Highland Heiress by Margaret Moore

House.”
    Again Robbie ignored him. “I’ll wager fifty pounds Gordon here can beat anybody you bring against him.”
    Oh, God! Gordon opened his mouth to protest, but before he could, one of the men, wearing a particularly bright yellow vest, cried, “I’ll take that bet.”
    He rose and slapped a purse of coins on the table.
    He was pale and his hands were too soft to indicate he worked for a living. He might be a nobleman or well-to-do merchant or tradesman, yet there was something about his clothes—the quality of the cloth, the vulgar bright yellow of his waistcoat—that suggested he was more likely a professional gamester.
    Which made it all the more imperative that he get Robbie out of there. Otherwise, who could say how much more Robbie would spend that he didn’t have, or what other mischief he might get into.
    â€œI haven’t boxed since we left school and I have nointention of boxing today,” Gordon said, determined to leave the tavern with his friend as quickly as possible.
    â€œOh, don’t be an old woman!” Robbie chided, his grin a little forced, the look in his eyes a little hard. “You can surely beat anybody from around here with one hand tied behind your back.”
    â€œI’ve already taken the bet,” the gamester reminded them, his eyes gleaming with triumphant greed.
    â€œI didn’t agree,” Gordon returned.
    â€œA bet’s a bet,” the gamester insisted. “Ain’t that right, boys? Unless you ain’t blokes what keeps their word.”
    â€œI’ve never gone back on a bet in my life,” Robbie declared, taking hold of Gordon’s arm with a fierce grip. “Just give me a few moments to help my friend get over his reluctance.”
    Gordon didn’t appreciate being treated like a recalcitrant child; nevertheless, it would probably only makes things worse if he refused to go with Robbie, so he allowed Robbie to lead him through the bustling kitchen. A buxom, plump woman whose hair was covered with a kerchief and whose apron bore traces of many a spill stirred a pot of what smelled like beef stew. She stared openmouthed as they passed, revealing a few remaining teeth. A scullery maid who looked as if she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks stood at the stone sink, a dirty pot and equally dirty rag in her hands. Although she was clearly just as surprised as the other woman and her eyes were on Robbie and Gordon, she mechanically kept swishing the rag in the pot. A lad of about ten with a load of kindling in his hands dropped it, shocking thewoman at the pot back into motion, and the scullery maid picked up another pot.
    Paying absolutely no attention to them, kicking a basket of turnips out of the way, Robbie proceeded to the yard, Gordon in tow.
    Once out into the fresh air and bright sunlight, Gordon blinked like a mole and surveyed the yard bordered by a rugged stone fence on two sides and what appeared to be a stable on the third. A covered well was near the door, and so were several empty casks and barrels. A wooden trough rested against one of the walls and a few chickens scratched in the dirt.
    Otherwise, they were alone.
    Good.
    â€œI’m not going to fight anybody,” Gordon told Robbie firmly as he faced him. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old solicitor, not a schoolboy.”
    Anxious to win your respect and admiration.
    Robbie folded his arms over his chest. “What harm will it do?” he demanded, his words slightly slurred. “Your reputation won’t be sullied. This isn’t Edinburgh, after all. And who do you think they’ll bring against you? Some young yokel who’s likely never boxed before, I’ll wager. It’ll be easy money.”
    For Robbie, but it would be Gordon doing the fighting.
    It was bad enough that Robbie was trying to claw his way out of debt by suing Lady Moira, but now he wanted to use him to win a wager, as well?