of a father, not a husband.
Thank God. “I’m staying at McStuart House.”
Her whole manner and attitude altered as if he’d announced he was an inmate of the Edinburgh gaol. Her body stiffened and her luscious lips curled with disdain.
“Are you a friend of Sir Robert McStuart’s?” she demanded, her voice as cold as her kiss had been passionate.
“Aye. We went to school together.”
Her face reddened not with embarrassment but with obvious rage. What the devil could Robbie have done to make her so angry?
Since it was Robbie, he could think of several things, not the least of which was seduction—and as he knew from legal experience, hell really had no fury like a woman scorned.
“Did he tell you about me?” she demanded, her arms at her sides, her hands curled into fists. “Is that why you thought you could kiss me like that?”
“Sir Robert didn’t mention any young women when he invited me here,” he answered honestly, trying to remain calm in spite of her verbal attack. “I must also point out that I still don’t even know your name, and,” he added, “you kissed me.”
Undaunted by his response, she raised her chin and spoke as if she were the queen. “Thank you for your help today, Mr. McHeath, but any friend of Robbie McStuart is no friend of mine!”
“Obviously,” he muttered as she turned on her heel and marched away.
The moment Moira MacMurdaugh was out of Gordon McHeath’s sight, she gathered up her skirts and ran all the way home.
How could she have been so foolish? And impetuous? And bold? She never should have kissed him. Never should have touched him. She should simply have thanked him and let him go on his way.
When he pulled her closer, she should have broken away at once…even if Gordon McHeath’s kiss was like something from a French novel, full of heat and desire and need and yearning.
Worse, she could only imagine what Robbie Mc Stuart would make of this encounter, for surely Gordon Mc Heath would tell him. Soon more gossip about her would spread through Dunbrachie—and this time, it would be all her fault.
As if that weren’t bad enough, it was even more distressing to imagine her father’s possible reaction when he found out what she’d done.
He’d kept his pledge to her for nearly six months now—the longest span yet—and it sickened her to think her thoughtless act might cause him to start drinking to excess again.
Perhaps Mr. McHeath wouldn’t tell Robbie. After all, he was just as guilty of an improper embrace as she.
“My lady, ye’re back! Did ye fall? Are ye hurt?” the gray-haired, stocky head groom cried.
Jem hurried toward her from the entrance to the stables as she entered the yard bordered by a tall stone wall that had once surrounded a castle during the time of Edward Longshanks and William Wallace.
“Yes, I fell, but I’m not hurt. Did Dougal come home?” she asked, speaking of her horse.
“Aye, he’s here, the rascal,” Jem replied. “We were about to start a search for ye. Your father’s going to be that relieved when he sees you.”
Cursing herself again for lingering with the handsome Mr. McHeath, even if he was a tall, tawny-haired, strong-jawed, brown-eyed young man who looked like one of those Greek statues she’d seen in London, she hoped she wasn’t already too late…until she remembered all the wine and spirits were locked away and she had the only key. It wasn’t like Glasgow, where her father had only to go down the street to a tavern.
Nevertheless, she walked quickly through the new part of the manor that had been built by the previous earl, past the kitchen and buttery, the laundry and the servants’ dining room.
The delightful, homey smells of fresh bread and roasted beef filled her nostrils, and she felt a pang of nostalgia for the old days, before her father had started to drink heavily and before he’d come into his title and inheritance.
She reached the main floor of the house and the corridor leading to the library, her father’s study and the drawing room. The drawing room was part of the new building; the entrance hall with its dark oak panelling, the study and the library were not. Other rooms had been added in the times between the construction of the castle and the renovation and additions to the manor, so that now the country seat of the Earl of Dunbrachie was an amalgam of every architectural style from the Middle Ages to the Georgian period. She’d spent many hours when they first arrived here exploring all the nooks and crannies, cellars and attics, discovering forgotten pictures and furniture, dust, cobwebs and the occasional dead mouse.
Pausing for a moment to check her reflection in one of the pier glasses that were intended to brighten the otherwise very dark hall, and taking some deep breaths to calm her nerves, Moira removed her bonnet and laid it on the marble-topped side table beneath the mirror, then patted down the smooth crown of her hair.
“Moira!”
She turned to find her father in the door of his study. He was obviously agitated and his dishevelled thick gray hair indicated that he’d run his hands through it repeatedly.
“What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked as she approached. He took hold of her hands as he studied her face and clothes.
She decided the least said about what had happened that day, the better. “I’m quite all right. I took a tumble and Dougal ran off, so I had to walk back.”
“I was about to go after you myself.”
That explained his riding clothes—which he rarely wore, because he was no horseman, having spent most of his life in offices, mills and warehouses. Thank heavens she’d arrived before he’d gotten on a horse.
“I’m fine, Papa, really,” she replied, taking his arm and steering him into his study, which was the one room in the vast hall that seemed most like